table with the other condiments?” Katz laughed and pointed to a table filled with pills and powders, some recognizable, some exotic, all certainly illegal.
Two weeks after the party, Katz resigned from A&J via a handwritten note to Victor. It read simply, "Time to move on to higher pastures, filled with riches for the body and mind. Your pal, Johnny.”
The envelope also included an ounce of grass and some Zig-Zag paper in a small Ziploc bag.
Chapter 2
Into the Abyss
MALIBU, CALIFORNIA...about the same time.
He disappeared in the middle of summer, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a decadent party.
His 6,000 square-foot pile of reflective glass with bare white walls, trendy white pickled floors, and oversized white-on-white furniture, sat on the northern tip of Malibu, overlooked the Pacific Ocean.
The invites looked and acted like a collection of early 80s sleazy Richard Gere clones, and the statuesque, heavily-perfumed women suggested the presence of $2,000-a-night call girls. Booze and drugs, littered tables, chairs, and ledges. Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl blared in the background while guests performed imaginative feats of sex in every nook and cranny of the $20 million-plus pad.
The party’s host was former Wall Street wunderkind Franklin Ryman, a heavily-bearded overweight man in his late forties dressed in a Moroccan-style Jalapa with sandals. The weight of twenty-four-hour-a-day excess bent his well-traveled face and body. He was a poster child for the depraved, idle rich.
Ryman's eyes surveyed his surroundings then stumbled down the back stairs to the blackness of Malibu Beach. Nobody noticed or cared.
~
Foamy waves slammed violently on the shore, punctuating the madness of the moment. Ryman was not in darkness; he was darkness personified. Fate, destiny, the moral order was making amends for the havoc he had caused: lives, careers, marriages ruined. The ghosts of indulgence had pickled his brain. The milky slime of a white powdery substance dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
His feet slipped, and he tumbled headfirst into the sand along the water’s edge. The shifting tides swirled around his bloated frame; a strong undertow beckoned. His body slid toward the pounding abyss. His will, now tattered and spent, subconsciously wished to be carried away by the forces of nature.
At that moment of ultimate acquiescence, a large horseshoe crab with a ruddy brown shell washed ashore, far from its natural spawning habitat in the Yucatan. The usually mild-mannered crustacean did the unthinkable; it stabbed Ryman’s lifeless mass of humanity back to reality with its long, pointed tail. Ryman’s gruesome howl pierced the night air, ringing above the now thundering waves. His time had not yet come.
A few days later, his waterlogged cell phone washed ashore. There were no search and rescue missions, no internet stories, no funeral notices; it was like Ryman never was.
The prevailing wisdom of friends and enemies alike? Ryman had passed of natural causes from an assumed overdose, and eventually, his body would wash ashore somewhere.
NORFOLK, CONNECTICUT…twelve months later.
Ryman slowly opened the front door of the upscale, discreet Silver Hill Detox Center in the sleepy rural town of Litchfield, Connecticut.
He had been a voluntary “guest” for quite some time. It was a bright sunny June day, as he headed back to his Sutton Place penthouse. His five senses, clearer than they had been in years, touched, smelled, and felt the world around him. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and warm, gentle breezes feathered his neatly combed, long black hair.
Once inside his Manhattan sanctuary, he quickly discovered several depressing business realities: seven of his privately held businesses, including his crown jewel, the Chicago Clearing Exchange, had closed their doors for lack of leadership, vision, and cash flow. The assets and control of his remaining businesses, primarily public enterprises, created, built, and structured by him, had been legally transferred to former partners and investors looking to grab the whole pie with no additional capital investment.
In short, Ryman’s business empire was in shambles, and his net worth had been seriously depleted.
He sat quietly, reflecting upon the insanity of the past decade, the observations of his latest shrink, and the urging of his Silver Hill support group. Ryman rationalized a business do-over was the only sane option. He was confident his “Midas touch” would again lead him to unconscionable wealth; he just needed to identify the right business and the right players.
But first things first. There was a damaged ego to restore to its former glory! The business community needed to realize THE Ryman was alive and well, and back in the saddle. He likened his plight to that of Mark Twain: “Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated.” In his prime, Ryman was a master self-promoter with a sixth sense about the mœurs du jour.
Three months later, a soulful first-person mea culpa about drug abuse in the executive suite was published to great fanfare in the prestigious Gotham Business Magazine. The author? An articulate and anonymous international business entrepreneur gone astray. A man determined to give something back! “I have purposely left no stone unturned so that others might learn from my mistakes,” stated the author. “Man’s self-worth should not be measured by the intoxication of business excess.”
Ryman roared his approval when the article was quoted all over the internet. He was confident the article’s subliminal message would reach the immoral bastards who participated in the earlier demolition of Franklin M. Ryman – “RMG is back, and he wants to destroy you!”
Chapter 3
Piedmont Stuffing Mix
MANHATTAN...two years later.
Victor Martini’s climb of the executive ladder at A&J Advertising was in full swing.
The self-proclaimed “New York City Street Kid,” raised in the violence-riddled South Bronx, the son of a butcher and a telephone operator and the graduate of a local commuter college, had scratched and clawed his way from a $70 a week job in the mailroom to a pretentious, power corner office at Arthur & James, now Madison Avenue’s reigning snob-patch.
Nothing appeared out of reach, including an improbable run at the top. Rumors abounded that the company’s visionary president, Gordon Naye, was retiring in five years. As one of only six direct reports, Martini naively assumed the Tarot cards were aligned in his favor.
Nobody at A&J worked harder to prepare for important meetings than Victor. Victor believed knowledge controlled. He was also a master at blowing smoke. As one of the agency’s Fortune 500 clients explained, “When Victor talks to you, he makes you feel like the most important person in the world at that moment.”
~
It was showtime! In the cherry-wood paneled conference room at the executive offices of A&J, now the world’s largest advertising agency, the athletic, well-groomed, blue-eyed Victor, dressed to impress, was holding center stage. He was pontificating on a new market research study, “The Eating Behavior of Upper Socio-Economic House-holds,” to a young, equally well-groomed group reeking of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. They were the boys and girls of Piedmont Foods, America’s largest processed foods marketer, with an advertising
