dated only voluptuous, high-profile women. He would wine and dine them beyond their wildest imagination so that they would fulfill all his sexual desires and fantasies. A typical night out in Manhattan would routinely lead to dinner in Paris, followed by dancing the night away at Harry’s Bar in London, all compliments of his private jet. If his female companion resisted his advances, wanted a meaningful relationship, or just stuck around too long, they were shown the door.
~
On the business side, Victor learned Ryman operated on the ethical edge. His friends said Franklin had a knack for identifying unique niches, raising capital, and making associates wealthy. His foes implied he had absolutely no conscience and did whatever was necessary to achieve his corporate, financial, and personal objectives.
Victor wondered with whom he had breakfasted. In article after article, Franklin pontificated about the importance of personal integrity: “In business, there can be only black and white. As one of his former business associates succinctly pointed out, “Ryman believes his bullshit, despite reveling in a world of murky gray.”
~
Katz called first thing Monday morning. This time Victor was in his office. Alone. “What the hell did you do?”
“About what?”
“Franklin claims you blew him off,” said Katz.
“I did not,” insisted Victor. “I said I needed a little time to think about it.”
“When was that?”
“Last Friday.”
Katz exploded. “Get fucking real! You can work your ass off for another ten years in your snooty A&J, tower, revel in your big fancy office, and walk away with peanuts. Then what? You’re forty-nine, out on your ass, and still saddled with a humongous mortgage and a mountain of college tuition bills. My advice, as a friend, is simple. Don’t blow it, asshole.”
Victor wavered. “Assuming I want to go forward, and I’m not committing mind you, what’s the next step?”
“Franklin said you agreed to meet his attorney Allyn Tishman and his financial advisor Martin Diamond.”
“Fine, fine,” said Victor, knowing full well the subject had never even come up.
~
It was Tuesday. Victor was disappointed to learn through unnamed sources that his long-time buddy, creative director Phil Osgood, was seen huddling with Rhoda Barbuto immediately after the Piedmont meeting the week before. To make matters worse, Victor’s long-time administrative assistant, the pudgy, fiercely loyal Janet Francis, mentioned rumors were circulating about “changes on the Piedmont account.” Ryman’s vision of big bucks was starting to look like a profitable exit strategy. He imagined calling the shots and a fully equipped, white stretch limo picking him up at the door each day.
By the time Victor’s train reached the Greenwich Station, he was on the verge of convincing himself ITI was the perfect wave surfers dream about! The trick was to get Sandra equally stoked. The last thing he needed was a familial albatross. Victor set the stage. “Honey,” he said on his cell phone as he drove out of the parking lot at the train station. “Do we have any health care crises on this beautiful, sunny afternoon?”
“No, all’s quiet on the western front,” she responded. “I should be leaving the hospital in about twenty minutes.”
“How about I make an early dinner reservation at the Paradise Grill? I’ll go home, round up the kids, and meet you there. We can sip a few Bloody Marys, have a piece of fresh fish, and I can watch the sunset in your eyes.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll freshen up a bit and be on my way.” Sandra, like her mother before, made sure she always looked well-groomed and well-dressed when in public — be it work or pleasure. She lived by her mother’s axiom, “It's one thing to catch the man of your dreams, and it’s another to keep his attention for as long as you both shall live!”
~
Thirty minutes later, the kids were pounding down cherry cokes while Sandra was feeling no pain as she ordered her third Bloody Mary.
“What a surprise, huh Ma?” remarked the precocious thirteen-year-old Mark, sporting his spanking new $40 Afro. “So, Pops, what’s the occasion? Home early enough to have dinner with your wife and kids. Get fired?”
Mark’s comment made Victor feel guilty about the time spent on building his career, trying to provide a good life for his moderately spoiled but loving children.
“No, Mark, but I did get offered a big job on Wall Street.”
Sandra’s body stiffened. Like her father and mother, she wasn’t fond of sudden change. “Oh, really,” murmured Sandra, rattled.
“Will you make more money?” asked Mark boldly.
“Considerably more,” said Victor.
“Is that considerably more as in a new dirt bike?” asked Mark.
“Didn’t we just get an expensive hairdo?” rebutted Victor.
“What’s a new dirt bike got to do with a haircut?” brazenly challenged Mark.
“Boys, why don’t we let Mom and Dad talk about this after dinner? If everything turns out as Dad says, I’m sure you clever young men will be able to extract plenty from Mr. Soft Touch.”
The sunset was spectacular, but Sandra hardly noticed. All she could think about was the potential disruption to her nice, neat world. Finally, they were at home. Now she would get the full story. Victor and Sandra headed to the study as the kids made their customary mad dash to the family room to get a face full of video games.
~
Victor’s presentation of our unique opportunity bordered on brilliant but was flawed. In full Madison Avenue flower, he told the whole Ryman story to his best friend, Sandra, his best friend. However, he avoided discussion of Ryman’s Franklin’s fungible business ethics and the world of penny stocks.
“Franklin is a standup guy,” said Victor, “honest enough to admit he was once a casual marijuana smoker – reminded me of us before the kids changed our world.”
Sandra was interested but unconvinced. “Maybe it’s the fact that Katz introduced you. I never liked him, and I certainly wouldn’t trust him with something as important as your career. And, I don’t get this acquisition talk and all the financing stuff.”
“Sandra, Wall Street is not my strength. Franklin says raising capital for emerging concept companies happens every day. And, he’s willing to teach me the fine points as we go.”
Sandra got up and stood directly over Victor. “I know less about Wall Street than you do. But I read the papers. I see people struggling to make ends meet, and self-funded 401Ks replacing pensions, and this guy tells you it’s easy to raise money?”
Sandra’s continued reluctance became a creative challenge. “Honey, like Franklin said, there is an entirely entrepreneurial side to Wall Street that people like us don’t know, and people like him know where all the skeletons are buried.”
“What did you expect me to say?” said Sandra, sweetly but firmly. “You buy me dinner, feed me a few drinks, and then tell me you want to disrupt a lifestyle that has taken us seventeen years to build. And for what? To take a chance on the possibility of becoming filthy rich based on a business concept you don’t fully understand with somebody you hardly know.”
“Look, honey, you’re coming at it from the wrong perspective! You’ve always been a little resistant to change. It’s in your DNA. Your dad was a serviceman for General Electric for thirty-seven years. He told me he never even applied for a supervisory position. How many years did he work for that measly pension? I mean, your parents still plan vacations to a precise budget. Is that any way to live?”
“It was a great way to live,” responded Sandra hurt. “We had