“Nah—but the guy knows how to build a casino. And he is seriously ‘fuck you.’ Which, from the moment I read his book, is what I decided I wanted to be.”
“So why didn’t you go into the building game?”
“Because you got to play the goombah thing—you know, cousin Sal’s got an uncle Joey who’s got a nephew Tony who can put the muscle on the Hebrew who owns the vacant lot which you want to buy . . . Get the picture?”
“Sounds very white-shoe to me.”
“Listen, corporate assholes play the same fucking game—only they do it with Brooks Brothers suits and Wharton MBAs and leveraged buyouts. Anyway, I didn’t want the goombah thing and I also knew that Wall Street wasn’t going to like my vowels and my grease-monkey background. So the way I figured it, LA was a far better gridiron for a guy like me. Because, face facts, this is the ‘money talks, bullshit walks’ capital of the world. Plus: out here, no one gives a shit about whether you sound like John Gotti’s mutant son. The bigger the bank account, the bigger the dick.”
“As John Maynard Keynes himself once remarked.”
Full credit to Bobby: he paid his way through USC by working three nights a week as a general drone for Michael Milken in the last-gasp glory days of his junk bond bonanza. Then, after college, he got hired by some dubious character named Eddie Edelstein, who ran his own small brokerage house in Century City and eventually got shipped off to a Club Fed for a major SEC no-no.
“Eddie was my guru—the best fucking broker west of the Continental Divide. The guy had a nose for an IPO like a pit bull. And when it came to calling a margin . . . take it from me, this guy was a total artist. Of course, the dumb putz then has to go fuck it all up by pocketing 100k after slipping this South African broker—a fucking Afrikaner Nazi—the inside dope on some smelting-and-refining company IPO. Turns out the Nazi was actually an SEC guy in disguise. Under-fucking-cover. I told Eddie to scream entrapment—but it was no use. Three to five—and even though it was one of those open prisons where he was allowed to bring a tennis racket, it still killed him. Cancer of the prostate, aged fifty-three. You floss your teeth, Dave?”
“Sorry?” I said, a little bemused by the sudden change of conversational direction.
“On his deathbed, Eddie gave me two pieces of advice: never trust a guy who says he’s an Afrikaner but sounds like he was raised in New Jersey . . . and if you want to avoid prostate cancer, always floss your teeth.”
“I’m not following this.”
“You don’t floss, all that plaque and shit trickles down your throat and ends up lodging in your prostate. That’s what happened to poor Eddie: ace broker, ace guy . . . but he should’ve flossed.”
I started flossing seriously after this conversation with Bobby. I also frequently questioned why on earth I liked hanging with him so much.
I knew the answer to that question: because (a) as a broker, he’d started making me some money, and (b) he was never less than entertaining.
Bobby had come into my life during the first season of Selling You. After the show’s third episode was aired, he wrote me c/o FRT on his official company stationery, to say that my program was the smartest thing he’d seen in years and also offering his services as a broker. “I am not some I promise you the earth gonif. I am not some I will make you rich by the time you eat that brownie operator. But I am the smartest broker in town—and, in time, I will make serious money for you. Also, I am completely honest, and if you don’t believe me, please call . . .”
And the letter listed a bevy of A-and B-list Hollywood types who had allegedly become Roberto Barra clients.
I scanned this letter. Before tossing it into my circular file, however, I did smile. Because of the two dozen or so pitch letters I’d received since Selling You hit the small screen—letters from upscale car dealers, real estate agents, tax consultants, personal trainers, and the usual come channel with me New Age goons, all congratulating me on my newfound success and offering their services—Bobby’s was the most brazen, the most downright immodest. His final sentence was ridiculous:
I’m not just good at what I do. I am brilliant at what I do. If you want to see your money make money, you’ve got to call me. If you don’t, you will regret this for the rest of your life.
The day after opening this pitch, I received a copy of the same letter, with a Post-it attached to it:
Figuring that you probably threw away the letter you received from me yesterday, here it is again. Let’s make money, Dave.
