New York, New York. Friday, early September, dusk. Heading uptown on
Madison. Sheets of icy rain washed the pavement, heralding the
onslaught of autumn and the miserable winter to come. The city was
poised for its cruelest months, that twilight of the spirit when
strangers arm-wrestle for taxis, nobody has time to hold a door, and
you cherish every fleeting human kindness.
Bring on the blizzards, the holiday madness. This winter I was planning
something long overdue. To treat my daughter Amy, the Madame Curie of
her ninth grade, to a real vacation. Just us. We'd leave at
Thanksgiving and stay gone through the Christmas break. She got to live
with me three months a year, and December was by God going to be one of
the months. School? She'd already skipped a year; maybe she was a
little too fast-track for thirteen.
Since Joanna, my ex, had already lined up her own holiday excursion
(Amy the spy claimed it was with some divorced Tishman VP), she hadn't
bothered inventing the usual roadblocks. Clear sailing. We'd open the
house down in St. Croix and spend a month getting reacquainted. Work on
the tan and some postgraduate snorkeling, a strategic move while I
still enjoyed a small sliver of her attention, before a certain
"totally terrific" skateboard virtuoso finally got around to noticing
her. Only a couple of jobs needed finishing, but they'd be wrapped up
with weeks to spare.
That night, in truth, had its moments of nostalgia. The destination was
Sotheby's auction house, a place where Matthew Walton was greeted by
name at the cashier's window. Home away from home for obsessive
collectors. I leaned back
against the vinyl seat of the Checker, letting the rhythm of the
streetlight halos glimmer past, and reflected on all those happy nights
I'd made the trek with Joanna. She'd had no real interest in my
collecting hobby, Japanese samurai swords and armor, but she was always
a decent sport about it. Besides, she had her own passions. While I was
agonizing over long blades and short blades, she'd sneak off and browse
for something French and nineteenth century and expensive. Fact is, I'd
usually plan ahead and have something of my own on the block just to
pay for that little sketch, or print, she suddenly had to have. Out of
habit I'd even shipped up a couple of mistakes for the auction this
evening (a hand axe and a lacquered-metal face guard).
Though tonight's sale had only a few odd items in my specialty, the
slim offerings actually suited the occasion. It left the evening open,
time for the real agenda--getting things rolling with a new client who'd
inexplicably handed me a job as simple as it was strange.
The man, name of Matsuo Noda, had rung all the way from Japan Friday
before last, introduced himself in generalities, then declared he had a
pressing legal matter requiring both speed and confidentiality.
Inquiries had led him to me. Would I have time to help him locate an
office building to buy? He claimed he was head of a Kyoto consulting
outfit that called itself Nippon, Inc., and he was looking for
something in midtown, seventy-million range.
Honestly I couldn't quite believe he was serious at first. Why this job
(just a little legwork, really) for somebody he'd never even met? I
could swing it, sure, but now that Japanese investors were snapping up
U.S. property right and left, who needed some ex-Texan turned New York
lawyer knocking around? There was no rational reason to engage a
corporate attorney.
"Out of curiosity, why aren't you working through one of the Tokyo
firms here in New York, say, Hiro Real Estate or KG Land? Surely they
could--"
"Mr. Walton," he interrupted smoothly but firmly, "allow me to say I
have my reasons. May I remind you I stressed confidentiality."
"Merely asking." I took a deep breath. The connection was distorted, a
high-pitched hum in the background, as though he wasn't using
commercial phone lines. "If you want, I can look around and see what's
on the market . . . and in the meantime how about sending along a
prospectus, just for the file?"
"Assuredly," he said, "and I do look forward to working with you."
After a few more polite nothings, he abruptly closed out the call.
Peculiar. That wasn't how the Japanese road show usually did business.
From what I'd seen, Tokyo invests very cautiously and deliberately,
sometimes "researching" a deal half to death. I momentarily wondered if
it wasn't just one of the jokers from my old partnership pulling my
leg.
He was real enough. A brochure arrived by overnight air, bound in
leather, with a flowery covering letter. Two problems: most of the
thing was in his native tongue, and what I could read didn't tip his
hand. From the looks of its public disclosures, Nippon, Inc. was merely
some kind of money manager for Japanese investment banks; it had almost
no assets of its own. All I could find listed were a few million
dollars, lunch money for a Japanese outfit, mostly cash parked in some
short-term Euroyen paper. That, and a head office in Kyoto, was the sum
of it. What's more, Noda only worked with Japanese banks and firms. No
foreign clients.
