"Couldn't have said it better. I hung up a shingle . . . and started
playing the other side of the scrimmage line."
"I understand you've been in quite a few takeover fights."
"Let's say I've fought a lot of takeovers, Ms. Austen. There's a subtle
but important distinction."
Donna Austen turned out to be more interested in my marital status than
in anecdotes about corporate mayhem. Thing was, beneath all that glitz
I found her a challenging woman. Amy, on the other hand, despised her.
But then she never likes anybody I bring home. The real problem,
however, was that I kept thinking more about Joanna than I did about
Donna. As witness this evening, when that sadder-but-wiser brunette
headed out the door reminded me of her more than a little. . . .
"Hate to see that young specimen depart without a good-faith offer of
condolence." Henderson was wistfully eyeing the young blonde.
Definitely his type. "Trouble is, I couldn't locate the equipment
tonight with a compass and a search warrant." He hoisted his glass,
then turned back and reached for another Dunhill. "So tell me what
brings you uptown. Never knew you to venture this far into civilization
just to stand a drink for your oldest and wisest confidant."
Back to reality. "William H., you will undoubtedly find this difficult
to accept, but I just got asked to front some Treasury action for a new
client. Selling futures."
"Where do you find your suckers?" He grinned. "That's never been your
game."
"Hey, at least I know the rules. Corporations have been known to hedge
their debt offerings, my friend. But what I've done up to now's been
strictly bush league compared to this."
"So what's the play?"
"A foreign outfit that wants low profile. And P.S., they're talking
substantial numbers."
"What do you mean, 'substantial'?" Suddenly Henderson's input file was
on red alert.
"Probably wouldn't impress a high roller like you, Bill." I paused.
"Half a trillion dollars."
"Jeezus." He went pale. "Who's putting up the earnest
money for this shot? Let interest rates head the wrong way, you
couldn't cover the margin calls on a position that size with the GNP of
South America."
"What if it happened to be some of our friends from across the Pacific?
An outfit that calls itself Nippon, Inc." I looked at him. "Ever hear
of it?"
"Nope." He just stood there, examining his drink as though it suddenly
had acquired an enormous insect. "But you've got a surefire knack for
really messin' up an evening."
"I guess this is what's meant when people talk about the big time."
"Christ Almighty. Tell you one thing, that's a hell of a number to put
on the table. I'd sure like to see those boys' hand."
"Maybe somebody's paying to see ours." I finished off my drink and
signaled for another. The more I thought about Matsuo Noda, the more I
realized I needed it. "You know, this half scares the crap out of me."
"Matt, old buddy, do yourself a favor. Stand clear. Just back away." He
was getting more sober by the second. "You'd be lifting up some kind of
big rock when you don't know what's under it. I never do that. Ironclad
rule. Same as I always cut losses at ten percent and never let a long
position ride over a weekend. And I'll tell you something else. Nobody
lays down a bet like that unless he knows the casino's fixed." He
paused. "I wonder if maybe we oughtn't to give Jack a call?"
"O'Donnell?"
"Low-key. Just touch base. Inside word is his Finance Committee's going
to be holding hearings on foreign investment, maybe in a couple of
months. Besides, I know for a fact he owes you a few."
That was true. Senator Jack O'Donnell was headed for reelection
headaches. He was America's corporate nightmare-- a former professor of
labor law at Columbia who'd gone out and bought some tailored suits,
shed thirty pounds, dyed his hair, and actually gotten elected to the
U.S. Senate. He was despised on Wall Street for good reason. O'Donnell
was the Grand Inquisitor of the corporate scene, hauling CEOs in front
of his committee every time he sniffed some new scam to shortchange
stockholders. Since we saw eye to eye a lot, I'd made it a point to
lean on a few of my clients and come up with some campaign bucks for
him, telling them it was good "insurance money." Still, if I leaked
this to Jack, I'd probably be reading it tomorrow in The Washington
Post.
"Henderson, I can't bring him in. Nobody's talking anything illegal.
Still, I'm beginning to think I ought to keep an eye on this from the
inside."
"Matt, you haven't been listening. Let me pass along a major working
principle on how to keep your ass intact in this world. Write it down
and tape it to your phone: Staying on the sidelines is a position too.
That applies to Wall Street, and it damned sure applies to life." He
stretched for a Dunhill, then leaned back. "Ever tell you about that
feisty 'coon hound I used to have, redtick I called by the name of
Red?"
"Only about a hundred times." Red was his favorite sermon text.
"Well, ol' Red somehow conceived the idea he was just about the meanest
fucker in the county, and he was always out to prove it. Then one night
he made the mistake of treeing a big old mama 'coon, up in this little
sycamore we had down by the creek. I heard him barking and raising hell
and I knew I wouldn't get a wink if I didn't go down and see about it."
"Henderson, Christ, I've already heard this."
