Bull Street Read Free Page B

his answer, blinking, contemplating.
    Mickey said, “I’d say at least $300 million.”
    Jack didn’t move.
    Milner shrugged, then nodded. “Done.”
    Jack looked over at Milner with his best shit-eating grin.
    Milner looked down, observed his hands again. In a way, he’d get to be a carpenter after all. And put in an honest day’s work.

    In LeClaire’s office, Richard settled into a reproduction of the Chippendale antique chairs in the lobby. He looked around. It was a real office, not some eight-by-twelve hole. Mahogany desk and credenza, Oriental rug, textured fabric wall covering and tasteful print curtains. LeClaire was a Senior Vice President, which had its status, but his title aside, what Richard had heard was right: Walker, privately held, still had the appointments of an old Wall Street firm that even Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley had given up years ago.
    Richard hoped to exchange some small talk, loosen himself and LeClaire up. He checked out LeClaire’s desk. The guy was a neatnick, ordered piles of documents on either side, more on his credenza. A pencil holder with a dozen or so sharpened #2s. Pictures of his wife and it looked like three kids.
    “Can we get right to it? I’ve got another conference call in an hour and I need to prepare before it,” LeClaire said.
    “Sure,” Richard said. This is it; don’t blow it.
    LeClaire held up Richard’s resume. “Here is what this tells me: nice middle-class kid from the Midwest; public high school,including the obligatory sports. Undistinguished undergraduate school—Michigan State was a choice I would like to under- stand—then on to a successful career track in advertising…how am I doing?” His thick French accent had a cadence that emphasized the syllables on the up-beat.
    “Okay, you’re getting to the part that should be more interesting to you, I…”
    LeClaire talked over Richard, “You say you had some successful campaigns. ‘Wow! What a Whopper,’ ‘Morton steak sauce sizzles!’ and the Michelin tire ‘Baby’ campaign—I do not recognize any of those. And you won some award.”
    “A Clio isn’t just ‘some award.’” That was like saying Institutional Investor’s “Deal of the Year” award was like a gold star in grammar school. Who does he think he is?
    LeClaire now put Richard’s resume down on the desk and looked at it. “But it was not sufficient to achieve one of the top American business schools that Wall Street gets its real talent from. Do you disagree?”
    “I see a different picture. A hardworking kid with solid Midwestern values excels in public school…”
    LeClaire interrupted, “Have you ever met anybody from your American boarding schools?”
    “A few, but…”
    “It is my experience that they are better educated.”
    The hell they are. Could this guy be more of a stiff? “Public schools teach people how to think, too. Besides I’ve met some boarding school types who may know how to say the right thing, but haven’t had an original thought in their lives.”
    “Point taken. So why are we here, thinker?” He was sitting up straight in his chair, hands clasped and resting on his desk blotter.
    Richard leaned in toward him for emphasis. He felt himself starting to breathe faster. “Because I gave up a promising career in advertising…” He heard his voice rising.
    “How much were you making?”
    “A hundred and twenty thousand.”
    “That is considerable for advertising. They pay poorly.”
    “I know. I was worth more. But I still gave that up to—”
    “To crunch numbers until 2:00 a.m. most nights, put together pitch books for people like me you will perhaps learn to hate, and if you are very, very lucky, carry bags for senior officers such as Jack Grass and Mickey Steinberg?”
    “No, to learn the business. To be like Jack Grass or Mickey Steinberg, or if I can pull it off, like the guy they’re outside having breakfast with, Harold Milner.”
    “That is ambitious.”
    “I am