“That would help,” commented Barry. “It shows you’re sincere. And confident.”
“I am confident, damn it. As for inside influence, for Godsakes, the guys accusing me are the ones who’ve been picking Defense’s pocket for generations. It’s their game, right? How in the hell can they accuse me of foul play?”
And everybody was nodding along nicely, like Jason was making some real ironclad points, and what a rotten, rotten world it is when such transparently trumped-up accusations can even see the light of day. Although to be perfectly accurate, not everybody was nodding. I suggested to Jason, “Perhaps suspicion arises because you have a former Secretary of Defense in your pocket.”
Cy, Sally, and Barry had been collectively stuffing their noses so far up his ass, he focused on me for the first time. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right, Sean. I’m painfully aware of it. I regret that I hired him.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It’s double jeopardy. We can’t use him for Defense work, but everybody thinks we do.”
“But you’re certain he made no phone calls, didn’t call in any chits?”
“How can you be sure about anything?” Obviously that was an honest response, and he added, “Look, Dan wasn’t even aware we were bidding. He’s a board member, not part of the company. I pay him a hundred fifty grand a year to come to meetings and listen to accountants talk about our financial health.” He shook his head. “The son of a bitch slept through the past two meetings.”
Cy chuckled. “Count your blessings. He’s more impressive asleep than awake.”
“Hey, aren’t you the one who recommended him?”
“Yes. And didn’t I warn you he was an overrated idiot?”
Morris chuckled. “Yeah, you did.”
Well, they were all yucking it up, and while I don’t regard myself as naive or anything, listening to these guys chat about buying and selling a former Secretary of Defense like a used toaster oven did get a little under my skin.
Anyway, Jason stood up and walked around for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts. He ended up with his back to the big damn boat, creating a photogenic pose, him in the foreground with his muscular arms crossed, the ultimate monument to staggering wealth bobbing gently in the background. Possibly the pose was coincidental; possibly not.
He studied each of our faces very briefly, then said, “Look, I asked you all down here to inform you that this case is damned important. There’s a reason AT amp;T and Sprint decided to launch this particular protest. My sources tell me Defense’s releasing three more requests for bids this year. I think my competition’s sources are telling them the same thing. If we get bumped on this one, it could create a chain effect. The combined value of all four bids is about four billion a year.”
“That’s big money,” remarked Barry, quite needlessly.
“It really is,” said Sally, equally needlessly-unless you considered her need for a partnership also.
“Yeah, it is.” Morris again studied each of our faces and explained, “Look, I’m a simple businessman. I build a great product and sell it at a great price. That’s why these dinosaurs are coming after me. I’m a threat to their existence, and they’re going all out to destroy me. I need you guys to stop them. I have eight thousand hardworking people on my payroll who depend on your firm to keep the game fair. If we get nudged out of the Defense market, we’ll survive, but Wall Street demands unceasing growth, and for the next few years, until the economy recovers, we need to be in the defense game. Bill me till I bleed… just don’t lose this one.”
The part about “bill me till I bleed” was intended for Cy, who nodded very enthusiastically. Barry, of course, was already fully on board, baggy-eyed, hungry, a hop, skip, and a jump from partnership, and was in need of no further prodding or inducement. So the bulk of the speech, I suspect, was aimed at Sally and me, the junior members of the team, if you will, who would perform most of the scut work. I glanced at Sally. She was nodding fiercely, like, Right, Jason, with you all the way-I’ll work my ass into the ground for you, big guy. P. S., like my buddy Barry, I yearn for a partnership… oh… and P. S. to my P. S… that mile-high club thing… I love to fly.
To his credit, Morris appeared to sense that her enthusiasm was, shall we say, over the top, shot me an apologetic grin, patted her shoulder, and then looked down at his watch. He said, “Cy, I’m afraid I have an appointment with some investors. I have to dash off. I hope you don’t mind.”
We agreed that we didn’t mind, and he came over and gave us all hearty handshakes, pumping up the troops for battle, looking meaningfully into our eyes and checking our give-a-shit meters.
When he got to me, I gripped his hand and asked, “Time for one more question?”
“Sure.”
“Why the armed guard at the door?”
“Him? He’s just precautionary.”
“I see. Is there a specific need for that kind of precaution?”
Instead of telling me to screw myself, he explained, “I’m sure you’re aware I have a very high public profile. It’s not something I like, but the company has been built around me, and every story the press does benefits my stockholders and employees. It’s a fortune in free advertising. Unfortunately, my wealth is reported in many of the stories.”
“So, nothing specific?”
“A few threatening letters.” He added, “Once you’re known for having money, the nuts and freaks line up. I’d be foolish to leave myself vulnerable.”
“Gee, it sucks being rich, doesn’t it?”
“No, Sean.” He winked. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Less than five minutes had elapsed since the guy with the lump under his armpit had deposited us in the backyard and we found ourselves ushered right back into the lush seats of the stretch limo. Figure-between the plane, the car, and the billable hours for four lawyers-our little three-minute chitchat had just cost Mr. Morris somewhere in the neighborhood of five times my annual salary. The rich do indeed have queer ways.
The moment the plane took off I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. This, of course, is a polite way to avoid conversation. I had nothing in common with my colleagues; Sally was a heartless, manipulative bitch; Barry was an idiot; and Cy, whom I actually liked, was preoccupied with spiked orange juices and with Miss Jenny.
Also I wanted to mull over Jason Morris and his problems. Actually, it was my problem with his problems. For starters, he was rich and famous and got to ball nearly every babe in Hollywood- an impressive list of haves I regrettably have not. Well, life isn’t fair and get over it, Drummond. Forbes magazine had recently pegged his worth at four billion big ones, and, looking deeply into my soul, anybody with that much self-made goulash has earned enough capitalist’s merit badges to indulge in a few baubles and palaces. And if it would benefit my employees, I too could scale the heights of self-sacrifice and stomach a weekend on an exotic island with Jolie What’s-her-name scampering around in a skimpy bikini. Noblesse oblige, right?
So ignore his wealth, and he seemed fairly down-to-earth and unpretentious, like he got the joke about his wealth, and if you wanted to take it too seriously-like Sally, who was squirming with restless ambition beside me-fine. But he didn’t take it that seriously. I find that appealing. A bumper sticker that’s very popular on Wall Street proclaims, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” Au contraire-in the immortal words of Napoleon Bonaparte, he who possesses the biggest battalions wins. Capitalist pigs are well-advised to remember that.
About Nash, it would surpass the bounds of corporate idiocy to employ a former Secretary of Defense to bag a Defense contract. Everybody expects you to. Right? Contrarian logic would argue that you use him for exactly that reason, since stupidity can be the best camouflage. However, people are rarely that devious.