“Apparently, they have.”
Again, from my periphery, Ted Dwyer’s voice intruded, casual and terse.
“Amsterdam Bank not only knows this firm is in trouble. They know a great deal about how much trouble. They must know everything. Exactly. Or they’d never issue an offer like that. They’d never risk having a firm this small spit back in their face.”
Now I was certain there would be more.
“So,” Dwyer continued, “I think you better tell us everything about what you’ve been cooking up in Singapore with Bank of South Asia. What’s the full story, my friend?”
I bristled at Dwyer’s patronizing remark, tacked on to blandly assert his seniority over the room. I tried to curb my irritation, hastily absorb the extra rules in the game and the fresh positions of the players on the board.
“We have a deal with Bank of South Asia,” I explained briskly, rushing to reach the words before they could be refuted. “Put together when I was in Singapore. We have contracts. Cash. An asset-backed line of credit for at least eighty million bucks secured by the Bangkok bonds. Then, last night when I call, I learn that BSA’s suddenly fired their finance director, Stanley Man, who tells me BSA sold the financing contracts to Amsterdam Bank because Amsterdam was threatening to dump some large blocks of BSA stock from some of their insurance portfolios. And BSA buckled under because they live in constant fear of their reduced capital base with so much blood-letting in the Asian markets all last year.”
Kyle pushed back in his chair impatiently. “Well. That’s it, then.”
“It would seem so,” Ted Dwyer agreed.
Kyle added firmly, “That’s the bitch of it.”
I dashed after them to interrupt their momentum. My impatience swam like a carp beneath my skin bumping for escape. “We have contracts.”
“What you have,” Ted Dwyer declared, “is a legal fight that will take two years to get to court, take two million dollars to run, and take two more years to win.” He paused to allow Kyle to mutter his accord. “In the meantime, what are you going to use to pay for those bonds?”
“Then,” I insisted stubbornly, “let Bangkok Commercial sue us and let them wait a few years.”
Kyle snorted. “And where would our next deals come from? Do you know of anybody that would put a deal through here if there’s even a hint that we might not perform or that their deal might get sucked into some pending litigation that could jump out and bite us in the ass?”
“Only if there is any litigation. Bangkok Commercial will come to the same conclusion and not spend the time and money to chase us.”
“Bankrupt for cash, Paris. Or bankrupt for reputation. It’s all the same thing.”
“But,” I argued, “that’s only if Bank of South Asia is really going to back out of the deal. We need to get to them directly. To their president and directors. Find out what the hell is really going on.”
Kyle shrugged, cynical, broadcasting his scorn of such obvious simplicity. “You can if you like.”
I could not understand why Kyle was conceding so fluently, and so haphazardly; his wrath would normally have been huge. Instead, his indifference was cast about the office in careless plenty.
Arrested as much by my own confusion as by Kyle’s lofty dismissal, I ground my heels into the smooth carpeting under the scolding hum of the fluorescent lighting.
Kyle ploughed on. “Brenda, what’s our current treasury position?”
Without hesitation she chimed it out with her customary efficiency. “We could sell off most of our short bonds and commercial paper, some of our equities. Raise twenty million. Draw another couple million on our credit lines if we had to.”
“Dimitri, have we pre-sold any of those Bangkok Commercial bonds yet?”
In the thick Latvian accent that adhered to his English, Dimitri drawled, “Maybe ten million.”
“What if you put on a fire sale this afternoon?”
“Maybe another ten million. Not more. We’d need about three or four more months after March tenth to sell off a full hundred million. That’s why we could only do this with a massive credit line.”
“Well, that about settles it.” Kyle caught my eyes venomously.
It took all of my concentration to retain my balance and return his lethal stare.
In the stony quiet, with transparent ceremony, Kyle rose. “Please, all of you, listen very carefully. And, as of this minute, everything I’m about to tell you is absolutely confidential. The Securities Commission will prosecute you for insider trading if you act on any of it.”
Kyle waited for our sketchy gestures of assent.
Kyle cleared his throat, bit back a burp on his morning coffee. “This was to be my year to retire. So we’ve been working on a merger to sell out to a major bank. To cash out the equity of all the founding shareholders and leave our remaining partners and staff with a clean start.”
I was quickest to register, thirstiest for response. “Which bank?”
“That’s why Ted’s here,” Kyle replied.
In unison, we swung our attention to the side of the room.
Dwyer settled back, masterfully drawing us in. Straightened his shoulders. “Atlantic Laurentide.”
We waited for more details.
“At Kyle’s request, I approached Atlantic a few months ago. Got them to agree on the numbers. And I’ve since been building a case for Senate approval and to smooth things over with the Securities Commission. We’d have everything cleaned up for late this year.”
Listening to Dwyer explain it, I recognized, absolutely, like an approaching toll gate, the unfolding logic.
“Now that’s going to have to change.” Ted Dwyer ran his tongue around his gums as if burnishing his articulation. “I don’t have to tell any of you that the Securities Commission will never allow this firm to be muscled into the brink of receivership by any foreign bank, including Amsterdam Bank.”
“And,” Kyle asserted, “I’m not about to walk out the door and be tarred for the rest of my life for one botched deal. Nor am I about to stand by and see this company come out on the short end of the stick from Amsterdam Bank to the tune of ten or twelve million bucks.”
Ted Dwyer made an overt gesture of open palms with exaggerated shrug to indicate that there was nothing more to say. “So it’s obvious. You clean up things before you pay for the bonds. Or you go on the block. And we sell you to Atlantic Laurentide.”
“That gives us until March tenth, Paris. Three piss-poor weeks,” Kyle repeated, shaking his head in grim admonishment.
The discord in Kyle’s claim rekindled our recent grudges.
“You can’t be so sure,” I charged. “The Securities Commission. Stepping in to shut us down. We’re not some huge multi-national securities brokerage firm with offices all over the world. We’re just a small investment bank with our fingers in a minor international deal.”
“The banking and finance committee in the Senate sees it differently,” Dwyer told me pointedly. “Sure, we’re not London or New York. I agree. As far as the international markets go, we’re still some backwater farm team. Even Malaysia and Indonesia are better because, despite all their graft, they’ve at least got some action pumping away all the time. But what is it they always say in this country, Paris? Everybody in Canada hates Ontario. And everybody in Ontario hates Toronto. And everybody in Toronto hates Bay Street. And that’s because, at least in this country, we’ve got the goddamn money. So this is the price we pay. We live in a fish bowl with the regulators watching our every