by David Lender
Jack pitched the Caldor idea almost before they sat down, itching to get at it. Jack talking nonsense about buying a billion dollars of debt owed the retailer Caldor by its credit card customers for 20cents on the dollar. Mickey explaining that Caldor was near-bankrupt and desperate for cash. Jack saying Caldor’s credit card customers would ultimately pay their bills, Milner would make a killing. Mickey laying out how to finance the deal. Back and forth, Milner’s eyes shooting from one to the other like at a tennis match. Then Jack telling Milner all he had to kick in was $10 to $12 million, maybe make 20 to 30 times his investment in a few years. Milner thinking, that got his attention, whoever these guys were.
It had turned out to be a recipe for an incredible home run: Milner had invested $16 million of cash, almost all he had lying around, and borrowed the rest to buy Caldor’s credit card receivables. After paying off his lenders in two years, Milner had netted $455 million. Jack and Mickey had propelled Milner into the big time. Within a year he bought a Lear jet and apartments in New York, Palm Beach and Los Angeles. He moved his office to the penthouse of the Helmsley Building; the anchor of the 45th Street entrance to New York’s power alley business district on Park Avenue. And that had only been the beginning.
But now, this was the end.
“I wanna do a deal on Southwest Homes,” Milner said.
He saw Jack perk up across the table like a dog sniffing a bone. Mickey was characteristically quiet, eyes blinking. Milner sipped his water, swallowing hard without worrying about that crinkly sound he made. One of the keys to his humble roots that Mary Claire always cast him a disapproving eye about at dinner parties. He didn’t have to try to impress these guys.
Mickey said, “Mind if I ask why?”
Milner saw Jack look sideways at Mickey, as if to try to shut him up.
“I don’t like the business anymore. Any schmoe who can sign an ‘X’ on a mortgage application can buy a house he can’t afford.”
Jack said, “Yeah, a real bubble mentality.”
Milner nodded.
Jack said, “This round of musical chairs won’t last very long. Better pick your seat before the music stops. Remember when the Internet stock bubble popped?”
Milner felt himself smile beneath his hand, knew it was showing in his eyes. This was Jack at his best: always selling. Milner would miss Jack and Mickey in a way, but they’d become his chaperones on a trip to the dark side. Churning out deals together that just moved pieces around on the table; they were all making piles of money but not creating anything. He’d made a commitment to himself that he’d go back to building companies again, not this “financial engineering on steroids” crap the magazines lauded him for. Even that kid in the lobby only talked about his deals that busted up instead of built things. Milner looked over at Mickey. “Mickey, whattaya think?”
“You want to sell it to a corporate buyer, or do an initial public offering?” Mickey asked.
“Take it public—the IPO.”
“The IPO market’s still shooting out deals like a baseball pitching machine,” Jack said. “And homebuilding stocks are red hot.”
“Everything’s hot. Maybe too hot,” Milner said.
“Yeah, white hot. All the more reason to unload a chunk of Southwest onto the public,” Jack said. Why did Jack make even the right answer sound like bullshit half the time?
Mickey said, “It’s worth about $1.5 billion. How much do you want to sell?”
Milner put down his fork, rested his elbows on the table and put his hand over his mouth, taking his time. He glanced over at Jack and saw him observing. Milner said, “All of it.” He saw the muscles in Jack’s jaw flex. Then he saw Jack inhale, sensed the animal arise beneath that bespoke tailoring. Okay, Jack—ready, shoot, aim.
“We can sell 100%,” Jack said. “A number of 100% IPOs have gotten done lately. And with home prices setting new records each month, and getting a mortgage as easy as eating popcorn, the public markets are bidding up homebuilders’ stocks like crazy.”
Milner said, “I’ve noticed.” He looked at Mickey.
Mickey said, “In general, Jack’s right. But if you sell it all in the IPO you’ll take a major discount versus selling, say, half. If you sell it all, people ask: ‘What’s wrong with it that he doesn’t want to keep any?’”
