and your style.”
“That’s what Doreen said.”
“Well, it’s true. Old Doctor Delaney [the hospital Chief of Surgery] said it best last Christmas: ‘Cream always rises to the top.’”
“Did he say that?” asked Sandra, pleased.
~
Two weeks and three interviews later, Sandra was appointed assistant manager of the operating room. Two months after that, she had developed four innovative initiatives to improve operating room efficiencies and increase nursing staff morale.
“I couldn’t be happier with your performance,” said Doreen, as she handed Sandra a twenty percent raise, her largest ever.
That evening, Victor and Sandra toasted their good fortune. “Thanks for your support,” said Sandra, love reflecting in her eyes.
“I will love you forever,” said Victor. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’
~
The following Monday, Doreen asked Sandra to sub for her during the afternoon since she had to take her “annual” physical, which she had postponed three years running. Tuesday morning, a somber Doreen asked Sandra to her office. “Close the door, please, will you?”
Sandra knew something was wrong, but she could never have imagined in a million years.
“Sandra, you know me. I’m a cut-to-the-chase lady.” She got up, walked over to the window, and stared out. “I’m dying. The doctors tell me I have inoperable brain cancer that is spreading like wildfire.”
“Oh, my God! Are you sure?”
Doreen turned around and looked at Sandra with tears in her eyes. “Trust me; there’s no mistake.”
Two weeks later, Doreen was unable to work anymore. Her last business request was that the hospital promotes Sandra into her position.
Four weeks later, Sandra was packing Doreen’s personal effects to send to her only living relative, a sister in Glasgow, Scotland. She found a green wool cap marked New York Jets, Doreen’s favorite American sports team. Her mind wandered to a cold, blustery December Sunday when Doreen had joined her and Victor at the annual Jets-Miami Dolphins game. The temperature dropped below twelve degrees by the second half. Victor and Doreen completed a trade. Doreen got Victor’s extra wool cap in a straight-up exchange for six toots of 100 proof bourbon from Doreen’s oversized flask.
Sandra placed the cap on her head and wept.
Chapter 9
Tishman and Diamond
Ryman’s attorney Allyn Tishman was not exactly what Victor expected.
A small, almost frail figure of a man with a warm smile, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, and tiny reading glasses hanging from his nose greeted Victor in the lobby. It was like meeting Mr. Rogers, complete with a light blue sweater vest, away from his PBS neighborhood. “So nice to meet you. I’m Allyn Tishman. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. Franklin has told me so much about you. Why don’t you come into the conference room, and we’ll chat a bit.”
Tishman sounded friendly enough, but his introspective stare suggested a cool, calculating analytical mind. The conference room was depressing and consisted of a big table with a tiny aisle around the perimeter for sitting and walking. At the far end of the table sat a jar of peanut butter and a dish of thin, unsalted cracker squares.
Victor performed his chameleon impression. “I gather you've known Franklin a long time?”
“We go way back to the hospital days. Quite an exciting ride. Both ways. I was having some lunch before you came in. I’m a student of alternative medicine. Not long ago, I read about the extraordinarily high-protein content of peanut butter. As a consequence, peanut butter has become a staple of my lunchtime diet. Interestingly, the baked crackers, which contain significant unrefined complex carbohydrates compared to highly processed white bread, are a natural complement to the peanut butter. I wash it all down with a refreshing cinnamon-apple herbal tea. Like all of us, I’m trying to fight the ravages of age.”
Victor didn’t know what to say. Was this a test? Have I already flunked? Tishman continued. “Franklin tells me that your knowledge about raising capital in the public market-place is a bit limited. Hmm.”
“That’s true,” Victor admitted. “That’s why I told Franklin I might be the wrong candidate for the project. My real business expertise is working with major corporations, developing and implementing marketing programs that increase product sales. I’m one-part management consultant, one-part salesman. Given the recession and all the market turmoil, am I really what Wall Street wants?”
Tishman was certain Victor’s humility was a pitch for more of something; he just didn’t know what. Yet. “Not an issue,” said Tishman, daring to wonder if Ryman had made a gigantic blunder while ignoring the question posed. “There is nothing complex about the entire financing process, particularly in the penny stock sector. I’ll be advising you over the coming months as we develop the red herring. You’ll be quite knowledgeable by the time you begin to meet potential investors.”
“What’s a red herring?”
“My, my, Victor, I can see we are starting from scratch,” chuckled Tishman in a friendly but condescending tone. “A red herring is another name for a prospectus, which is the document we will be submitting to the Securities and Exchange Commission to obtain the necessary federal approvals to market our common stock directly to the public. A portion of the document is printed in red to reinforce the speculative nature of a given offering to prospective investors. Hence the name.”
The intercom buzzed; Martin Diamond had arrived. “We’ll be right there,” Tishman told his assistant.
“Who is Martin Diamond?” asked Victor.
“Martin,” said Tishman, “was involved with Franklin throughout the entire consolidation of the medical industry. He has a brilliant financial mind and a real feel for what kind of deal The Street will buy at a given point in time. He and Franklin worked closely in the past.
In this deal, however, he’ll be more of a ‘behind-the-scenes’ advisor. He won’t have any day-to-day operational responsibilities.” Victor nodded, although he had no idea what the hell Tishman had said.
Diamond’s business patina was completely different than Tishman’s — impeccably dressed in a mocha English tweed suit, blue-striped shirt with a white starched collar, yellow print Armani tie, and cordovan wingtips. The whole GQ spread. “Pleasure to meet you, Victor,” said Diamond, like a medieval lord addressing his feudal peasantry. “Franklin has told me nice things about you. He is very impressed with your marketing and operational experience. As you know, neither is Franklin’s strong point.” Diamond’s sarcasm enveloped the conference room.
Tishman chuckled. Victor didn’t get it — yet. He smiled but thought what an asshole! “A pleasure to meet you also. Allyn tells me you’re the real financial brain behind this exercise,” said Victor playfully.
“My God, you mean someone finally realizes I’ve made Allyn and Franklin a lot of money? Of course, as we all know, with Franklin enough never seems to be enough. And, when it’s all gone,
