I’m afraid Blackenford Capital Management is in arrears on its dues. Seven months, actually. And the twenty-five thousand a month slip fee for the Valkyrie —beautiful vessel by the way—which puts the total at eight hundred seventy-five thousand.”
Jarrod blinked. Clearly, this was the Wall Street version of the twilight zone and he hadn’t seen the memo. He would have to get on Gwen for not putting this on his calendar.
“I really wouldn’t impose,” Wheaton continued, “but the construction of the club, the reclamation of the dock area, the Port Authority licenses, the artificial island—all that was done on borrowed money, and the club has debt service and principal to pay. In view of Mr. Blackenford’s position as a former president of the club, I have kept this ‘off camera’ from the board, but I will have to make full disclosure if this is not brought current very soon.”
Jarrod let a twinge of indignation creep into his voice as he replied, “Mr. Wheaton, I appreciate your bringing this to my attention. Confidentially, I will share with you that Blackenford Capital Management just finished the best financial performance month in its history. I’m not aware of what the administrative hang-up is, but I will rattle our controller’s cage and get this taken care of.”
Wheaton beamed, his capped teeth framed by artificially tanned cheeks. “Thank you so much. That’s very good of you. I saw you were on your way out. Can I have the club limousine drop you somewhere?”
Jarrod smiled back. “No thanks. I have the company town car this evening.”
Assuming it hasn’t been repossessed.
CHAPTER FIVE
New York City
“Here we are, Mr. Stryker.”
A muted Jarrod Stryker said, “Thanks, Jimmy,” and exited the Lincoln. It was late morning. After returning home, he’d lain in bed, wide-awake for most of the night until a fitful sleep finally overcame him before dawn.
Jarrod Traynor Stryker had grown up as an air force brat, an only child to a senior enlisted tech sergeant who’d kept F-16s flying for thirty years. As a boy, he’d seen the world growing up—Germany, Italy, Japan, and Utah—but always from the cheap seats. His parents were solid folks, from Alabama, but the lack of money was always a pall that hung over them—a jalopy of a car, his mom wearing a humble wardrobe, slim pickings under the tree at Christmas. So it was early on that he decided he wanted more.
School came easy for him—effortless, in fact—as did sports. He landed a football scholarship to Auburn, but once he tried lacrosse, he switched. That and a summa cum laude in French catapulted him into a Rhodes Scholarship, and he was off to Oxford for a year.
To shore up the money issue, he figured he’d go to where the high priests of money earned their spurs, and that was the Harvard Business School, where a Rhodes Scholarship was an automatic admit.
He loved Cambridge and even toyed with the idea of hanging around for a doctorate, but Wall Street had beckoned all those years ago, and with it came the possibility of a comfortable existence—an attractive prospect for a former air force brat who grew up poor and wanted more early on. Investment banking seemed to be the ticket. He interviewed with all the big firms—Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Deutsche Bank, and Lazard. Offers flowed in. But what caught his eye was a group of Goldman senior partners who had just split off to form their own firm—Ashford Capital—to do business with sovereign wealth funds in the Middle East. Trotting the globe looking for buy-side opportunities in the billions seemed like the ticket for him. And the money—155K right out of B-school.
He signed on with the new firm and helped them get settled into their new digs on the sixty-second floor in the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Then there was the abscess on a back molar. That morning he had to rush to a sunrise appointment with a dentist. The Novocain hadn’t
Jarrod blinked. Clearly, this was the Wall Street version of the twilight zone and he hadn’t seen the memo. He would have to get on Gwen for not putting this on his calendar.
“I really wouldn’t impose,” Wheaton continued, “but the construction of the club, the reclamation of the dock area, the Port Authority licenses, the artificial island—all that was done on borrowed money, and the club has debt service and principal to pay. In view of Mr. Blackenford’s position as a former president of the club, I have kept this ‘off camera’ from the board, but I will have to make full disclosure if this is not brought current very soon.”
Jarrod let a twinge of indignation creep into his voice as he replied, “Mr. Wheaton, I appreciate your bringing this to my attention. Confidentially, I will share with you that Blackenford Capital Management just finished the best financial performance month in its history. I’m not aware of what the administrative hang-up is, but I will rattle our controller’s cage and get this taken care of.”
Wheaton beamed, his capped teeth framed by artificially tanned cheeks. “Thank you so much. That’s very good of you. I saw you were on your way out. Can I have the club limousine drop you somewhere?”
Jarrod smiled back. “No thanks. I have the company town car this evening.”
Assuming it hasn’t been repossessed.
CHAPTER FIVE
New York City
“Here we are, Mr. Stryker.”
A muted Jarrod Stryker said, “Thanks, Jimmy,” and exited the Lincoln. It was late morning. After returning home, he’d lain in bed, wide-awake for most of the night until a fitful sleep finally overcame him before dawn.
Jarrod Traynor Stryker had grown up as an air force brat, an only child to a senior enlisted tech sergeant who’d kept F-16s flying for thirty years. As a boy, he’d seen the world growing up—Germany, Italy, Japan, and Utah—but always from the cheap seats. His parents were solid folks, from Alabama, but the lack of money was always a pall that hung over them—a jalopy of a car, his mom wearing a humble wardrobe, slim pickings under the tree at Christmas. So it was early on that he decided he wanted more.
School came easy for him—effortless, in fact—as did sports. He landed a football scholarship to Auburn, but once he tried lacrosse, he switched. That and a summa cum laude in French catapulted him into a Rhodes Scholarship, and he was off to Oxford for a year.
To shore up the money issue, he figured he’d go to where the high priests of money earned their spurs, and that was the Harvard Business School, where a Rhodes Scholarship was an automatic admit.
He loved Cambridge and even toyed with the idea of hanging around for a doctorate, but Wall Street had beckoned all those years ago, and with it came the possibility of a comfortable existence—an attractive prospect for a former air force brat who grew up poor and wanted more early on. Investment banking seemed to be the ticket. He interviewed with all the big firms—Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Deutsche Bank, and Lazard. Offers flowed in. But what caught his eye was a group of Goldman senior partners who had just split off to form their own firm—Ashford Capital—to do business with sovereign wealth funds in the Middle East. Trotting the globe looking for buy-side opportunities in the billions seemed like the ticket for him. And the money—155K right out of B-school.
He signed on with the new firm and helped them get settled into their new digs on the sixty-second floor in the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Then there was the abscess on a back molar. That morning he had to rush to a sunrise appointment with a dentist. The Novocain hadn’t
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