The Job (36 page)

“Eleven works fine for me, Mr. Capel. And if you have time to do lunch, I’d love to take you….”

“Lunch is out. And I can only give you. at most, twenty minutes of my time. But if you still want to come up here and see me, that twenty-minute window is yours.”

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Only I have to tell you, Mr. Allen-the only reason why I’m willing to see you is because you come across as a sound guy who doesn’t seem to realize that he’s selling a very unsound proposition.

My hands were suddenly sweaty.

“I don’t exactly follow you, Mr. Capel.”

“Okay-I’ll give it to you straight, Mr. Allen. There is absolutely no way that I would let my brother take even a dime from your fund. And the reason is a simple one. To my professional eye, the Excalibur Fund is complete and total bullshit.”

Hot Capel was a man of his word. He gave me exactly twenty minutes of his time, then politely showed me the door. The meeting was over before I knew it. I left Capel’s office on Copley Square and walked down to Boston Common. Though it was a stunning day-a cloudless sky, a soft breeze-I wasn’t exactly taking it in. Nor was I paying much attention to the manicured pleasures of the Common, or the hint of brine in the moist air, or the amazing abundance of leggy women in short skirts. I was too preoccupied, too lost in troubled thought, to notice anything.

“So tell me,” Elliot Capel had said as soon as I sat down opposite him, “who exactly is behind the Excalibur Fund?”

I chose my words with care.

“It’s made up of a consortium of businessmen-” “Obfuscation,” he said, cutting me off.

“Sorry?” I said.

“You’re obfuscating, Mr. Allen. Better known as trading in bullshit.”

His voice was temperate, cool, vaguely academic. With his gray worsted suit, his button-down Oxford shirt, his striped bow tie, and his horn-rimmed glasses, Elliot Capel did look the professorial type. He tapped his fingertips together as he spoke, and kept his pale blue eyes focused on me with such intensity that I felt as if I was under interrogation. Which, essentially, I was.

“I’m really not obfuscating here, Mr. Capel,” I said.

“Like I said, Excalibur is an umbrella organization, made up of three companies-”

“Three shell companies, Mr. Allen.”

“Shell companies?”

“That’s what I said, Mr. Allen. You sound surprised.”

“I was just under the impression…”

“What?”

“.. . that the three companies that made up the fund were …”

“Legitimate, perhaps?”

“Well, yes.”

“They might be. Because there are plenty of offshore companies that are thoroughly legitimate. Then again, why would a legitimate company have a board of directors made up of a Bahamian lawyer and his secretary?”

“I’m not exactly following you….”

“I had one of my assistants run a company check on the so-called South American division of your fund, Excalibur S.A.” incorporated in the Bahamas. Its chairman is a Nassau lawyer named Winston Parkhill, and there’s only one other member of its board: a woman named Celia Markey… who, we discovered after a few phone calls, happens to be Mr. Parkhill’s secretary.

“Now this bit of news intrigued me, so I asked my assistant to check up on the European and North American divisions of the fund-registered, if I’m not mistaken, in Luxembourg and Bermuda respectively. Guess what he found out? In both instances, the company’s structures were exactly the same: a local attorney, his secretary, and no other board members. Of course, this is not an unusual setup for certain offshore companies. But what it does indicate-to me, anyway-is that the individual or set of individuals behind your fund do not want to have their names directly attached to Excalibur. Once again, there may be a perfectly valid, tenable reason for their secrecy….”

I had to stop myself from saying, Yes, there is. Jack Ballantine is worried about all the potential negative press that might hit Excalibur were he revealed to be the man behind the fund. Elliot Capel continued.

“Then again, there may be a perfectly valid, yet unlawful reason as to why no names are attached to the fund. That’s the thing about offshore shell companies. You can never tell exactly who or what is behind them. I mean, do you personally know the people behind the fund?”

Trying to keep my nervousness in check, I gave him the answer that Jerry told me to give if this question arose during pitch meetings.

“As you know, Mr. Capel, the names of the principals behind many private equity funds often remain confidential. But as you undoubtedly saw in our prospectus, Excalibur has the backing of such leading financial institutions as the Luxembourg Trust Company, the Bahamian Bank of Commerce-” “Leading financial institutions? Who are you trying to kid here? The Luxembourg Trust Company is an insignificant private bank … though compared to the Bahamian Bank of Commerce, it looks like Chase Manhattan.”