So why did this man suddenly require space in New York? An entire
building. I honestly couldn't figure it. On the other hand, with any
luck the whole deal probably could be put together with a few phone
calls.
By way of introduction, let me say that I worked, technically, as a
straightforward attorney-at-law. I say "technically" because I was, in
fact, a freelance defensive back in the corporate takeover game, which
these days is anything but straight. You'd have to go back to the
roaring twenties to find so many creative screw-jobs.
Some people are drawn to power; guess I'm more attracted to the idea of
occasionally whittling it down to size. So when some hotshot raider
found a happy little company whose breakup value was worth more than
the current stock price, then decided to move in and grab it, loot the
assets, and sell off the pieces--one of the players apt to end up
downfield was Matt Walton. For reasons that go a long way back, I liked
to break up the running patterns of the fast-buck artists. It's a game
where you win some and lose some. The trick is to try and beat the
odds, and I suppose I'd had my share of luck.
Give you a quick example. Back in the spring, a midsize cosmetics
outfit called me in as part of their reinforcements to fight an
avaricious rape, better known as a hostile takeover, by one of their
biggest competitors. After looking over the balance sheet and shares
outstanding, I suggested they divest a couple of unpromising consumer
divisions--namely a "male fragrance" line that made you smell like a kid
leaving the barbershop, and a "feminine hygiene" product that could
have been a patent infringement on Lysol--and use the proceeds to buy
back their own common shares. We also threw together a "poison pill"
that would have practically had them owning anybody who acquired more
than twenty percent of their stock. Our move scared hell out of the
circling vultures and reinforced my reputation on the Street (unduly
harsh, I thought) as a give-no-quarter son of a bitch.
Another fact worth mentioning is that I worked without benefit of a
real office; after selling off my piece of the law partnership, I
operated out of my place downtown, with a telephone and a couple of
computers. A kindly gray-haired dynamo by the name of Emma Epstein, who
had a rent- controlled apartment down the block, dropped by afternoons
and handled correspondence, filing, matrimonial advice, and the
occasional pot of medicinal chicken soup. The only other member of my
staff was a shaggy sheepdog named Benjamin, who served as security
chief, periodically sweeping the back garden for the neighbor's cat.
That was it.
Oh, yes, one other item. Crucial, as it turned out. I'd always been a
collector of something--once it was antique spurs, for chrissake--but
about ten years earlier I'd started to get interested in things
Japanese and ended up going a little overboard about old swords and
such. Joanna's unscheduled departure managed to burn out a lot of my
circuits, and what had been merely an obsession grew into something a
little crazy. For a year or so I became, in my own mind at least, a
sort of American _ronin_, a wandering samurai.
You see, the Japanese warriors had a code that said you ought to live
every moment in full awareness of your own mortality. When you adopt
this existential outlook, so they claimed, all regrets, emotions,
complaints, can be seen as an indulgence. You're ready to meet life
head-on, to risk everything at a moment's notice. That's the only way
you ever discover who you really are, and it's supposed to make you
marvelously detached.
Almost enough to make you forget how your raven-haired, brilliant, sexy
mate packed it in one New Year's Eve twenty
months past . . . when you called late from the office, again . . .
after declaring that that was the goddam last straw and apparently the
only thing you could find worthy of undivided attention came printed on
goddam computer paper and she was goddam sick of it--which she
demonstrated the next day by slamming the door on her way out.
Add to which, she used my momentary disorientation to get custody of
Amy. So while I was battling corporate Goliaths, I let her walk off
with the only thing I would have given my life for. The more time went
by, the more I wanted to kick myself. Alex Katz (of Walton, Halliday,
and Katz--now minus the Walton) read the custody agreement the day after
I signed it, sighed, glared over his smudgy half-lenses, and announced
that this kind of unconditional surrender should only be signed on the
decks of battleships. What did he have, a law partner or a fucking
schlemiel?
He was right, for all the wrong reasons. Not long after, I cashed in my
piece of the firm and went independent. Win or lose, it's best to sort
things out on your own. I was then forty- three, six one, and weighed
in at an even one eighty. There were a few lines on the face and
several more on the psyche, but the sandy hair was mostly intact, and I
could still swim a couple of miles if absolutely essential. Maybe there
was still time for a new start. Part of that therapy was going to be
our trip.
