Guess Tam's Shinto _kami _were on our side, since we made it through
Narita Airport with no hassles; or maybe being dead keeps you off
anybody's hit list. Now that MlTI was determined not to release our
names until they located our remains, we looked to be in limbo as far
as Matsuo Noda and Dai Nippon were concerned. Given the fact the
chopper had been demolished and then burned down to metal, nobody knew
anything. Yet.
The scenario Tam laid out on the 747 flying back, while we drank a lot
of airline cognac in the upstairs lounge, was destined to be yet
another first in the annals of American finance, one way or the other.
If we bungled it--and lived to face the consequences--would we end up
like those grim-faced executives you see being hustled into the federal
courthouse downtown, flanked by G-men in cheap trench coats? Later,
eyeing the network cameras, we'd have to smile bravely and declare that
American justice, in which we had full confidence, would surely
vindicate us after all the facts, etc.
To go with her play meant we were headed either for the history books
or jail, or both. But we would definitely need
Henderson and his "Georgia Mafia." My questions were actually pretty
simple: (1) Could it be done, and if so, (2) how and how fast?
We got back Monday, the day before New Year's, and the first person I
called after Amy was Henderson, casually mentioning that something
potentially very disrupting to the Street was in the works.
"Bill, fasten your seat belt. Bumpy weather ahead."
That captured his attention in a flash. What in hell, he inquired, was
I talking about?
"We need to get together, tonight." I continued.
"Where?"
"How about your place? Matter of fact, there's a real question just
now, at least in Japan, concerning whether Tam and I are actually
alive."
"Walton, what in God's name is going on?"
"In the fullness of time, friend, all things will be known. Now we see
as through a glass darkly . . . well, actually we're seeing through the
smudgy windows of the Plaza, suite three twenty-five, where we're
presently holed up. But we've got to stay low profile for a few more
days."
"Whatever you say," he replied, still puzzled. "Then how about dropping
by here tonight for a quick one, and then afterward we can all mosey
over to Mortimer's on Lex for a quick bite?"
"Okay. As long as we go late. I want to miss the happy-hour crowd."
This did not please him, but he agreed. My suspicions were he wanted to
use the occasion to reconnoiter the glittery, jet-set ladies at the
bar. Henderson, whose style and drawl undoubtedly distinguished him
from the B-school competition there like a white-maned palomino in a
herd of draft horses (investment drones who wore a beeper on their belt
and used "bottom-line" as a verb), surely found the place a fertile
hunting ground. Mortimer's was custom-made for his idiosyncratic style.
About nine that evening Tam and I slipped out of the Plaza's Fifty-
ninth Street entrance and headed up Fifth Avenue toward Bill's. He was
headquartered in one of those solid, granite-faced buildings near the
Metropolitan that are constructed like small fortresses--presumably so
New York's upper one tenth of one percent can repel the long-feared
assault of the homeless hordes at their feet. In the lobby, Henderson
vouched for us over the TV intercom, after which we were given a visual
search by the doorman, his uniform a hybrid of Gilbert & Sullivan and
crypto-Nazi, and shown the elevator.
A quick doorbell punch and the man from Georgia greeted us, Scotch in
hand. His little pied-a-terre was about three thousand square feet of
knee-deep carpets, Old Masters (I loved the Cezanne and the Braque),
and masculine leather furniture. A padded wet bar, complete with mirror
and a bank of computer monitors--for convenient stock action--stretched
across one side of the living room, while the sliding glass doors
opposite faced onto a balcony that seemed suspended in midair over
Central Park. While Tam, with her designer's eye, was complimenting him
politely on the understated elegance of his Italian wallpaper, French
art, and English furniture, I tried not to remember all those early
years back in New Haven when his idea of decor was a feed-store
calendar featuring a bluetick hound.
Although the balcony doors were open, the living room still had the
acrid ambience of a three-day-old ashtray. He poured us a drink from a
half-gallon of Glenfiddich on the bar, gestured us toward the couch,
and offered Havana cigars from a humidifier. I took him up on it, out
of olfactory self-defense.
"So tell me, ladies and gents, what's the latest?" He settled himself
in the leather armchair and plopped his boots onto an antique ottoman.
"How're the Jap assault forces doing these days? They gonna take over
the Pentagon next?"
"Not that we've heard." I was twisting my Havana against the match.
"Though it might reduce procurement costs on toilet seats and ashtrays
if they did."
Henderson sipped at his drink, then his tone heavied up. "Who are we
kidding, friends. My considered reading of the situation is your boys
on Third Avenue are unstoppable. They can do whatever they damn well
please from here on out."
"That's not necessarily in everybody's best interest, Bill." I strolled
over to look down at the park. "Got any new thoughts?"
"Can't say as I do. Our IBM play didn't get to first base; Noda saw us
coming a mile away. Thank God I didn't get in deep enough to get hurt."
He leaned back. "What makes it so damned frustrating is the market's
tickled as a pig in shit. Ain't nobody too interested in dissuading
your friends from buying up everything in sight. Street's never seen
anything like this kind of bucks before. It's a whole new ball game
downtown."
"That's right, Bill," I mused aloud. "The question is, whose ball game
is it?" Tam still hadn't said anything.
"Damned good question. What happens when foreigners start owning your
tangible assets? The answer, friend, is they end up owning _you_."
"Henderson, all that could be about to change."
"Says who?" He leaned back. "Looks to me like Noda's going all the
way."
"Bill, let's talk one of those hypothetical scenarios you like so much.
What if Dai Nippon suddenly had a change of plans? Switched totally?
And instead of buying, they started selling?"