Avoiding his gaze, I said, “I really wasn’t aware that those banks were so small-” “You don’t seem to be aware of a great many things about the fund you’re selling.”

“Like I said yesterday, I’m kind of new to this business.”

“Clearly. So what did you do before you landed yourself in this game?”

I gave him an abbreviated version of my resume. He listened with interest, especially when I explained how I stumbled into the Excalibur Fund after hitting the skids.

“So this was, in truth, an TU-take-anything’ kind of job?” he asked.

“Well, I was pretty desperate-but I also thought it might be a stepping stone-” “To what? A career as a white-collar criminal?”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“Put it this way, Mr. Allen-if I were in your shoes I’d be very wary of my employers, and would probably check out their background with care.”

“Believe me, they’re extremely legitimate people,” I said.

“Well, if they are legitimate, then why is Micromagna such a dubious operation?”

I tried not to aooear stunned. Micromagna was the centerpiece of the fund. I chose my words carefully.

“What do you mean by ‘dubious operation,” Mr. Capel?”

“I mean, quite simply, that Micromagna doesn’t exist.”

My cellular phone rang. I was jolted out of my reverie. Elliot Capel’s voice abruptly stopped replaying in my head, and I found myself back on a park bench at Boston Common, staring blankly at a well-pruned bed of roses. I reached into my briefcase and answered the phone. It was Jerry’s secretary.

“Mr. Allen, I have a message for you from Mr. Schubert….”

“May I speak with him myself?”

“I’m afraid he’s out at meetings all day, but he did ask me-” “It’s kind of important,” I said.

“He’s with Mr. Ballantine, and he left strict instructions not to be disturbed, but he does want to see you tonight.”

“That makes two of us.”

“He’s planning to attend a SOFT US reception at the Parker Meridien Hotel on West Fifty-seventh Street this evening, and was hoping you might meet him there at six.”

“Tell him I’ll be there.”

And-I felt like adding-tell him that I’ve also just met a mutual fund manager named Elliot Capel who has been scrutinizing our fund. And he discovered that Excalibur is nothing but three very empty shell companies, all of which have the alleged endorsement of three tiny, questionable financial institutions. Not only that-Mr. Capel then told me that he had his assistant call International Directory Assistance and ask for the number for Micromagna in Budapest. Want to hear something hilarious, Jerry? Micromagna has an unlisted number. Who the hell has ever heard of a business having an unlisted phone number? In short, Mr. Capel reached the conclusion that Micromagna might not be an authentic, functioning enterprise. Which, in turn, has led me to wonder, What the fuck is going on here?

All the way back to New York I rehearsed the speech with which I was going to confront Jerry this evening-a speech in which I would demand to know why the structure of the fund was so damn suspect. And if he didn’t give me the answers I wanted, I’d … What? Quit? And then find myself a nice cardboard box which now would mean instant destitution, total disaster. I needed this job. I needed to make it work. Surely there must be some very plausible reason why the company was structured in such a cryptic way, and why Micromagna didn’t have a listed phone number. I mean, this fund was ultimately Jack Ballantine’s baby. Though he might not want his name attached to it, it could ultimately be traced back to him. So-given that the press were still circling him like famished vultures-there’s no way he’d be up to anything shady. No way at all.

I was back in Manhattan by five and hopped a cab straight to the Parker Meridien. I wasn’t thrilled about rendezvousing with Jerry at the SOFT US reception. After all, this annual convention of American software manufacturers had always been a key business event during my years at CompuWorld. It was also the place where I had first met Lizzie. So attending this reception would be yet another reminder of how badly I had screwed up my life. I wanted to dodge it-but I needed to see Jerry urgently and get some answers to some difficult questions.

“Holy shit, it’s Ned Allen.”

As soon as I walked through the doors of the Parker Meridien ballroom I felt as if I was on a trip down memory lane, in which my entire former history in the computer magazine business passed before me. The “holy shit” comment came from Don Dowling-the circumferentially challenged media sales honcho of AdTel. Offering me his outstreched paw he took a melodramatic step backward before I could shake it.