Perhaps I should also add that I'd had a brief "rebound" fling, for
what it was worth. The lady was Donna Austen, a name you'll recognize
as belonging to that irrepressibly cheerful "Personalities!" host on
what Channel Eight likes to term its Evening News. She'd called about a
segment on the subject of the cosmetics company takeover, then very
much in the local press, and I'd said fine. She ended up downtown, and
soon thereafter we became an item. She was the closest I'd had to a
girlfriend, and at that it was mostly an on-again, off-again thing--
which terminated in an event reminiscent of the Hindenburg's last
flight. In the aftermath I went back to chatting with Amy every day on
the phone, putting together stock buyback packages, and collecting
Japanese swords.
Anyway, while the cab waited for a light, worn-out wipers squeaking, I
fumbled around in my coat pocket and extracted the _meishi_, the
business card, one side in English, the other Japanese, that had been
included with Noda's letter. He'd
personalized it with a handwritten note on the side with English print.
Now, I'd kept track of the new Japanese investment heavies in town--
Nomura, Daiwa, Nikko, Sumitomo--since you never know when a corporation
might need some fast liquidity. They were starting to play hardball,
and these days (with all that cheap money back home) they would
underbid a nine-figure financing deal before Drexel Burnham could spell
"junk bond." But Nippon, Inc.? Never heard of the outfit.
Well, I thought, you'll know the story soon enough. The driver had just
hung a right on Fifty-seventh and was headed east toward York Avenue.
I'd called that afternoon to lower the reserve on one of my lots and
had been told that because of some union squabble the preview would
continue till just before the sale, now scheduled to kick off at eight-
thirty. It wasn't quite seven yet, so we would have at least an hour to
run through my list of prospective buildings.
As the cab pulled up next to the chaste glass awning, I took a deep
breath, shoved a ten through the Plexiglas panel between the seats, and
stepped out. While the battered Checker (lamented remnant of a
vanishing species) squealed into the dark, I unbuttoned my overcoat and
headed up the steps. A few grim-faced patrons milled here and there in
the lobby, but nobody looked familiar. There was even a new girl at the
desk by the stairs, ash blond and tasteful smoked pearls, pure Bryn
Mawr art history. A class act, Sotheby's.
It appeared that most of the Japanese crowd was already upstairs,
undoubtedly meditating on their bids with the meticulous precision of
the Orient. I was headed up the wide, granite steps myself when I
decided to check out the downstairs one last time.
Hold on, could be there's a possibility. Waiting over by the coat
check, thumbing the catalog, was a distinguished-looking guy,
retirement age, wearing a light, charcoal suit. Italian. Unlike the
usual Japanese businessmen, he clearly didn't assume he had to dress
like an undertaker and keep a low profile. No, probably just some
Mitsubishi board member thinking to diversify his portfolio with a few
_objets d'art_.
Abruptly he glanced up, smiled, and headed my way. I realized I'd been
recognized.
"Mr. Walton, how good of you to come." After a quick bow he produced
his card, a formality that totally ignored the fact he'd already sent
me one. As convention required, I held it in my left hand and studied
it anew while I accepted his hearty American handshake. "It's a
pleasure to meet you. At last."
At last?
I let that puzzler pass and handed over a card of my own, which he held
politely throughout our opening ritual, then pocketed.
Noda had a mane of silver hair sculptured around a lean, tan face, and
he looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy. Though his dark
eyes were caught in a web of wrinkles that bespoke his years, they had
a sparkle of raw energy. He moved with an easy poise, and the initial
impression was that of a man eminently self-possessed. He had that
sturdy, no-nonsense assurance usually reserved for airline pilots. If
you had to entrust somebody with your wife, or your life savings, this
man would be your pick.
Well, my new client's a mover, I told myself. All the same, I accepted
his hand with a vague twinge of misgiving. What was it? Maybe something
about him was a little too precise, too calculated.
"Mr. Walton, permit me to introduce my personal consultant." He
laughed, a slight edge beneath the charm, and more wrinkles shot
outward from the corners of his eyes. "I always seek her approval of
major acquisitions, particularly those of the Heian period, her
specialty." He turned with what seemed obvious pride and gestured
toward the tall Japanese woman standing behind him. I'd been so busy
sizing him up I'd completely failed to notice her. "I must confess she
is, in fact, my . . . niece. I suppose that ages me." Another smile.
"You may possibly be familiar with her professional name, so perhaps I
should use that. May I introduce Akira Mori."
Who? I stared a second before the face clicked into place. And the
name. They both belonged to a well-known commentator on Tokyo
television. Only one slight problem: her "specialty" had nothing to do
with art.
"_Hajimemashite_. How do you do, Mr. Walton." She bowed formally and, I
noticed, with all the warmth of an iceberg. No surprise--I knew her
opinion of Americans. She did not bother meeting my eye.