“I know. But I like the idea of selling it all. How big a discount would I take?” Milner felt his stomach tighten.
Milner saw Jack and Mickey take time to look at each other. Milner felt himself smiling again. He had to admit he loved watching these guys, had since the beginning. Back and forth. Jack trying to urge Mickey with a glance and body language, Mickey considering his answer, blinking, contemplating.
Mickey said, “I’d say at least $300 million.”
Jack didn’t move.
Milner shrugged, then nodded. “Done.”
Jack looked over at Milner with his best shit-eating grin.
Milner looked down, observed his hands again. In a way, he’d get to be a carpenter after all. And put in an honest day’s work.
Excerpt from Vaccine Nation
Vaccine Nation
A Thriller by
David Lender
Copyright © 2011 by David T. Lender
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
CHAPTER 1
DANI NORTH WALKED DOWN WEST End Avenue toward the Mercer School, her son Gabe at her side. The air was cold and fresh. Minutes earlier, crossing Broadway, she’d seen tulips on the median, and the leaves on the maple trees were ready to pop. Now, scents of spring—wet earth and hyacinths in window boxes—were apparent. She yawned, bone tired from the hectic weeks of the Tribeca Film Festival wearing her down on top of work and the daily routine of single-parenting a preteen. Tired or not, she was on a high and Gabe walked close enough that she thought to take his hand. That is, if he’d let me. She reminded herself it was perfectly normal for a nine-year-old not to want his mom to hold his hand anymore. Normal. What would those morons at Division of Youth and Family Services in New Jersey say about that? Probably still call him ADHD and drug him up. She’d love to run DYFS into the ground, along with their partners in crime, the pharmaceutical industry. Legalized drug pushers.
Leave it, she told herself. Channel the anger into something productive. That made her smile. She had, and well. It was starting to feel real that The Drugging of Our Children, her latest film, had won best documentary at Tribeca last night. That channeled anger was doing some good, getting the word out. Educating parents about their choices, ones she hadn’t been aware of for Gabe. Who knew? If she had, she might never have lost that three-year nightmare of lawsuits with DYFS in Hackensack. It forced her to accept mandatory drugging of Gabe, because otherwise the court would have taken him from her.
She looked over at Gabe now. Chin high, proud of how he looked in his Ralph Lauren blue blazer, gray pants and white oxford button-down, school tie snugged up against his neck. Only his black Vans betrayed his age. Yes, normal. Thanks in part to Dr. O.
Gabe caught her looking at him. “Now that you won, you gonna get a bonus and turn the electric back on?”
“You mean ‘going to’ and ‘electricity.’” She thought about the last two weeks of burning candles at night. She’d put off the electric bill in order to scrape up Gabe’s tuition for this semester at Mercer. “Besides, we were camping, remember?”
“C’mon, Mom, that worked on me when I was like five years old. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Yes, you are.”
Gabe thought for a second. “All right, but I’m not stupid.”
“No, I’m not getting a bonus,�
�� Dani said, running a hand over Gabe’s hair, “but I get paid today and we’ll be back to normal. Lights and TV.”
“Next time I’m telling Nanny. She’ll pay it.”
“Do that and you can forget about TV until you’re eighteen.”
They reached the corner diagonally across West End from the entrance to Mercer. “Leave me here,” Gabe said, looking away from her.
Dani didn’t respond, just grabbed his shirtsleeve between her fingers and started across the street. He pulled out of her grasp and increased his pace. Dani saw Damien Richardson on the opposite corner as they approached. He stood looking at the half dozen kids grouped around the entrance to Mercer, tentative. She knew the bigger boys picked on Damien. She felt a tug at her heart. “Morning, Damien,” she called.
Damien turned to them. His face brightened and he smiled. “Hi, Mrs. North. What’s up, Gabe?”
“Come on, Damien,” Dani whispered when she reached him. “I’ll walk you in.”