Well, I had to admire the guy’s chutzpah . . . though I did find the daily phone calls he subsequently made to my office rather tedious (on my instructions, my assistant, Jennifer, made certain that I was permanently in a meeting whenever he phoned). Just as I wasn’t swayed when he sent me a case of Au Bon Climat wine. Of course I did the polite thing—I dropped him a brief thank-you note—and then a week later, a case of Dom Pérignon arrived. With a card.
You’ll be drinking this stuff like 7Up if you let me make you some real money.
Brad Bruce happened to be in my office when the champagne arrived.
“Who’s the admirer . . . and does she have a phone number?” he asked.
“Actually, she’s a he.”
“Forget about it.”
“Nah—it’s not like that. The guy wants to get me into bed financially. He’s a broker. A very persistent broker.”
“Name?”
“Bobby Barra.”
“Oh yeah, him.”
This stopped me short.
“You know him?”
“Sure. Ted Lipton uses him,” he said, mentioning the vice-president of FRT. “Ditto . . .”
He reeled off a bunch of names, many of whom had been listed in that initial letter he sent me.
“So the guy’s legitimate?” I asked.
“Highly—from what I’ve heard. And he obviously knows how to hustle. Wish my broker would send me champagne.”
That afternoon, I called Ted Lipton. After talking a little shop, I asked him for an opinion on Roberto Barra:
“Got me a twenty-seven percent return last year. And yeah—I trust the little fucker.”
I didn’t have a broker at the time—because in the insane rush of events since the first season was commissioned, I hadn’t had a moment to consider such niceties as how to invest my newfound money. So I asked my assistant to find out everything she could about Roberto Barra. Within forty-eight hours, she came back with the inside dope: satisfied clientele, no criminal record, no business with bad guys, SEC Seal of Good Housekeeping.
“Okay,” I said after reading her report. “Set up lunch.”
Bobby Barra turned out to be vertically challenged—five foot two—with tight black curly hair and immaculately dressed in a black suit of Italianate cut (surprise, surprise). He took me to Orso. He talked fast and funny. He surprised me with his literacy—both in terms of films and books. He flattered me—and then joked about flattering me. He said, “I’m not going to give you that as a friend LA bullshit,” then five sentences later deliberately dropped “as a friend ” into the conversation. “You’re not just a TV writer, you’re a serious TV writer . . . and in your case, that’s not an oxymoron.” He was brilliant company—a world-class spiel merchant who mixed erudition with tough-guy repartee (“You ever need someone’s legs broken,” he said sotto voce, “I know two Mexican kids who will do it for three hundred bucks, plus their car fare”). Listening to him talk, I couldn’t help but think that he was like one of those Chicago sharpies about whom Bellow wrote so brilliantly. He was slick. He was smart, and just a little dangerous. He name-dropped relentlessly but also sent himself up for being “such an unapologetic star-fucker.” I could see why all those A- and-B listers wanted to do business with him. Because he exuded mastery over his chosen domain. And because in this, the ultimate enclave of self-salesmanship, he stood out as the biggest self-promoter of them all.
“All you need to know is this: I’m obsessed with making m
oney for my clients. Because money is about choice. Money is about the ability to exercise one’s discretion. To confront the random nature of destiny with the knowledge that, at least, you have the necessary arsenal to counteract life’s endless complexities. Because money—real money—allows you to make decisions without fear. And say to the world: fuck you.”
“Wasn’t that Adam Smith’s argument in The Wealth of Nations?”
“You like Adam Smith?” he asked.
“I’ve only read the coverage.”
“Fuck Machiavelli, fuck Success Is a Choice. Smith’s The Wealth of Nations is the greatest of all capitalist manifestos.”
