Read Online The Cowboy and his Elephant by Malcolm MacPherson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Malcolm MacPherson
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not like it stolen, whatever it was. The shock of recognition came when he asked himself, Am I the Marlboro Man, or am I who I am first and foremost? Obviously the hat thief had taken him for an icon, and that was not who he thought himself to be. But the question remained.
O ne morning that spring he opened the
Gazette Telegraph
to learn that the company his granduncle had started was in trouble. Bob knew how oilmen had joked for years that Texaco couldn’t find oil at a gas station. The company owned hardly any reserves. So Texaco had sought to buy Getty Oil, which was awash in crude still in the ground. But there was one problem with the purchase/sale: Getty was already promised to another buyer, Pennzoil, which promptly sued Texaco for “tortious interference.” A Texas judge levied a fine of $11 billion in damages against Texaco, which could only pay by selling itself off in little pieces, and that meant the end of Texaco forever. That judgment started the OK Corral of Chapter XIs—the biggest bankruptcy in history—and the beginning of Bob’s reluctant career in high finance.
His interest in Texaco, because of his granduncle, went deeper than stock and assets. His father had sat on its board. The Texaco brand was part of the Norris family legend. Bob had no use for the company’s managers, who he felt were seriously out of touch with reality. How could they have done such a stupid thing? he wanted to know. Of course they knew that Pennzoil had already tendered an offer for Getty, which had been accepted. Why take the risk?
The company’s CEO did not feel beholden to the shareholders, Bob was convinced, and that angered him. These were thousands of small and large investors who stood to lose everything, and Bob felt responsible to them as individuals. He was not just one man or one investor. He was the grandnephew of Texaco’s founder, and it was up to him to defend the company from itself.
Bob hated the business world. He seethed when Texaco’s CEO told him he was “naive” and warned him to stay out of the fray. Of course he was naive: He was a cowboy who knew animals, not balance sheets. But he knew that he had a few lessons to teach, and he replied to Texaco’s CEO with straight talk. “You put on your pants one leg at a time, same as me,” he told him. “Hell,
yes
, I’m naive. I
know
I’m naive. But I also know the smell of bullshit. I call a spade a spade. I learned a long time ago not to tell a lie. You never have to worry about what the hell you said when you always tell the truth. Guys like you live in a different world. You lie, and you set people up, and you do all kinds of underhanded things.You don’t know how to deal with someone who is straight. It makes you squirrelly.”
As it happened, Carl Icahn suddenly became one of Texaco’s larger stockholders, quickly loading up his portfolio with Texaco stock in hope of a windfall brought about by the calamity of the bankruptcy. Icahn, the fabled greenmailer, maverick investor, and takeover king, viewed the “little stockholders” like Bob as hayseeds who were over their heads in New York City’s corporate offices.
But Texaco’s Equity Committee had already elected Bob its chairman, before Icahn had bought in. At one of the committee’s later meetings in the Waldorf Hotel, Icahn took his place at the other end of a long table and began to harangue the whole committee. He shook his finger at them, scolding them as if they were dunces. Bob leaned over on his hip, reached in his pants pocket, and pulled out a steel-handled knife ten-inches long. Honed on a whetstone sharp as a razor and needle-pointed, the knife was designed to carve meat. As Icahn watched, Bob jabbed the knifepoint into a stack of documents on the table. “We’re not going to take this from you, Carl,” Bob told him. “If you try this again I promise you I’ll not mess with these lawyers around this table. You and I will settle this personally.”
Icahn left
O ne morning that spring he opened the
Gazette Telegraph
to learn that the company his granduncle had started was in trouble. Bob knew how oilmen had joked for years that Texaco couldn’t find oil at a gas station. The company owned hardly any reserves. So Texaco had sought to buy Getty Oil, which was awash in crude still in the ground. But there was one problem with the purchase/sale: Getty was already promised to another buyer, Pennzoil, which promptly sued Texaco for “tortious interference.” A Texas judge levied a fine of $11 billion in damages against Texaco, which could only pay by selling itself off in little pieces, and that meant the end of Texaco forever. That judgment started the OK Corral of Chapter XIs—the biggest bankruptcy in history—and the beginning of Bob’s reluctant career in high finance.
His interest in Texaco, because of his granduncle, went deeper than stock and assets. His father had sat on its board. The Texaco brand was part of the Norris family legend. Bob had no use for the company’s managers, who he felt were seriously out of touch with reality. How could they have done such a stupid thing? he wanted to know. Of course they knew that Pennzoil had already tendered an offer for Getty, which had been accepted. Why take the risk?
The company’s CEO did not feel beholden to the shareholders, Bob was convinced, and that angered him. These were thousands of small and large investors who stood to lose everything, and Bob felt responsible to them as individuals. He was not just one man or one investor. He was the grandnephew of Texaco’s founder, and it was up to him to defend the company from itself.
Bob hated the business world. He seethed when Texaco’s CEO told him he was “naive” and warned him to stay out of the fray. Of course he was naive: He was a cowboy who knew animals, not balance sheets. But he knew that he had a few lessons to teach, and he replied to Texaco’s CEO with straight talk. “You put on your pants one leg at a time, same as me,” he told him. “Hell,
yes
, I’m naive. I
know
I’m naive. But I also know the smell of bullshit. I call a spade a spade. I learned a long time ago not to tell a lie. You never have to worry about what the hell you said when you always tell the truth. Guys like you live in a different world. You lie, and you set people up, and you do all kinds of underhanded things.You don’t know how to deal with someone who is straight. It makes you squirrelly.”
As it happened, Carl Icahn suddenly became one of Texaco’s larger stockholders, quickly loading up his portfolio with Texaco stock in hope of a windfall brought about by the calamity of the bankruptcy. Icahn, the fabled greenmailer, maverick investor, and takeover king, viewed the “little stockholders” like Bob as hayseeds who were over their heads in New York City’s corporate offices.
But Texaco’s Equity Committee had already elected Bob its chairman, before Icahn had bought in. At one of the committee’s later meetings in the Waldorf Hotel, Icahn took his place at the other end of a long table and began to harangue the whole committee. He shook his finger at them, scolding them as if they were dunces. Bob leaned over on his hip, reached in his pants pocket, and pulled out a steel-handled knife ten-inches long. Honed on a whetstone sharp as a razor and needle-pointed, the knife was designed to carve meat. As Icahn watched, Bob jabbed the knifepoint into a stack of documents on the table. “We’re not going to take this from you, Carl,” Bob told him. “If you try this again I promise you I’ll not mess with these lawyers around this table. You and I will settle this personally.”
Icahn left
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