In the six years since the oilman from Houston had acquired such a large stake in Eurodyne, Roland d’Avejan had been cordial at worst and obsequious at best to Pickford. He had no idea where he’d gotten the wherewithal just now to speak so forcefully to a man who could effectively ruin him with a single phone call.
It was obvious that Pickford hadn’t expected such a forceful greeting either because the line buzzed with stunned silence for several long seconds. “Well,” Pickford drawled, drawing out the word for several long, chuckling syllables. “Sounds like someone found a pair in their briefs this morning.”
Having spent so much time around Americans, d’Avejan understood the insult immediately.
“I wear boxers, Ralph, and my testicles have been there all along. Do you have anything constructive to say this morning or are you just calling to complain that you’ve lost fifty million dollars since the opening bell.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Roland. I lost fifty on your stock but made a hundred shorting the Spaniards. That info wasn’t insider at all. The writing’s been on the wall for a month that they were going to back out at the last minute. That country’s broke, but they can’t afford to piss off their trade unions, so they make sweetheart deals worth all kinds of bucks to the labor wonks then yank the plug and plead poverty and blame outside forces.
“They did it to you today just like they torpedoed that Chinese solar firm two months ago. You might recall that company went tits-up as a result, and the CEO had the good sense to wash down a bottle of sleeping pills with a fifth of vodka. When the Chicom government is your biggest backer, it’s better to off yourself when you torch a few hundred million yuan betting on a bunch of lazy-ass spics from the mother country.”
“All very colloquial and interesting, Ralph, but what’s your point?” Again, Roland was surprised that he was holding firm against his biggest shareholder. That suicide reference would have normally had him at least apologizing about the Spanish deal.
“Point is”—Pickford began getting a little hot, his Texas drawl much more clipped—“I’ve had my accountants going over Eurodyne’s records again, and for the life of them they can’t figure out what happened to the eighty-seven million dollars you spent buying something called Luck Dragon Trading of Guangzhou, China, eight months ago. Luck Dragon was created the day it was acquired, and as far as anyone can tell it has no assets other than a box number at the Guangzhou central post office.”
“Luck Dragon is to be our entrepôt into southern China,” d’Avejan said with a trace of boredom at such a nothing question. “Since it’s you and I talking and I know this is a secure phone, the seven million was for the legitimate trade name and all the other typical bullshit needed to set up a business in China. No surprises there. The rest, however, is to pay bribes. Some now and some doubtlessly in the future. However, it is better to have the slush fund in place on the outset than have to create it down the road.”
“Seems pretty damned steep to me,” Pickford groused.
Roland tried to put it in language the American would understand. “China has come a long way in the past decade. You can no longer secure the locals’ cooperation with a handful of beads and some pretty cloth, the way your forefathers bought America from the Indians. The Chinese play some of the meanest hardball on the planet. Trust me. Anything less than a hundred million is a steal, and I am referring to euros and not your severely devalued greenbacks.”
“And what do we get for this money?” the oilman asked dubiously.
“Manufacturing rights with labor at roughly forty cents per hour per employee, a dollar an hour for supervisors and semiskilled techs, and absolutely no environmental oversight during construction. Further, we will be able to label the building a green project and use its operation as a carbon offset to one of our factories in the European Union.”
“How do you get the green certification? I thought there had been a crackdown on scam companies claiming bogus carbon credits on projects that had already been built or that had no environmental sustainability.”
“There was,” d’Avejan told him. “What do you think we’re buying with that eighty million? On carbon credits alone we should pocket that much by our third year in operation.”
“And what do we plan on manufacturing?” Pickford was beginning to understand the deal, but like any old-school capitalist, he distrusted revenue streams he didn’t fully comprehend. Being paid not to produce carbon dioxide was something he hadn’t yet been able to get his mind around.
“Doesn’t matter,” the Frenchman replied. “The credits are already built into the numbers. We could make solar panels or rubber dog crap and the money is guaranteed through the ETS.” This was the Emissions Trading Scheme, the Europe-wide cap-and-trade system to limit dangerous levels of greenhouse gases from entering the atmosphere. To some it was a way to save the planet from catastrophic global warming, to others it was a waste of nearly $300 billion, and to others still it was a new playing field for questionable but lucrative financial transactions.
Men like Roland d’Avejan saw it as a little of all three. Being eco-minded didn’t mean one couldn’t game the system a little and turn a profit. He went on. “Ralph, as I have said on more than one occasion, if you question my handling of Eurodyne I suggest you put me up for a vote of no confidence with the board of directors. If I lose, then I might have time to see my family for a change. My wife tells me my daughter has just been awarded a scholarship to the University of Basel in Switzerland and that my son is set to race a full season in Formula 3000 in hopes of attracting the attention of a Formula One team for next year. The last I really recall of them, my daughter was thirteen and in love with all things horse, and my son believed he was a black American rap star and called himself Jay Hop or Lil Hop or something equally ridiculous. So either call the directors or let me run my company as I see fit, and I will have the stock back up to its highs within twelve months.”
“Is that a promise?” Pickford asked a little snidely.
“This is business, Ralph. There are no promises except the tax man always wants his cut, and some asshole always thinks he can do your job better than you. I have to go now. Au revoir.” Roland d’Avejan hung up the phone before Pickford could say anything.
D’Avejan sat stunned for several seconds, half tempted to buzz his secretary and have her deflect the call if the Texas oil baron rang back, but in his gut he knew Pickford wouldn’t. He’d been soundly told to go to hell, and for the time being that’s exactly what he would do. It took little thought for Roland to understand where his newfound confidence had come from.
He felt stronger than he had in a long time, more vibrant, like he’d just come off his greatest tennis victory or had just sent his mistress to a screaming orgasm and she still begged for more. His member was even a little tumescent. He wouldn’t have time to see his mistress tonight, but Odette hadn’t been hired solely for her typing skills.
He had to force his mind back to business. That Pickford had spotted the anomaly surrounding the Luck Dragon Trading deal wasn’t too surprising. Despite his vast financial holdings, the American knew where every one of his dollars, dimes, and pennies was at any given time. No doubt he would spend the day harassing CEOs of other companies he had a stake in, cajoling and chiding and fighting for any edge he could get to increase his worth just that tiny bit more. The man was a greedy pig, but a smart one, and eventually he would wonder why Luck Dragon posted no more business.