“Not planning to punch me, are you, Ned?”

I managed a smile.

“Very funny, Don,” I said, grabbing a glass of water from a passing waiter’s tray.

“What the hell brings you here?” he asked.

“I’d heard you left the business.”

“Yeah-but I’m now in a related business. High finance, to be exact. A private equity fund dealing exclusively in new technology. And, you know, Don, I’d love to do lunch sometime. Especially as we’re on the lookout for young new companies that might need some capitalization..

..”

Don Dowling was already looking past my shoulder, hoping to catch someone else’s eye.

“I don’t believe it… Bill Janes!” he shouted to someone in the near distance. Then, turning back to me, he said, “Great seeing you, Ned. Hope whatever you’re doing works out….”

“About that lunch idea I was mentioning… ?”

“Call my secretary,” he said, then swiftly headed toward the other side of the ballroom.

A minute later I bumped into Dave Maduro, my former outside sales guy for Massachusetts.

“Dave!” I shouted.

“How the hell are you?”

He seemed startled to see me-as if I were someone who, having been presumed dead, was suddenly back stalking the living.

“Oh, Ned,” he said.

“This is quite a surprise.”

“You’re looking good, Dave. How’s PC Globe treating you?”

“Fine, fine …,” he said distractedly.

“Any of the old gang here tonight?” I asked.

“Saw Doug Bluehorn around somewhere. But Chuck’s out of town, schmoozing some potential new advertisers in San Jose.”

Well, that was a relief. I’d been dreading the prospect of encountering Chuck.

“Family good, Dave?”

“Yeah, great… ,” he said, and (like Don Dowling) his eyes started looking for someone who could rescue him from me.

“Listen,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going, “I get up to Boston from time to time and would love to pick your brain about new software outfits….”

“Sure thing, Ned,” he said.

“You know my number….”

Everywhere I turned inside the Parker Meridien ballroom I was greeted with uneasy diffidence by former business associates. Or I noticed someone whispering something into the ear of a colleague-who, in turn, would steal a quick glance in my direction. I could just imagine what was being muttered.

See that guy over there? Ned Allen. Used to be a player when he worked for CompuWorld. Then he punched out his German boss…. Yeah, he was the guy… and from what I hear now, the poor sucker can’t even get arrested….

It was obvious that I terrified my former colleagues. Because I was the sum of all their fears: the fuckup they all dreaded becoming. I was unable to find Jerry among this packed throng, I decided it was time to head for the door. But then I heard his voice.

“Ned, Ned… over here,” Jerry shouted.

I spun around and saw him standing in a distant corner of the room. He waved hello and motioned me to approach him.

But then I saw who was standing next to Jerry. And I suddenly froze.

It was Ted Peterson.

Peterson himself appeared shocked to see me as well. But when he tried to walk off, Jerry grabbed him by one shoulder. Then, pointing a finger in his face, he appeared to harshly reprimand him. Peterson turned ashen. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Ned!” Jerry shouted at me again. I had no choice but to approach him. He was now all smiles.

“I just wanted you to meet an old friend, Ned,” Jerry said.

“You do know each other, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Peterson said, “we know each other.” He proffered his hand.

“How’re you doing, Ned?”

I kept my hands behind my back.

“How am I doing?” I asked.

“Go fuck yourself-that’s how I’m doing.”

“Easy now, Ned,” Jerry said.

“Easy? Easy?” I said, my voice becoming loud.

“This piece of shit doesn’t deserve easy.”

“That’s all in the past now,” Peterson said quietly.

“The past! The past! You destroy my career and kill Ivan Dolinsky, and now you want bygones to be bygones?”

I was yelling. The room had grown quiet. Everyone was staring at us. Jerry put a steadying hand on my arm.

“Ned, knock it off now.”

I angrily shrugged him off.

“This fucker should be prosecuted. Not just for driving Ivan to his death, but for attempted rape.”

“You are way out of line, mister,” Peterson yelled.

“Why? Because I’m telling the truth about how you did a little unwanted crotch-grabbing last year at Grand Cayman-” “All right. all right.” Jerry said, tryine to intervene.