Then he took a short intake of breath and began to speak in a voice that could be best described as Detroit stentorian:
“All systems either of preference or of restraint, therefore, being thus completely taken away, the obvious and simple system of natural liberty establishes itself of its own accord. Every man, as long as he does not violate the laws of justice, is left perfectly free to pursue his own interest his own way, and to bring both his industry and capital into competition with those of any man or order of man . . . Defense, however, is of much more importance than opulence.”
He paused, took a sip from his glass of San Pellegrino, then said, “I know I’m not exactly Ralph Fiennes, but . . .”
“Hey,” I said, “I’m impressed. And you did it all without a teleprompter.”
“Here’s the thing: we’re living in the biggest era of ‘natural liberty’ known to man. But what Smith said is so damn true: before you go lavish, make certain you’ve got the cash to watch your back. And that’s where I come in. Financially speaking, I’m not just going to watch your back, I’m going to build you a fortress made of capital. Which means that, no matter what cards you are dealt in the future, you will still be in a position of strength. And let’s face it, as long as you’re in a position of strength, nobody’s going to be using you as a doormat.”
“So what are you proposing exactly?”
“I’m going to propose nothing. I’m simply going to show you how I achieve results. So, here’s how I’d like to play this: if you are willing to trust me with a nominal sum of money—say, fifty grand—I promise you to double it within six months. You write my company a check for fifty grand, I send you the necessary paperwork, six months later you get a check for one hundred k minimum . . .”
“And if you fail . . .”
He cut me off. “I don’t fail.”
Pause. I asked, “Let me ask you something: why have you put all this effort into snagging me?”
“Because you’re hot, that’s why. And I like hanging with the A-team. Here I go name-dropping again, but have you ever heard of Philip Fleck?”
“The multibillionaire recluse? The film director manqué. Who hasn’t heard of Phil Fleck? He’s infamous.”
“Actually, he’s just a guy like the rest of us. A guy with twenty billion dollars . . .”
“That’s certainly ‘fuck you’ in your book, Bobby.”
“Phil is Hall of Fame ‘fuck you’—and a seriously good friend of mine.”
“That’s nice.”
“He’s a big fan of yours, by the way.”
“You kidding me?”
“‘Smartest writer on TV,’ he told me just last week.”
I didn’t know whether to buy this line or not. So I just said, “Say thanks for me.”
“You think I’m talking star-fucking shit again, don’t you?”
“If you say you’re a friend of Phil Fleck’s, I believe you.”
“Do you believe me enough to write me a check for fifty grand?”
“Sure,” I said, sounding uneasy.
“So write me the check.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. Take the checkbook out of your jacket pocket . . .”
“How do you know I’ve got my checkbook with me?”
“Well, in my experience, the moment a guy makes some serious money—especially after years in the swamps—he starts carrying his checkbook around with him. Because he can suddenly buy a lot of big stuff that he couldn’t buy before. And there’s something a lot classier about writing a check than tossing down some platinum-dyed piece of plastic . . .”
I inadvertently touched the breast pocket of my jacket.
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
“So, write the check.”
I pulled out the checkbook and my pen. I placed them on the table. I stared down at them. Bobby impatiently tapped the checkbook with his index finger.
“Come on, Dave,” he said. “It’s time to deal. This is one of those critical moments that helps define the future. And I know what you’re thinking: ‘Can I trust the guy?’ Well, I’m not going to sell myself any more. Just let me ask you this: do you have the courage to be rich?”
I picked up the pen. I opened the book. I wrote the check.
“Smart guy,” Bobby said.
A few days later, the official documentation for my investment arrived from Roberto Barra and Partners. Two months went by before I heard from him again: a quick “Hey, how’s it going?” call, which told me that the market was buoyant and “we are winning.” He promised to call again in another two months. He did so—almost to the day. Another fast, pleasant conversation, in which he sounded rushed but upbeat about the market. Then two months later, a FedEx envelope arrived at my office. It contained a bank check made payable to me, for the sum of $122,344.82. A note was attached to it.
“We actually did a little better than 100 percent. Now let’s party.”
