Bull Street Read Free

the oriental rug it sat on. The aroma of rosemary and eggs mixed with some other scent he couldn’t identify emanated from an unseen kitchen.
    Richard wished he could listen in on their meeting, be in the room with them. Hell, he wanted more than anything to be one of them, particularly Milner. He was a big part of why Richard was here.
    Just as they sat down at the table to breakfast, a trim man in a double-breasted suit walked into the reception area with an air that he owned the place. Richard took him in: slicked-back hair, pocket square that matched his bold Hermes tie, English-striped shirt with white cuffs showing below his jacket sleeves. A Jack Grass wannabe? He walked erect, lips pursed, projecting arrogance. LeClaire, no doubt. He’d be the most important person in Richard’s life for the next hour.
    “François LeClaire. Sorry I am late.” He smiled, but modestly, as if to overdo it would wrinkle his suit. His accent had the exaggerated edge of a cartoon character, almost too pronouncedto be real. “Conference call to Europe. Unavoidable,” now adopting a manner like Richard, of course, knew the import of all this. He shook Richard’s hand like he wanted to leave no doubt that he understood the concept of a firm American handshake. He extended his other hand in the direction of the offices with the formality of a Swiss hotelier.
    Here we go. Richard resisted the urge to peek back at Milner.

    Harold Milner looked down at the rosemary and goat cheese omelet on his plate, then at his hands; the meaty hands of a carpenter or mason. But for some turns in his life, that could’ve been him. It was something he tried hard never to forget. He couldn’t help laughing at himself now: he was uneasy, and trying to hide it. He’d been at the deals business a long time. Lots of tense moments, tough deals, pressure. But he rarely felt like this.
    He looked over at Jack and Mickey. They sure took Milner back. Twenty years of dreaming, manipulating, trial and error, making it work. Elbow to elbow, the three of them. Jack, the ideas guy, sitting there now, puffing and blowing, preening himself in that $5,000 custom suit. Mickey the planner and thinker. Jack should thank God he had Mickey. He made Jack’s schemes real. And it really wasn’t just Mickey’s brains and technical mastery; it was Jack’s crazy ideas, because without Jack’s dreaming Mickey wouldn’t have had anything to breathe life into.
    Before he met these two he was just a scrappy guy doing pintsized deals. Then he met Jack, and a month later, this new guy he had in tow, Steinberg—Mickey, not a nickname for Michael, just Mickey—short, plump and unathletic. They both showed up at Milner’s New York office in that dowdy building he’d started outin at 8 th Avenue and 34 th Street. Smelled like the Chinese restaurant downstairs. Jack grinning his golden-boy grin in a $2,000 English-cut suit, still only 31 years old and Walker’s top producer, already running the firm’s Corporate Finance Department. Mickey blinking slowly, shaking hands more firmly than Milner expected from someone with that weaselly face and punchdrunk demeanor.
    Jack pitched the Caldor idea almost before they sat down, itching to get at it. Jack talking nonsense about buying a billion dollars of debt owed the retailer Caldor by its credit card customers for 20 cents on the dollar. Mickey explaining that Caldor was near-bankrupt and desperate for cash. Jack saying Caldor’s credit card customers would ultimately pay their bills, Milner would make a killing. Mickey laying out how to finance the deal. Back and forth, Milner’s eyes shooting from one to the other like at a tennis match. Then Jack telling Milner all he had to kick in was $10 to $12 million, maybe make 20 to 30 times his investment in a few years. Milner thinking, that got his attention, who ever these guys were.
    It had turned out to be a recipe for an incredible home run: Milner had invested $16 million of cash,