Stuart Woods: Fast and Loose

“I’ll do that, Billy. How are my boys doing out there?” He referred to Peter and to Ben Bacchetti’s son, Dino, who was head of production at the studio.

“Thriving,” Billy said. “You’d be proud.”

“Well, I have to run. I’ll speak to you soon.” They said goodbye and hung up.

Paul and Marisa Carlsson arrived, and they sat down at the dining table to talk. Stone presented the representation agreement and the fee schedule. “Look these over and have anyone else you rely on for advice do so, too. Sign them at your leisure, and keep a copy for your records. I’d be happy to go through them with you.”

“This morning,” Carlsson said, “I spoke to Dr. Willie Keeling, who is representing the stockholders’ association in the negotiations. I let him know that there would likely be a better offer coming and not to do anything rash. He said he’d check with me before taking any further action.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “We wouldn’t want them to rush into anything. Paul, I believe you know Arthur Steele, at Steele Insurance Group.”

“Of course — we’ve met a number of times. Good man.”

“Art would like to put together an offer from Steele Insurance Group for the association’s stock, and he, as well as people from our firm, would like to go to your head office in New York and be taken through the clinic’s operations and to collect the necessary supporting documentation.”

“Certainly. My younger son, Nihls, is the chief financial officer of the company, and I’ll instruct him to give them whatever they need. When would they visit?”

“Tomorrow morning. There may also be some people along from a security company called Strategic Services, who may be participating in the deal.”

“I know of them. I’ll have our head of security meet with them, and my elder son, Sven, who is chief operating officer, will be available to meet with whomever you wish.”

“What is your position at the clinic?” Stone asked.

“I am chief executive officer and chief of medicine. Marisa is my deputy chief of medicine. Tell me, Stone, how is your health?”

“Very good, thanks. I’m due for my biennial FAA medical exam next week.”

“Well, Marisa is a designated medical examiner for the FAA, in addition to being a pilot. She could administer the exam, if you wish.”

“What a good idea,” Stone said. “I’ll make an appointment.”

“You know the drill about filling out the application online before your visit?” Marisa asked.

“I do.”

She handed him a card. “You may list me as your examiner on the form.”

They talked for a few more minutes, then the Carlssons stood to go.

“Your new yacht will be delivered this afternoon,” Carlsson said. “I’m informed that it was launched this morning and is being sailed over here.”

“I’ll look for it.”

“And I’ll look for you next week,” Marisa said.

Erik Macher spent his day going through every business file of Christian St. Clair’s business dealings, then his own files. In St. Clair’s he found the offer for the Carlsson Clinic buyout and its deadline. He read it carefully, then called Dr. Willie Keeling, the head of the stockholders’ association.

“Good morning, Dr. Keeling.”

“Good morning, and who might this be?”

“I am Erik Macher.” He spelled the name slowly. “Does that ring a bell?”

“I’m afraid not, and I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“This is about the buyout offer from St. Clair Enterprises. I believe you have that in hand. And I am the successor of Christian St. Clair.”

“Ah, yes, I heard of his death and thought that might be an end to this business.”

“Certainly not. The offer is still a valid one, and you have three weeks to state your intentions.”

“And what will happen if we do not accept the offer by that time?”

“Then the offer will be withdrawn, and another made, but at a lower price.”

“Mr. Maker—”

“Macher.”

“Mr. Macher, I must tell you that I expect another offer — a better one — by that time.”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“You may not. Good day, sir.” Keeling hung up.

Of all the occasional irritants in Macher’s life, which he fought every day to remove, being hung up on by someone who didn’t know him was right at the top. He felt his gorge rising and fought to keep it down, taking deep breaths.

“I believe he was getting angry,” Keeling said to his companion, Herbert Fisher, an attorney with Woodman & Weld.

“You handled him perfectly,” Herbie said. “First, by not acknowledging him, then by continuing not to acknowledge him, then by disclosing that you could do better, and finally, by hanging up on him. Just perfect. Now he knows he has a fight on his hands.”

“I don’t like having someone, even someone I don’t know, angry with me,” Keeling said, wiping his glasses with a tissue, then patting his forehead and under his eyes.

“That is because you are a professional man and not a businessman. Businessmen are accustomed to dealing with people who are displeased with them and often use that to their advantage.”

“And how do I do that?”

“First, wait for his response.”

“How do you know he will respond?”

“Because he wants the Carlsson Clinic — perhaps even more than St. Clair himself wanted it, because it is probably the first business transaction he will carry out in his new position of authority.”

“Will he want to hurt me?” Keeling asked.

“No. Oh, he may be angry enough to do so, but he is businessman enough to know that violence would damage his position and thus cost him money and prestige with his board. He will be scrupulously polite, until he isn’t, and that will let you know that it is time to deal with him.”

“When will he call again?”

“Perhaps soon, perhaps later — it doesn’t matter. When he calls, ask your secretary to say that you are unavailable, and she doesn’t know when you will be.”

“I don’t have a secretary.”

“Dr. Keeling, do you have a telephone answering machine?”

“No.”

“I will send one over to you and have it set up. After that, never answer the phone, unless you recognize the calling number as being someone you wish to speak to.”

Herbie used his cell to ask his secretary to send over a machine pronto. “It should be only a few minutes.”

The phone rang again, and Herbie held up a hand when Keeling started to answer. On the sixth ring, he picked it up himself.

“Hello,” he said, sounding bored.

“May I speak to Dr. Keeling, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Erik Macher.”

“Can you spell that?”

Macher spelled it slowly and carefully.

“Is that Eric with a cee?”

“No, with a kay.”

“And Maker with a kay, too?”

“It’s Macher with a cee aitch.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises,” Macher said through gritted teeth.

“What is that?”

“It is a very large business conglomerate.”

“What kind of business?”

“Financial.”

“Does Dr. Keeling know you?”

“I spoke to him five minutes ago.”

“What is this about?”

“It’s a business matter.”

“What sort of business?”

“Extremely important business.”

“Just a minute, I’ll get him.” Herbie pressed the hold button.

“If it were me calling,” Keeling said, “ I would want to kill you by now.”

“Oh, good,” Herbie said. He waited for about a count of ten, then pressed the line button. “Hello?”

“Hello.”