I had to admire Bobby’s style. After pitching me successfully, he then backed off completely . . . until he had results. In the wake of this amazing return, I immediately reinvested the lot with Bobby, then threw another 250k his way when the second season came through. We started hanging out together on an occasional basis. Bobby still wasn’t married (“I make a bad prisoner,” he told me), but he always had some piece of arm candy in tow: usually a model or a wannabe actress. Inevitably she was blond and sweet and Princess Not-So-Bright. I used to give him shit about conforming to the “money dude” archetype.
“Hey, once I was just a short wop from Motor City. Now I’m a short wop from Motor City with money. So, naturally, I’m going to use that fact as a way of shtupping all those cheerleaders who used to consider me a grease monkey.”
After spending one or two evenings with Bobby and his squeeze du jour, I let it be known that I wasn’t really interested in his idea of the fast lane. So we restricted our monthly boys’ night out to a low-key dinner à deux—during which I’d sit back and let Bobby regale me with his nonstop spiel on just about everything. Sally couldn’t understand why I liked him. Though she approved of the way he was investing my money, her one and only meeting with Bobby was something of a social disaster. Having been very supportive during my breakup with Lucy, he was keen to meet Sally once the proverbial dust had settled . . . especially as he was well aware of her player status at Fox Television. So, around three months after we officially became an item, he suggested dinner at La Petite Porte in West Hollywood. From the moment we all sat down together, I could tell that Sally had instantly filed him away under “peasant.” He tried to charm her with his usual palaver. “Everyone who’s anybody knows the name of Sally Birmingham,” he fawned. He attempted to show off his bookish credentials, asking her to name her favorite Don DeLillo novel. “I don’t have one,” she shot back. “Life’s too short for his brand of literary self-importance.” He even played his “I know A-list people” card, mentioning how Johnny Depp had phoned him from his home in Paris yesterday to discuss some stock options. Once again, Sally narrowed him in her sights and said, “What an interesting life you lead.”
It was an unnerving spectacle, watching Sally quietly puncture Bobby’s manic attempts to win favor. Yet what was most intriguing about this demolition job was the patrician smile Sally retained throughout. Not once did she say, “You’re full of sh
it.” Not once did she raise her voice. But by the end of the evening, she had cut him down to Toulouse-Lautrec size and let it be known, in her own quiet way, that she considered him low grade, petit bourgeois, and not worth her time.
On the way home that night, she reached over to me in the driver’s seat and stroked the back of my head and said, “Darling, you know I adore you, but never put me through something like that again.”
Long silence. Finally I said, “Was it that bad?”
“You know what I’m saying. He may be a brilliant broker . . . but socially speaking, he’s a fool.”
“I find him amusing.”
“And I can understand why—especially if you ever end up writing something for Scorsese. But he’s a people collector, David—and you’re this month’s objet d’art. If I were you I’d let him handle my investments and nothing more. He’s cheap and meretricious: the sort of hustler who might splash on Armani aftershave in the morning but still stinks of Brut.”
I knew that Sally was being cruel—and didn’t like seeing this unsympathetic side to her. But I said nothing. I also said little to Bobby when, a few days after the dinner, he called me at my office to announce that he was projecting a twenty-nine percent return this year.
“Twenty-nine percent,” I said, stunned. “That sounds positively illegal.”
“Oh, it’s legal all right.”
“Just joking,” I said, picking up on his defensiveness. “I’m very pleased. And grateful. Next time I’ll buy dinner.”
“Is there going to be a next time? Sally really thought I was a jerk, didn’t she?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You’re lying, but I appreciate the sentiment. Believe me, I know when I strike out with someone.”
“The chemistry just didn’t work between you guys, that’s all.”
“You’re being polite. But hey, as long as you don’t share her sentiments . . .”
“Why should I? Especially when you’re making me twenty-nine percent.”
He laughed. “It’s always the bottom line, isn’t it?”
“You’re asking me that?”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 4