Moments later, Willard Osgood himself strode in: the square, weathered face, the Coke-bottle glasses-he could have been peeled off one of those magazine covers. Nick stood up and realized that Osgood probably had an inch or two on him.
“Nick Conover,” Osgood said in a booming voice, giving him a friendly bump on the shoulder. “I hope you noticed what kind of chair I’ve got at my desk.” He pointed to the Stratton Symbiosis chair.
Nick grinned. “You liked it so much you bought the company.”
Osgood raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Did I make the right decision?”
“Hope you still like the chair. It’s still a good company.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here in Beantown?”
“I’m here to ask your help solving a problem.”
Osgood’s expression vacillated between amusement and perplexity. “Let me put that Stratton chair into service,” he said after a moment, walking over to his desk. Nick took a chair in front of it. “I always think better on my butt.”
Nick started right in. “As I recall, when you came to Fenwick, you told us that your favorite holding period is forever.”
“Ah,” Osgood said, seeming to understand. He blinked a few times, folded his hands on the desk, and then cleared his throat. “Nick, I think I also told you that my rule number one is, never lose money.”
Osgood knew Todd was selling the company, Nick now realized. So maybe Cassie was wrong. Did he know everything, though? “Which is a lesson that Todd Muldaur seems to have forgotten, if he ever learned it,” Nick said.
“Todd’s had a rough year,” Osgood came right back, sounding a little annoyed. “There are some mighty good explanations for that, though.”
“Yeah, well, ‘Explanations aren’t excuses,’ as you also like to say.”
Osgood smiled, exposing a blinding row of porcelain veneers. “I see the gospel spreads.”
“But I can’t help but wonder whether one of the explanations is that no one’s watching the shop. That’s what Todd seems to indicate, anyway. He says you’ve taken to spending a lot of time away from the office. That maybe you’ve gotten more interested in fly-fishing than in profit margins.”
Osgood’s smile almost reached his eyes. “I hope you don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“What my lieutenants really mean by that, of course, is that my day has passed. They like to think that, because it means their day has arrived.” Osgood leaned back in his chair, but of course the Stratton Symbiosis chair, being ergonomic, wouldn’t let him tip all the way back like the older chairs would. “Tell you a story, but don’t repeat it, okay?”
Nick nodded.
“Couple years ago I took Todd down to Islamorada, Florida, for the annual migration of the tarpon. ’Course, he showed up with his brand-new Sage rod and his Abel reel, and he’s got a leather belt on, with a bonefish on the buckle.” He gave a hearty guffaw. “He’s a confident fellow-told me he’d done a lot of fly-fishing at some fancy lodge in Alaska, kind of place with gourmet meals and a sauna and the guide does everything for you except wipe your ass. So I graciously allowed him the bow and watched him flail for hours. Poor guy missed shot after shot, got more and more frustrated, his line kept getting wrapped, the flies hitting him on the backside.” He blinked a few times. “Finally I decided I’d had enough fun. I stood up, stripped out ninety feet of line. Soon as I spotted a school of fish approaching, I delivered the fly. The fish ate, and six and a half feet of silver king went airborne. You with me? One school of fish-one shot-one cast-and one fish brought to the side of the boat.”
“Okay,” Nick said, enjoying the tale but wondering what the point was.
“See, I don’t think Todd realized that the secret isn’t how pricey your equipment or how nice your Ex Officio slacks are. All that counts is bow time-just doing it over and over and over again. Takes years of practice. No substitute for it.”
“How do you cook tarpon?”
“Oh, heavens, no, you don’t eat it. That’s the beauty part. You release it. It’s all about the fight.”
“Huh,” Nick said. “Doesn’t sound like my kind of sport.”
“From what I understand, hockey’s all about the fight too. And you don’t even get a fish to show for it.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“But anyway, you’re right. Todd’s made some mistakes. A couple of bold gambles.”
“I believe the phrase ‘sucking wind’ might be more accurate.”
Osgood wasn’t amused. “I’m well aware of what’s happening,” he said brittlely.
“Are you? I wonder.” Nick leaned over and removed a file folder from his briefcase, then slid the folder across the desk. Osgood opened it, tipped his glasses up onto his forehead, and examined the documents. Nick noticed that the horizontal creases on Osgood’s forehead were equally spaced and straight, almost as if drawn with a ruler.
Osgood looked up for a moment. “I wish he hadn’t done things this way.”
“What way?”
“Keeping you out of the loop. It’s not the way I prefer. I like to be a straight shooter. Now I see why you’ve come to talk to me. I understand why you’re upset.”
“Oh, no,” Nick said quickly. “I totally understand why he didn’t want me to know. Hell, he knew how opposed I was-am-to a sale like this. Even though I don’t have the power to stop it, he was probably afraid I’d kick up a fuss, maybe even take it public. Better to just do the deal without me knowing, he figured, so that by the time I figured it out, it would be a fait accompli. It would be too late.”
“Something like that. But as I say, that’s not my way.”
“Todd needed a quick infusion of cash to help bail out the firm, after all his bad bets on semiconductors. And an IPO takes forever. I get it.”
“I told Todd you’re a reasonable man, Nick. He should have just leveled with you.”
“Maybe he should have leveled with you. Like telling you who the fairy godmother behind ‘Pacific Rim Investors’ really is. Though he probably figured that you, with your political beliefs, wouldn’t want to hear where the money comes from.” Nick paused. “The P.L.A.”
Osgood blinked owlishly.
“That’s the People’s Liberation Army,” Nick explained. “The Communist Chinese army.”
“I know who they are,” Osgood said curtly. “Wouldn’t have gotten to where I am without doing my homework.”
“You knew this?” Nick said.
“Good Lord, of course I knew it. There’s nothing illegal about it, my friend.”
“The Communist Chinese,” Nick persisted, hoping the incantation might jangle the old right-winger.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is office furniture. Not Patriot missiles or nuclear weapons or something. Desks and chairs and file cabinets. I hardly call that selling our enemy the rope they’re going to hang us with.”
“But have you actually looked at the numbers on Stratton that Todd provided Pacific Rim Investors?”
Osgood pushed the folder away from him. “I don’t micromanage. I don’t look over my partners’ shoulders. Nick, we’re both busy men-”
“You might want to. See, the balance sheet Todd gave them is a fraud. Prepared by my CFO, Scott McNally, who knows a thing or two about how to put lipstick on a pig.”
Another flash of the porcelain Chiclets. “Nick, maybe you’ve been in the Midwest a bit too long, but that Jimmy Stewart, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington bit’s not going to play here.”
“I’m not talking morality, Willard. I’m talking illegality.”
Osgood waved Nick away with an impatient hand. “There’s all kinds of ways of doing the books. Anyway, we’ve got a no-litigate clause, even if they do get buyer’s remorse.”