Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Jack twisted the knife deeper. “And the banks?”

“What about ’em?”

“They your friends, too? Do you trust them?”

“I’ve always paid my way.”

Jack shook his head. “They’re sitting on a big pile of your debt. One hundred and fifty million, last time I checked.”

“They have nothing to fear,” Mat huffed. From his tone, he and Perry were ready and able to write them a check for 150 million on the spot. No problem: a quick scribble and dash, the whole problem would go away.

“They are afraid, Mat, very afraid. And they’re not your friends. In fact, they have hearts of ice,” Jack replied, frowning tightly. “The last thing they want is to own a bankrupt chemical company.”

“They won’t,” Mat insisted, straining and failing miserably to mask a growing dismay that Wiley seemed to know so much. Where was he getting all this information?

“You’re five million in the hole on interest this year,” Jack noted in a tone of absolute conviction.

Mat’s mouth nearly fell open. “How do you know that?” he finally blurted. More like 5.3 million to be exact, as if anyone cared.

“Doesn’t matter. Now listen closely, because here’s what does: If you’re overdue or short again, they’re going to foreclose.”

Perry’s face nearly went white. The fork slipped from his hand, and he slumped deeper into his chair and stared at the tablecloth.

And Mat was finally speechless. All his bluster and bravado had just had the floor pulled from underneath it. He had spent his entire career at Arvan, twenty-three years in which never once had he been forced to contend with the likes of a Jack Wiley. A medium-size factory in an unglamorous, blue-collar business, located in grungy, depressed Trenton, of all places, was so far off the screen that the buzzards in New York had ignored it. Oh, there’d been a few offers over the years, friendly tenders, all of them. Mostly amiable competitors anxious to grow a little the easy way, usually proposed as a merger in one form or another. A polite but firm “no thank you” and they went away.

This guy, though, just walked in out of the blue. No warning, no invitation, no sweet talk-just, Hello, I’m Jack, I’m here to rip out your guts and strangle you to death.

Mat was in the mood to fight, to tell this Wall Street pretty boy where to put his offer, but it was Perry’s company, and out of deference he bit his lip and kept his mouth shut. His boss should have the warm privilege of telling this guy where to shove his offer.

Perry drew a few deep breaths and tried to recover his composure. “So we’re clear, what are you proposing, Mr. Wiley?”

“It’s fairly straightforward. My people do a quick audit, assess your value, then we decide on a fair price. I’ll assume your debt, all of it. Paying it off will be my problem.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s even easier than that, and a very good deal for you. You’ll walk away with a mountain of cash. Buy a big boat, sail around the Caribbean for a year or two, and I’ll inherit all your problems.”

“What about my people?”

“I’ll keep as many as I can. That’s a promise.”

“What’s that mean?” demanded Mat, almost snarling.

“Some may not want to stay. I’ll offer three months’ severance to anybody who wants out.”

“So just voluntary departures?” Mat asked, spewing distrust all over the tablecloth.

“There may be a few others. I’ll try to keep as many as possible,” Jack said, and you could cut the vagueness with a knife.

Perry had returned to his eating. He was working his way through a large baked potato, slathered with butter, cutting and slicing with a vengeance. “And if I still say no?” he asked, concentrating on his potato.

“Then,” Jack said very solemnly, “you face two possible scenarios.”

“Please enlighten me,” Perry asked, shoveling a large bite of potato through his lips.

“One, a miracle happens, an avalanche of sales fall from the sky, you satisfy the banks, and I go away.” Jack conveyed this in the incredulous tone it deserved. Somehow he avoided a wicked smile, but it must’ve been killing him.

“What’s two?”

“The banks move in. They’ve been preparing this eventuality for weeks, Mr. Arvan. Their lawyers are ready to launch the necessary motions. Within hours, they’ll slap a lien on all your properties. You cosigned some of your corporate loans, so it’s not just your company, also your home and cars.”

Mat nearly fell out of his chair. Foreclosure! In all his dealings with the banks, they had given him no warning. No hints, no threats, nothing. He grabbed the edge of his seat and growled, “That’s hogwash, Wiley. As you said, they don’t want to own our company. They wouldn’t have a clue how to run it.”

“Glad you were paying attention, Mat. They don’t.”

“So what’s different now?”

“Now they have a buyer with deep pockets in the wings. That would be me, Mat. They’ll unload the company at a fire-sale price, and I’ll assume the debt.” Jack lifted his hands in the air and mentioned, rather casually, “Of course, it’ll take a little longer, I suppose. On the other hand, it’ll probably cost less.”

Perry put down his fork, his plate empty but for a few fatty scraps from the steak. “You think you got it all figured out, don’t you, boy?”

“I definitely do,” Jack said, pushing his plate away. His face suddenly turned cold, his tone almost scornful. “Now you figure it out, Mr. Arvan. I’m offering you the chance to make some money, a little nest egg you can pass on to your children. Or you can have your life’s work pulled out from beneath your feet and leave without a penny.”

“You’re a ruthless son of a bitch,” Mat spat.

Jack coolly withdrew two business cards from his pocket and flipped them on the table. He stood and, ignoring Mat Belton, looked Perry squarely in the eye. “Call me before the banks call you,” he said ominously.

Without another word, Jack walked out. He hadn’t touched his meal.

Perry pulled over his plate and dug in.

The three men inched forward in their chairs, straining to catch every word. Walters and Bellweather, as well as Samuel Parner, the cutthroat head of CG’s LBO section, were crowded in the small room in the basement to hear Jack’s pitch.

The moment they heard the door close, they relaxed and exchanged smiles. As Jack had entered the Princeton Inn, one of the TFAC boys, dressed in loud orange slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, had bumped against him and pinned a state-of-the-art miniature listening device to the back of his suit coat.

The conversation in the private dining room was easily picked up by a van parked in a nearby lot, then relayed in real time to the security room in CG’s basement.

Not that they had trust issues with Jack.

No issues at all. They didn’t trust him, not one bit.

“Well?” Bellweather turned and asked Parner.

“He’s great. Every bit as good as you claimed.” Parner could barely keep the broad grin off his face. He’d heard stories about how this guy had creamed two of his best boys but never actually witnessed him in action.

“Yes, brutal, wasn’t he?” Bellweather asked, proud of their new catch.

“It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” Walters grinned like a proud Little League dad who had just seen his son belt one over the bleachers. “I particularly liked the nice-guy act before the wolf came out.”

“Wouldn’t you have loved to see their faces?” Bellweather observed, pushing back from the console. “Stupid yokels, never knew what hit them.”

“Did he actually contact their banks?” Parner asked. “Or was that a bluff?”