responded Ryman arrogantly, taking another puff and blowing a ring of smoke in the air. “Despite all the SEC saber-rattling and government oversight, they've practically ignored the world of penny stocks. The corporate bluebloods make like the world doesn't exist. They call it ‘the dark side of The Street.’ In reality, smart, savvy people raise tens of millions of dollars every day in this niche. Best of all, the rules are fungible; it's like the wild wild west of investment capital.”
Ryman sensed Victor was intrigued. He kept pouring it on, partially out of ego, partially out of need. “That’s the beauty of my strategy; all we need to do is make it sound sexy. As you well know, marketing is all packaging. Once we become America’s great 'whisper stock,' mainstream money will line up at the door.”
“I got it, but don’t quite get it,” said Victor honestly.
Ryman realized Victor was just what the doctor ordered – a naive, blue-chip marketing tenderfoot who could make his prospectus look and sound great.
~
“Here’s how it works. First, we use the public’s money to acquire fifteen or twenty of these niche companies. Then we eliminate redundant functions to add value. The restated earnings will show an income stream that capitalizes in the hundreds of millions. The stock price will skyrocket, investors will realize a significant return, and we’ll both be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. Me for the second time, you for the first. So are you in??”
Martini wanted to do his own due diligence. “Franklin, what makes a barter company successful? Do they have management continuity? How do they fit together strategically?”
“Jesus, Victor, please, let’s not get bogged down in bullshit details. Business is not about business; it’s about money. If you can’t get filthy rich on someone else’s money, why bother?” Ryman believed deep down everyone was a greedy pig. And he knew how to feed that animal.
“How much do you think I can make,” asked Martini.
“Fifty, maybe a hundred million dollars in three years. Depends.”
The estimates blew Victor away. The sounded too good to be true. “Franklin, I’ve got to be blunt. The numbers are tantalizing, but the business and the financing sound like bullshit!”
Ryman was infuriated. “Bullshit! My plan is fucking brilliant!. You sound like my tight-ass United Medical nay-sayers.”
~
“I need some time to think about it, talk to my wife,” said Martini, sipping his now cold coffee. “I’ve got a great career with a first-class organization. Been there twelve years. I just can’t...”
“Oh, I get it. You want to check me out. Go ahead. You’ll find everything I told you is true. How much time do you need?”
“A few days.”
Ryman went for the close. “That’s fine, but no bullshit stringing me along; I’ve got to get on with my plan. If not with you, then somebody else. Do we understand each other?” Ryman was good. Very good.
Martini was already leaning. “By the way, Franklin, does your new creation have a name?”
“Yeah. International Trade Incorporated. The stock symbol is ITI. It’s easy to remember and sounds like a subsidiary of AT&T.”
The men shook hands, promising to meet again soon. Ryman noticed a large butter stain on Martini’s tie. “Victor, don’t know if you noticed, but I have a bad habit of talking and eating at the same time. I wind up tossing more butter-stained $125 ties in the garbage.”
Martini thought Ryman’s comment was an odd way to end their meeting.
Ryman smiled and pointed at Martini’s butter-stained tie. “Looks like we might be business and etiquette partners. ”I’d suggest a new tie for our next meeting.”
Chapter 7
Pitching Sandra
Victor hadn’t spent time at a library since his college days. This Saturday would be different.
Victor rummaged through old newspapers and magazines at the Greenwich Library looking for United Medical stories and analysis. To his utter amazement, everything Ryman said was true, right down to the torrid romance with Brit Samantha Brighton, a distant cousin of Prince Andrew.
However, Ryman ignored a few tasty morsels. Samantha had indeed jilted Ryman for a well-known Swedish jetsetter, Ingrid Bourne. The British and Scandinavian tabloids had a field day with the story because Ingrid, some eight years prior, had a sex change operation. Ryman ultimately became the laughingstock of corporate Europe. The widely-read daily tabloid, the Daily Mirror, derided Ryman in its headlines as “The man who loves women dumped by a woman who had a sex change.”
The sordid experience changed Ryman’s point of view concerning women. Never again would he allow himself to become victimized by something as silly as true love. To restore his persona, he publicly dated only voluptuous, high-profile women. He would wine and dine them beyond their wildest imagination so that they would fulfill all his sexual desires and fantasies. A typical night out in Manhattan would routinely lead to dinner in Paris, followed by dancing the night away at Harry’s Bar in London, all compliments of his private jet. If his female companion resisted his advances, wanted a meaningful relationship, or just stuck around too long, they were shown the door.
~
On the business side, Victor learned Ryman operated on the ethical edge. His friends said Franklin had a knack for identifying unique niches, raising capital, and making associates wealthy. His foes implied he had absolutely no conscience and did whatever was necessary to achieve his corporate, financial, and personal objectives.
Victor wondered with whom he had breakfasted. In article after article, Franklin pontificated about the importance of personal integrity: “In business, there can be only black and white. As one of his former business associates succinctly pointed out, “Ryman believes his bullshit, despite reveling in a world of murky gray.”
~
Katz called first thing Monday morning. This time Victor was in his office. Alone. “What the hell did you do?”
“About what?”
“Franklin claims you blew him off,” said Katz.
“I did not,” insisted Victor. “I said I needed a little time to think about it.”
“When was that?”
“Last Friday.”
Katz exploded. “Get fucking real! You can work your ass off for another ten years in your snooty A&J, tower, revel in your big fancy office, and walk away with peanuts. Then what? You’re forty-nine, out on your ass, and still saddled with a humongous mortgage and a mountain of college tuition bills. My advice, as a friend, is simple. Don’t blow it, asshole.”
Victor wavered. “Assuming I want to go forward, and I’m not committing mind you, what’s the next step?”
“Franklin said you agreed to meet his attorney Allyn Tishman and his financial advisor Martin Diamond.”