Ten minutes later she crossed 79th Street toward Broadway, her mind buzzing with last night’s triumph and her upcoming day. She pulled her BlackBerry out of her pocket, checked the screen. 8:10. Enough time to get through her voicemails and emails before Dr. Maguire, the researcher from Pharma International, showed up. Now she wondered again what his agenda was, why he was so anxious and secretive about the meeting. But it was something important—at least to Maguire. She’d been calling him for weeks, coaxing him into an interview for the new documentary on autism she was just beginning. She’d been referred to Maguire by his friend, John McCloskey, the KellerDorne Pharmaceutical technician who’d served as whistleblower on KellerDorne’s painkiller, Myriad, after patients who took it started dropping dead from heart attacks. Dani’s interview of McCloskey published in the Crusador was well after McCloskey went public, but somehow it managed to electrify the issue. As a result, the contributions had flowed into Dr. Orlovski to fund the documentaries he produced, including Dani’s The Drugging of Our Children.
Maybe Maguire needed to get something off his chest, too. Dani picked up her pace. Her BlackBerry rang and her breath caught in her throat when she saw Mom’s number on the screen. How could she forget? Dad.
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Okay.” She paused. “You know what day it is, don’t you?”
Dani’s mind automatically did the math. She’d been twenty-two. Seven years. “Of course.” She stopped walking and leaned over the BlackBerry as if sheltering her words from passersby. She said, “Each year I think about him constantly during this day. Sometimes it seems like…” her voice trailed off.
“I miss him more each year, too,” Mom said. Her voice was steady, like she’d steeled herself to get through the day.
“When’s his Mass?”
“One o’clock.”
Dani didn’t respond right away. “I can’t make it this year.”
“I know, sweetie. I just wanted to hear your voice. I knew you weren’t coming. You had a big day yesterday. Congratulations. I’m sure lots of people want to talk to you.”
“It’s not that. I’m just jammed with the usual stuff. Will you light a candle for me?”
“Sure. I’ll speak to you later. Gabe okay?”
“He’s great. Maybe we’ll get out this weekend. How’s Jack?”
“The same.” Dani felt her hand muscles tense around the BlackBerry.
“Anything going on?”
“The usual. He was out most of the night, couldn’t get up for work.”
“I’ll get out there this weekend,” Dani said. They signed off. She continued walking, feeling guilty. Lisa and George lived far enough away that they never made Dad’s Mass. And Jack was high half the time, so it was like she was alone even if he came with her. At least Mom could count on Dani. Or so she thought. This was the second year in a row Dani would miss Dad’s Mass. It hurt. Particularly knowing how devout a Catholic Mom was, how much Mom wanted Dani to experience her faith the way she did. She sighed and kept walking, thinking she’d find a way to make it up to Mom, feeling unworthy.
Dani reached the entrance to Dr. Yuri Orlovski’s office at 79th and Broadway. A half dozen patients already sat in the waiting room when she stepped through the door. She paused to wave at Carla behind the reception desk, who mouthed “Congratulations.” Dani nodded and smiled, then headed up the steep, 20 steps to her office. By the time she reached the top, she reflected as she usually did, What would I do without Dr. O? It was the best job she’d ever had, even aside from him rescuing Gabe a year ago from Child Protective Services, New York’s equivalent of New Jersey’s DYFS. Dr. O’s homeopathic remedies and detoxification had purged Gabe’s body of the mercury and other poisons that Dr. O maintained were largely caused by vaccines. And he certified as an MD that Gabe’s ADHD was “cured.” That got Gabe off Child Protective Services’ list and off mandatory ADHD medications to attend public school. This year she’d scrounged up enough to afford to get him into Mercer.
And now she ran the nonmedical practice side of Dr. O’s mini-empire, as he jokingly called it. But it was no joke. It was a flourishing Internet business of whole food-based vitamins; health-related DVDs and books; and healthy lifestyle products like juicers and water filters. And a good portion of the profits funded Dr. O’s real passion: documentaries on health issues, the only thing—except, of course for Gabe—that got Dani out of bed every morning.
