Conference call? I didn’t have any conference call! And then it hit me: Janet was bailing me out! I looked at my father and shrugged, as if to say, “What can I do? I gotta take this call.”
We quickly exchanged hugs and apologies, and then I made a pledge to try to spend less in the future, which both of us knew was complete bullshit. Nevertheless, my father had come in like a lion and gone out like a lamb. And just as the door closed behind him, I made a mental note to give Janet a little something extra for Christmas, in spite of all the crap she’d given me this morning. She was a good egg—a damn good egg.
CHAPTER 8
THE COBBLER
About an hour later, Steve Madden was making his way to the front of the boardroom with a confident gait. It was the sort of gait, I thought, of a man in complete control, a man who had every intention of giving a first-class dog-and-pony show. But when he reached the front of the boardroom—that look on his face! Sheer terror!
And the way he was dressed!It was ridiculous. He looked like a broken-down driving-range pro who’d traded in his golf clubs for two pints of malt liquor and a one-way ticket to Skid Row. It was ironic that Steve’s business was fashion, considering he was one of the least fashionable dressers on the planet. He was the wacky-designer type, an over-the-top artsy-fartsy guy, who walked around town holding a horrendous-looking platform shoe in his hand as he offered unsolicited explanations as to why this shoe would be what every teenage girl would be dying to wear next season.
At this particular moment he was wearing a wrinkled navy blazer, which hung on his thin frame like a piece of cheap boat canvas. The rest of his ensemble was no better. He wore a ripped gray T-shirt and white peg-legged Levi’s jeans, both of which had stains on them.
But it was his shoes that were the greatest insult. After all, one would think that anyone who was trying to pass himself off as a legitimate shoe designer would have the common decency to get a fucking shine the day he was going public. But, no, not Steve Madden; he had on a pair of cheap brown leather penny loafers that hadn’t seen a high-shine rag since the day the calf was slaughtered. And, of course, his trademark royal-blue baseball cap covered his few remaining strands of wispy strawberry-blond hair, which, in typical downtown fashion, had been pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a rubber band.
Steve reluctantly grabbed the microphone off a maple-colored lectern and said a couple of quick uhh-hummsand uhh-hoos,sending a clear signal that he was ready to start the show. Slowly—very slowly, in fact—the Strattonites hung up their phones and leaned back in their chairs.
All at once I felt some terrific vibrations coming from my left—almost a mini-earthquake. I turned to see… Christ, it was fat Howie Gelfand!Four hundred pounds if he was an ounce!
“Hey, JB,” said fat Howie. “I need you to do me real solid and flip me an extra ten thousand units of Madden. Could you do that for your uncle Howie?” He smiled from ear to ear, and then cocked his head to the side and put his arm around my shoulder, as if to say, “Come on, we’re buddies, right?”
Well, I kind of liked fat Howie despite the fact that he was a fat bastard. But that aside, his request for additional units was par for the course. After all, a unit of a Stratton new issue was more valuable than gold. All you had to do was some simple math: A unit consisted of one share of common stock and two warrants, an A and a B, each of which gave you the right to buy one additional share of stock at a price slightly above the initial offering price. In this particular instance, the initial offering price was four dollars a share; the A warrant was exercisable at four-fifty and the B warrant at five dollars. And as the price of the stock rose, the value of the warrants rose right along with it. So the leverage was staggering.
A typical Stratton new issue consisted of two million units offered at four dollars per, which by itself wasn’t all that spectacular. But with a football field full of young Strattonites—smiling and dialing and ripping people’s eyeballs out—demand dramatically outstripped supply. In consequence, the price of the units would soar to twenty dollars or more the moment they started trading. So, to give a client a block of 10,000 units was like giving him a six-figure gift. There was no difference, which was why the client was expected to play ball—meaning: For every unit he was given at the initial-public-offering price, he was expected to purchase ten times as manyafter the deal began trading publicly (in the aftermarket).
“All right,” I muttered. “You can have your extra ten thousand units because I love you and I know you’re loyal. Now go lose some weight before you have a heart attack.”
With a great smile and a hearty tone: “I hail you, JB. I hail you!” He did his best to take a bow. “You are the King…the Wolf…you’re everything! Your wish is my—”
I cut him off. “Get the fuck out of here, Gelfand. And make sure none of the kids in your section start booing Madden or throwing shit at him. I’m serious, okay?”
Howie began taking small steps backward and bowing toward me with his arms extended in front of him, the way a person does when they’re leaving a royal chamber after an audience with a king.
What a fat fucking bastard, I thought. But such a wonderful salesman! Smooth as silk he was. Howie had been one of my first employees—only nineteen when he came to work for me. His first year in the business he’d made $250,000. This year he was on pace to make $1.5 million. Nevertheless, he still lived at home with his parents.
Just then came more rumblings from the microphone: “Uh…excuse me, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Steve Madden. I’m the president—”
Before he could even finish his first thought, the Strattonites were on him:
“We all know who you are!”
“Nice fucking baseball cap!”
“Time is money! Get to the fucking point!”
Then came some boos and hisses and whistles and catcalls and a couple a hoo-yaaas. Then the room began to quiet down again.
Steve glanced over at me. His mouth was slightly parted and his brown eyes were as wide as saucers. I extended my arms, palms toward him, and moved them up and down a few times, as if to say, “Calm down and take it easy!”
Steve nodded and took a deep breath. “I’d like to start by telling you a little bit about myself and my background in the shoe industry. And then, after that, I’d like to discuss the bright plans I have for my company’s future. I first started working in a shoe store when I was sixteen years old, sweeping the stockroom floor. And while all my other friends were out running around town chasing girls, I was learning about women’s shoes. I was like Al Bundy, with a shoehorn sticking out my back—”
Another interruption: “The microphone’s too far from your mouth. We can’t hear a fucking word you’re saying! Move the mike closer.”
Steve moved the microphone. “Well, sorry about that. Uh—like I was saying, I’ve been in the shoe industry for as far back as I can remember. My first job was at a little shoe store in Cedarhurst called Jildor Shoes, where I worked in the stockroom. Then I became a salesman. And it was…uh…then…back when I was still a kid…that I first fell in love with women’s shoes. You know, I can honestly say…”
And just like that he began giving a remarkably detailed explanation of how he’d been a true lover of women’s shoes since he was in his early teens, and how somewhere along the way—he wasn’t sure where—he had become fascinated with the endless design possibilities for women’s shoes, insofar as the different types of heels and straps and flaps and buckles, and all the different sorts of fabrics he could work with, and all the decorative ornaments he could stick on them. Then he began explaining how he liked to caress the shoes and run his fingers along the insteps.