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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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going to cost you big bucks. Your M and A people are writing too many office memos, too many suggestions, projections, analyses of upcoming deals—and all on paper.”
“We’ve got to communicate,” Twiggs protests.
“Not on paper you don’t. Computerize the whole operation. If anyone has something to say on a possible takeover, buyout, or merger, he puts it on the computer. Anyone else who’s involved can call it up on his monitor—but only if he knows the code word. You understand? Nothing typed on paper. And everything in the computer coded so that it can only be retrieved by personnel who have a need to know, and have the key word or number allowing them access. Also, the computer can keep a list of who requests access to the record.”
G. Fergus Twiggs shakes his head dolefully. “What’s the world coming to?” he asks.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Timothy Cone says.
He plods back to Haldering & Co. to pick up his salary check. He figures he’s done a decent job for Pistol & Burns. If they want to follow his suggestions, fine. If not, it’s no skin off his ass.
But something is gnawing at him. Something he heard or saw that flicks on a red light. Maybe it was something Bigelow said, or Twiggs. Maybe it was something he observed at Pistol & Burns. He shakes his head violently, but can’t dislodge whatever it is. It nags him, a fragment of peanut caught in his teeth.
When he gets back to his office, there’s a message on his desk: Call Jeremy Bigelow. So, without taking off his cap, Cone phones the SEC investigator.
“Hiya, old buddy,” Jerry says breezily. “How did you make out at Pistol and Burns?”
“Like you said, it’s as holey as Swiss cheese. I gave them some ways to close the holes.”
“But no evidence of an insider leak?”
“I didn’t find any.”
“That’s a relief. I wrote in my report it was the arbs who caused the run-up of the stock. I guess I was right.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says.
“So much for the good news. Now comes the bad. We got another squeal on insider trading.”
“Oh, Jesus,” the Wall Street dick says. “Don’t tell me it’s a Pistol and Burns’ deal.”
“No, this one is at Snellig Firsten Holbrook. You know the outfit?”
“The junk bond specialists?”
“That’s right. They’re supposed to have the best security on the Street, but they’re handling a leveraged buyout and someone is onto it. The stock of the takee is going up, up, up. Listen, could you and I meet on Monday? Maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Maybe,” Cone says, striving mightily to recall what he cannot remember.
He wakes the next morning, hoping the night’s sleep has brought to mind what he’s been trying to recollect; sleep does that sometimes. But all he can remember is the entire pepperoni pizza he ate the night before.
He goes over to Samantha’s place on Saturday night. She won’t be seen with him in public, fearing someone from Haldering will spot them and office gossip will start. That’s okay with Cone; he’s willing to play by her rules.
She serves a dinner of baked chicken, Spanish rice, and a salad. They also have a bottle of chilled Orvieto which puts them in a mellow mood. They have a nice, pleasant evening of fun and games, and Cone is home by 1:00 A.M. He gives Cleo fresh water and some of the chicken skin and bones he doggie-bagged from Sam’s dinner.
Sunday is just as relaxed. He futzes around the loft, smokes two packs of Camels, drinks about a pint of vodka, with water, and digs his way through Barron’s and the Business Section of the New York Times. In the evening he has a one-pound can of beef stew with a heel of French bread he finds in the refrigerator, so hard that he has to soak it in the stew to render it edible. Cleo gets the remainder of the chicken scraps.
On Monday he’s late for work, as usual. Jeremy Bigelow shows up at ten o’clock, carrying a fat briefcase. Cone calls down to the local deli for two
“We’ve got to communicate,” Twiggs protests.
“Not on paper you don’t. Computerize the whole operation. If anyone has something to say on a possible takeover, buyout, or merger, he puts it on the computer. Anyone else who’s involved can call it up on his monitor—but only if he knows the code word. You understand? Nothing typed on paper. And everything in the computer coded so that it can only be retrieved by personnel who have a need to know, and have the key word or number allowing them access. Also, the computer can keep a list of who requests access to the record.”
G. Fergus Twiggs shakes his head dolefully. “What’s the world coming to?” he asks.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Timothy Cone says.
He plods back to Haldering & Co. to pick up his salary check. He figures he’s done a decent job for Pistol & Burns. If they want to follow his suggestions, fine. If not, it’s no skin off his ass.
But something is gnawing at him. Something he heard or saw that flicks on a red light. Maybe it was something Bigelow said, or Twiggs. Maybe it was something he observed at Pistol & Burns. He shakes his head violently, but can’t dislodge whatever it is. It nags him, a fragment of peanut caught in his teeth.
When he gets back to his office, there’s a message on his desk: Call Jeremy Bigelow. So, without taking off his cap, Cone phones the SEC investigator.
“Hiya, old buddy,” Jerry says breezily. “How did you make out at Pistol and Burns?”
“Like you said, it’s as holey as Swiss cheese. I gave them some ways to close the holes.”
“But no evidence of an insider leak?”
“I didn’t find any.”
“That’s a relief. I wrote in my report it was the arbs who caused the run-up of the stock. I guess I was right.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says.
“So much for the good news. Now comes the bad. We got another squeal on insider trading.”
“Oh, Jesus,” the Wall Street dick says. “Don’t tell me it’s a Pistol and Burns’ deal.”
“No, this one is at Snellig Firsten Holbrook. You know the outfit?”
“The junk bond specialists?”
“That’s right. They’re supposed to have the best security on the Street, but they’re handling a leveraged buyout and someone is onto it. The stock of the takee is going up, up, up. Listen, could you and I meet on Monday? Maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Maybe,” Cone says, striving mightily to recall what he cannot remember.
He wakes the next morning, hoping the night’s sleep has brought to mind what he’s been trying to recollect; sleep does that sometimes. But all he can remember is the entire pepperoni pizza he ate the night before.
He goes over to Samantha’s place on Saturday night. She won’t be seen with him in public, fearing someone from Haldering will spot them and office gossip will start. That’s okay with Cone; he’s willing to play by her rules.
She serves a dinner of baked chicken, Spanish rice, and a salad. They also have a bottle of chilled Orvieto which puts them in a mellow mood. They have a nice, pleasant evening of fun and games, and Cone is home by 1:00 A.M. He gives Cleo fresh water and some of the chicken skin and bones he doggie-bagged from Sam’s dinner.
Sunday is just as relaxed. He futzes around the loft, smokes two packs of Camels, drinks about a pint of vodka, with water, and digs his way through Barron’s and the Business Section of the New York Times. In the evening he has a one-pound can of beef stew with a heel of French bread he finds in the refrigerator, so hard that he has to soak it in the stew to render it edible. Cleo gets the remainder of the chicken scraps.
On Monday he’s late for work, as usual. Jeremy Bigelow shows up at ten o’clock, carrying a fat briefcase. Cone calls down to the local deli for two
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