Her colleagues, Richard Kaminsky, Jason Waite and Seth Weinstein stood talking near the entrance to Dr. O’s Vitamin Shop when Dani got to the top of the steps. Richard started applauding and the others joined in. She stood, cringing from embarrassment, yet secretly relishing the recognition. They walked over and greeted her with hugs.
“I knew you’d do it,” Richard said.
“Absolutely,” Ralph said.
They were joined by a half dozen others, including Kaitlin Drake, her editor. Dani was gradually overcome by an odd sensation of discomfort. She recalled how she’d wilted under the spotlight when asked to say a few words on accepting her award last night. It made her feel as if her colleagues would think she was undeserving of their praise if they’d seen her frozen with panic. She’d wanted to say something about creating a film that spoke her truth, and that of thousands of other mothers, but she was unable to utter more than “Thank you,” in front of 2,000 people.
It took Dani another ten minutes to reach her desk. She booted up her computer and started going through her emails. Eighty-four today. Oof. The usual: mothers with no money and sick children, desperate to see Dr. O. Many she was counseling on vitamins and remedies. A few like Jennifer Knox: a mother with an autistic child who Dani had interviewed for her new documentary, who needed to vent to someone who understood, keep her from going crazy. Finally, a number of congratulatory wishes. Then her voicemails. Thirty-six, more of the same. One was from James, at first congratulating her, next a little pathetic and finally lecturing her about not throwing away five years. As she neared the end of her voicemails she heard his voice again, and feeling nothing at all—rather than angry or impatient—deleted the message without listening to it. That one probably hammered at James’ constant theme: commitment. After she finished with her voicemails she checked her blog: 3,748 pageviews yesterday, about 50% more than usual. She wrote a quick blog post thanking her supporters and urging them to continue to spread the word on Drugging and it’s message, looked at the time—8:58—then sat back in her chair to wait for Dr. Maguire.
Stevens waited while his partner, Turnbull, double-parked their police black-and-white in front of the doc’s office.
“Don’t be long, Alice,” Turnbull said.
“How come I gotta listen to your shit every time I go to buy my vitamins?”
“And don’t catch a wittle cold while you’re there, girlie-man.”
Stevens opened the door. “I need five minutes, asshole.”
“Five more minutes for the crooks to prey on our harmless citizens.”
<
br /> Stevens stepped out of the car, looked back at Turnbull and said, “Less time than it takes you to feed greasy fries and cholesterol to your fat ass at Burger Heaven.” He slammed the car door and headed toward Dr. Orlovski’s. At the top of the steep stairway he turned right and got in line behind three other customers at the Dutch door, open at the top, that served as the sales window for the Vitamin Shop.
Hunter Stark sat behind the wheel of a Ford Taurus across the street from Dr. Orlovski’s office, a spot he’d staked out at 6:30 a.m. to make sure he was positioned properly. He rubbed his hands, admiring his custom-made nappa lambskin gloves. They were an essential element of his professional toolkit, as important as his Ruger; form-fitting and almost like wearing nothing at all. At $500 a pair from Dominic Pierotucci’s shop in Genoa, they were a bargain.
Stark’s gaze scanned the street in front of Dr. Orlovski’s office. He was tense. These jobs were tough enough in a low-risk environment, but this last-minute bullshit didn’t allow for any planning, choice of site or operational subtlety. Still, figuring out things like this and taking the risk were why he got paid the big bucks.
The girl had entered about 8:15, and now he checked his watch again—just before 9:00—as he saw a cop car pull up. One of the uniforms got out and walked through Orlovski’s front door. Not good. It would be a complication if Maguire showed up with the cop in there.
He felt one of those odd pains he got behind his eyes when things were about to go wrong. Less than a minute after the cop went in, he’d seen a guy that matched Maguire’s description on the corner of 79th Street. Stark glanced down at the picture he held in his lap. Maguire, no question about it. Shit, they told him the man was big, but he must be 6’5”, shoulders like an ox. A guy who looked like he could take right lead from Muhammad Ali and keep coming. Maguire walked with his head tilted down at the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, real purpose in his stride, moving fast.