She looked just as I remembered her from the tube. A knockout. Her hair
was pulled back into a chignon, framing that classic oval face, and her
age was anybody's guess, given the ivory skin and granite chin. She was
wearing a bulky something in black and deep ocher by one of the new
Tokyo designers. For some reason I was drawn to her fingernails, long
and bronze. The parts, a mixture of classic and avant-garde, did not
seem of a piece, the kind of detail you didn't notice on the TV. But
there was something more important than her looks.
I'd been to Tokyo from time to time for various reasons, and I'd heard
a lot of stories about this lady. Fact is, you didn't have to be
Japanese to know that Akira Mori was easily Japan's most listened-to
money analyst. You've probably seen her yourself in snippets of that
weekly chat show she had on NHK, which used to get picked up by the
networks here when they needed a quick thirty seconds on "Japan This
Week" or such. Her ratings had little to do with the fact she's a
looker. She was, talk had it, an unofficial source for official
government monetary policy. Akira Mori always had a lead on exactly
what was afoot, from the Bank of Japan to the Ministry of Finance, even
before the prime minister broke the news.
Miss "Mori," whoever the hell she was, had some very well placed
friends. Tell you something else, she didn't go out of her way to find
flattering things to say about how Uncle Sam handled his bankbook these
days. Her appearance here made Noda's unorthodox office plans even more
perplexing.
"We both appreciate your taking time from your schedule to meet with
us." He bowed again. "We've been looking forward to having you join us
at the sale."
While Akira Mori appeared to busy herself with a catalog, Noda and I
got things going with that standard formality preceding any serious
Japanese professional contact: meaningless chat. It's how they set up
their _ningen kankei_, their relationship with the other guy, and it's
also the way they fine-tune their _honne_, their gut feeling about a
situation. Any greenhorn foreigner who skimps on these vital niceties
runs the risk of torpedoing his whole deal.
In response to my pro forma inquiries, Matsuo Noda declared he liked
New York, had even lived here for a while once, honestly found it less
hectic than Tokyo, usually stayed these days at the Japanese hotel down
on Park but sometimes picked the Plaza when he needed to be closer to
midtown. He adored La Grenouille and thought La Tulipe overpraised.
When I pressed him, he declared his favorite Japanese place to dine was
Nippon, over in the East Fifties (maybe he merely liked the name, but
it was my pick as well).
After he had in turn solicited my own views on Sotheby's, a couple of
the galleries down Madison, and various North Italian eateries, he
suggested we go on upstairs and preview the lots.
All the while Miss Mori appeared to ignore us, standing there like a
statue of some Shinto goddess, except for the occasional tug at her
dark hair. Maybe she didn't give a damn about this obligatory small
talk, thought it was old-fashioned. Or possibly she liked the idea of
being the only one not to show a hand. And as Noda led the way up
toward the exhibition rooms, she trailed behind like a dutiful Japanese
woman--while we, naturally, continued to talk of everything except, God
forbid, why we were there.
In the first room we were suddenly in my arena--samurai swords and
battle gear.
"This is your special interest, is it not, Mr. Walton?" Noda smiled,
then turned to admire the row of shining steel _tachi_, three-foot-long
razors, now being watched over by a trio of nervous guards. Sotheby's
didn't need some amateur Toshiro Mifune accidentally carving up the
clientele. "I understand you have a notable collection yourself."
What? What else did he know about me?
Easy, Walton. Play the game. I knew what a Japanese would expect in
reply.
"Matter of fact, I've lucked onto a couple of items over the years."
Then the standard disclaimers. My own painstaking collection was merely
a grab bag of knickknacks, the fumbling mistakes of a dabbler, etc.,
etc.
Noda monitored this culturally correct blarney with satisfaction. "As
it happens, Mr. Walton, I was in Nagoya last year when several of your
pieces were on loan for the show at the Tokugawa Museum. I still recall
certain ones, particularly that fine fifteenth-century katana,
attributed to the Mizuno clan. Unusual steel. No date or mark of the
swordsmith, but a remarkable piece all the same." A split-second pause.
"Your reluctance to part with it was most understandable."
This man had done his homework! Or maybe he'd been the one who had
tried to buy it. The steel was unusual, too heavy on copper. I'd even
had a little metallurgical testing done on it down at Princeton, just
to prove that hunch. But it was no big
deal, merely an oddity that had fallen my way via an estate sale. There
was an anonymous inquiry shortly after the exhibition opened, with an
insistent offer, but I'd turned it down.