Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

But first he had to give the good news to Rosen. He proceeded to do so, in the briefest of telephone calls.

“SO we will need an additional $50 million in cash before we can proceed further, Mr. Rosen.”

“Fine, Herr Kellermann. I’ll see what I can do.”

The telephone went dead for a few seconds.

“You did understand what I said, Mr. Rosen.”

“Completely. I’ll be back to you this afternoon. Let’s say after lunch. You’ll be in?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Fine. Good-bye.”

Stanley burped, put on a pink shirt, a green tie, a blue suit, brown shoes with black socks. He placed a call to New York and went down to the Grill Room for a steak, well done, and some french fries on the side.

He actually enjoyed his lunch, while he mulled over Kellermann, the General Bank of Switzerland, and $50 million. So what else was there to expect? Everybody has to look after himself. And the aristocrats of the world were the first to learn this. That’s why they became aristocrats. To himself, over lunch, Stanley had no qualms about thinking of his big customers in the States. Sure, they were Mafia. But they were the aristocrats of their chosen line of business. They were the best surviving capitalists in the United States. They believed as fiercely in the system that made America what it is, as did the Rockefellers, the Harrimans, the Kennedys of past generations. Swiss bankers were cut of exactly—but exactly—the same cloth.

They used the cloak of piety plus the bank secrecy laws in the same way as the Mafia used bribes and the threat of secrecy or death. Both provided services that a greedy and essentially anti-law public wanted. Neither group of twentieth century capitalists could survive and prosper to that degree if vast numbers of people, in both low and high places, did not want and need them. The type of power that resulted by merit of their holding the keys to many different kinds of financial kingdoms was as close to invincible as you could get. There was no use fighting it. Bow your head, accept it for what it is, roll with the punches. Cooperate. Since you can’t join ’em, don’t be stupid enough to try to lick ’em. Just have enough money to keep up with them. Power and money. That was something that both the Mafiosi and the gnomes of Zurich respect. And money Stanley had. That’s why he enjoyed his lunch. In spite of the fact that his stomach was not exactly in A-1 shape.

The tummy trouble had started with that bender the week before. After fooling around in those bars in France and Germany right across the border from Basel until four in the morning, how could it have been avoided? That guy from Geneva sure had known them all: all the places, all the girls. And could he drink. Brother! Funny that the stomach business was hanging on so long. But still, it had been worth it. Anything would have been worth getting away from that hotel in Basel. Christ, what a stiff dump. And the manager! Boy, if looks could have killed when we turned up with those gals. Probably a fairy.

“Hey.”

The head waiter stared at him.

“Hey. Gimme the check, will you?”

The head waiter approached.

“Sir?”

“Look, just gimme the check. I’m expecting a phone call upstairs.”

Ten minutes later he got the check, and as he entered his suite, slightly peeved, the phone was ringing.

“Your party in New York,” said the operator.

“Stanley, is that you? It’s me, Harry Stahl.”

God, thought Rosen, that guy will never learn that you don’t have to yell to be heard across the Atlantic. Typical New York jerk.

“Yes, Harry, it’s me. Now just talk normal, will you. I can hear you fine. How are things going?”

“Fine, fine,” screamed Harry. “How come I haven’t heard from you? I was worried sick that something bad had happened.”

“Harry, you worry too much. I’ve always told you that. And stop screaming into the phone.”

“O.K. Stanley, don’t get worked up. Did you do the deal with the Arabs?” Harry pronounced it A-rabs.

“I sure did. Fantastic thing. I’m onto something very, very big, Harry. The biggest idea yet.”

“Like what?”

“Harry, I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. You understand. Just do one thing for me, right away. Have the First National Bank of Nassau transfer $50 million to the General Bank of Switzerland, head office in Zurich, attention Kellermann.”

“Wait a minute. Attention who?”

“Kellermann.” He spelled it, with one n, and then continued. “Get the guys in Nassau on the phone and stress that it has to be a cable transfer. I want no screwups. The funds have to be good here not later than eight tomorrow morning, Swiss time. That gives you almost all day to arrange it on your side of the ocean.”

“Fifty million?”

“Fifty million.”

“Out of what accounts?”

“Take five million out of our personal one, Harry. And do the rest pro rata from some of the other really big ones. The guys from St. Louis should be good for five. The Las Vegas group’s account should be good for another five. Just use your judgment. We’ve got lots of cash sitting around in the Bahamas.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself this time, Stanley. Shouldn’t I, perhaps, come over quick, so we can talk this over?”

“Look, Harry, I’d like to. But this must move fast. It’s not the sort of thing we can sit around debating about. But don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“That’s going to put every one of our operations pretty short of cash.”

“I know. But not for long. This is a quick in and out. And it will involve zero downside risk where our Bahamas money is concerned. I just need that for a very short-term, very high-interest loan, to back up the operation here.”

“Well, remember, Stanley, it’s both our necks. Rumour has it that some of our clients play pretty rough if something gets screwed up where their money is concerned.”

“I know,” was Rosen’s only response, although he did have to admit to himself that Stahl had a point.

“Where are you calling from, Stanley?”

“The Baur au Lac in Zurich. But I’ll be checking out of here on Friday. Moving back to Basel for the weekend. Usual place.”

“O.K., Stanley. If anything gets messed up in Nassau, just call me. When do you expect to be back?”

“End of next week.”

“O.K., Stan. Take care, and believe me, I really mean that!”

“Bye, Harry. And thanks, buddy.”

He hung up. Great guy, that Harry Stahl. A worrier though. Still, he’s a guy who will stick it out, even if he doesn’t have a clue as to what’s going on. He picked up the phone again.

“Fräulein,” he said, “give me the General Bank of Switzerland, head office. I forget the number. I’ll wait.”

Why these idiots don’t install direct dial phones in hotels was an eternal mystery.

“General Bank of Switzerland.”

“I’d like to speak to Director Kellermann.”

“Just one moment, please.”

Come on. Come on.

“Kellermann,” came the deep voice.

“Herr Kellermann, this is Stanley Rosen. You’ll have your $50 million in good funds tomorrow morning.”

“Well—”

Rosen interrupted, “So I expect you to start proceeding on my orders immediately.”

“But Mr. Rosen—”

Again Stanley cut in. “I don’t think there is room for any more ‘buts,’ Herr Kellermann. You agreed to accept my order, and you further agreed to start immediately on the bullion purchases and short dollar sales. Frankly, you broke your commitment when you asked for the additional cash margin, but I understand your position. I’m producing the extra cash. Now I expect you to keep your word.”