"Well, I'm gonna finish it anyhow, by God. Sounds like you could use a
refresher course." He took a drink. "Now then, after I made it through
the copperheads and briers and got down there, naturally the first
thing I did was shine that tree with my light and count the eyes. Turns
out that mama raccoon had a bunch of her little ones up there too. So
she was in a real disagreeable frame of mind. Her eyes were bright red
and I could tell she was thinking she just might eat herself a smartass
hound for supper. I tried to explain this to Red, call him off, and get
him to come on back up the house, but no, sirree, nothing would do but
he had to take her on. So I figured it was time he had a little reality
contact. I chunked a couple of rocks, got lucky, and down she tumbled.
Next thing ol' Red knew, he thought he had his ass caught in a brand-
new John Deere hay baler. I finally had to kick her off him and get her
back up the tree before she really got mad."
"Henderson, I hear you."
"Listen up, friend. There's a moral. You see, ol' Red didn't have
enough expertise that night to know when to stand off. But I'll tell
you one thing: he learned real fast. Next time he chased that
particular mama up that sycamore, he took one sniff and just trotted
right on back to the house." He sipped again. "Every time I come across
a tree full of something I don't know about, I remember old Red and
just turn around and walk away."
"I'm taking your warning under advisement." I threw down a fifty,
glanced at the soundless Mets game on the TV over the bar, and reached
for my coat.
"You'd damned well better."
"Henderson, get some sleep. As a friend and colleague, I must in all
honesty advise you, you look like absolute hell."
"I've always valued your candor." He waved for another drink. "But I've
got some heavy thinking to do."
"Okay, get home safe. Let's keep in touch."
He saluted with his glass. "Tell you what, Matt, maybe I'll just do a
little sniffing around myself, see if I can't get a fix on what's up
the tree."
"Okay." I was putting on my coat, checking through the window to see if
the rain had stopped. Looked like it had. "Let's both sleep on it."
"You do that." He wasn't smiling as I headed out the door.
Henderson, who could slumber like a baby when he was down a million for
the day, didn't look like he had much rest ahead that night. For all my
brave talk, I didn't either. Now that the rain was over, I wandered
over to Fifth to look at the trees sparkling in the streetlights. And
to think. If you're from West Texas, you love to see green things wet.
Then I hailed a cab downtown, still with lots of unanswered questions
on the subject of Matsuo Noda. What had happened to my country that
could make it so vulnerable to the financial shenanigans of a single
white-haired foreign banker? Was this what people meant when they
talked about the tides of history? Was the free ride over?
Back when I was a kid, I'd accepted as an article of faith that America
was the greatest, that we were destined to lead the world forever. Was
that hubris? Now I had this sinking feeling we were about to begin
learning a little modesty. Maybe Amy didn't know it yet, but her
America was going to end up being a lot different from mine. All of a
sudden folks all over the world were about to be richer than we were.
It was going to take some painful adjustment.
That's when I finally decided. Yes, by God, I would track this one. And
when I figured out what Noda had up his sleeve. I'd blow the whistle.
Somebody needed to stand guard over this country, and if not me, who?
Matt Walton vs. Matsuo Noda.
As it turned out, the evening still wasn't over. Things continued to go
off track, beginning with when I walked in my front door. I guess by
now everybody's pretty blase about urban crime, but it's still always a
shock when it happens to you. I also think it's getting worse. I can
remember five years ago when Joanna and I never bothered even to latch
the street windows. These days they have bars--a small precaution
following an evening on the town during which everything we owned with
an electric cord attached walked out into the bracing Manhattan night.
That was my first experience with the hollow feeling in your gut when
you realize your sanctum has been plundered. It's not the lost toys,
it's the violation that gnaws at your karma.
This time, though, it appeared to be minor. No forcible entry. Somebody
had actually picked the front-door lock, a fact I only established to
my satisfaction after every other possibility had been considered and
dismissed. Truthfully, I probably wouldn't have noticed anything at all
that night if not for a wayward train of thought on the way home.
I'd been meditating on a particular sword in my collection, a _katana_,
which was totally without distinction except for a little oral history.
Reportedly the blade once tasted blood in a rather arcane episode. Noda
probably would have approved. The story was, the samurai who'd
commissioned it decided he liked it so much he didn't want the
swordsmith telling anybody how he'd forged it. So after he'd thanked
the guy graciously, deep bows and all the rest, he picked up the sword,
bowed one more time, and then hauled back and sliced him in half, clean
as a whistle. The _kesa _stroke, left collarbone straight through the
right hip. It's said a samurai could do things such as that in the old
days.
My meeting with Noda had made me want to look it over, to refresh my
memory concerning that Japanese capacity for the unexpected. So after I
let myself in through the front foyer, I tossed my raincoat over a
banister, headed down to the kitchen to pour myself a nightcap, and
proceeded upstairs to the "office."