This Little Piggy. M.G. Crisci

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СКАЧАТЬ And, congratulations to you also. I’m promoting you to Executive Vice President and Chairman of the A&J Steering Committee. There will be a handsome bump and some other perks; Matt McLain will talk to you about them.” (McLain was the director of executive resources). Naye shocked Marttini with his next sentence. “From now on, you’ll be reporting directly to Rhoda Barbuto.”

      “I don’t understand; why Rhoda?”

      “I plan to name her my heir apparent. I want you to work closely over the next few years so that you can anticipate her every move. Carry out her vision. You’ll be her sounding board. Her backstop. Her confidant. I’ve convinced her that, as a team, you’ll take A&J to the next level.”

      At that moment, a devastated Victor had but one thought. I don’t believe it; fucking Rhoda Barbuto, fucking Rhoda Barbuto!

      ~

      There was a knock on Naye’s door. He pressed a button on the side of his chair. In walked Ms. Barbuto, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde with dark brown eyebrows and just the right number of streaked brunette highlights to top off her New York power broker look.

      She had joined the agency about four years before from Richardson, Dobbins, & Kline, one of the world’s leading direct response agencies. Using her charm, guile, and good looks, she had convinced Naye, and other top managers, that the future depended upon accountability. A&J’s roster of sophisticated clients would no longer spend millions on branding without tangible metric responses. That calling advertising just one tool, albeit an expensive one, in a brand’s performance was too soft, too squishy for the new client generation. Cleverly, she positioned herself as uniquely qualified to lead that agency transformation. Naye had bought the act lock, stock, and barrel.

      Rhoda and Victor had bumped heads on a few internal strategic boards. To say Victor was not a fan would be an understatement. He saw Barbuto as a contradiction to everything Sandra was and stood for. Barbuto smiled and extended her hand. “I look forward to working with you, partner.” Silently Victor returned the accolade. Naye beamed.

      ~

      Minutes later, the two were walking down the hall to their respective offices. Barbuto stopped. “There is one thing,” she said, not losing any time. “I heard you walked out of a big Piedmont meeting the other day.”

      “Who said that?” asked a surprised Victor.

      “That’s none of your goddamn business. You work for me, don’t ever forget that!”

      “No disrespect, but my wife had a genuine emergency.”

      Barbuto brought new meaning to the phrase 'if looks could kill.' “Don’t give me that bullshit. No man jumps like that for a woman!”

      Victor wanted to smack the bitch in the mouth because of her condescending demeanor. But, as Naye said, they were a team. Destined to be best buddies. As he had done so many times climbing the ladder, he kept his mouth shut and stuffed his dignity in his pocket. He had to play the game. There were private school tuitions, country club fees, mortgages, and mega real estate taxes to pay, and all the other mandatory trappings of living beyond one’s means.

      ~

      Victor toyed with the idea of saying nothing to Sandra about the Katz call and the Ryman breakfast. But they had shared everything for seventeen years. Why stop now? He prepared his pitch like a client meeting. He reviewed the potential objections, rehearsed his responses. He went over them again and again, so that his responses would appear spontaneous and heartfelt. It worked, and it didn't work. Sandra expressed again expressed her doubt, concern, and distrust of Katz and his folly of fast money. She also knew, given the Barbuto decision, the Ryman opportunity was something Victor would be hell-bent on pursuing. So she feigned support.

      "Babe, I’ll make you a deal," said Victor, sensing her reluctance, "If things don't go according to plan, I'll bail. Promise." There was nothing else to say. Sandra loved Victor without reservation.

      Chapter 6

      The Butter Stains

      SUTTON PLACE, MANHATTAN.

      The rich and near famous go to their own drummer and make their own rules.

      Epstein’s Coffee shop on 53^rd and First Avenue was a madhouse in the morning! Take-out customers stood impatiently in line, while a slovenly Latino guy named Samosa screamed their orders into a steamy kitchen cluttered with waitresses wrestling for pick-ups. The regulars held court at one of thirty tables, situated so close you could hear farts, curses, and whispers.

      Franklin Ryman, wearing a pinstriped suit with pointed lapels, sat quietly in a corner reading the Wall Street Journal. Not a big man and certainly no longer young, his jet-black wavy hair and dark eyes gave him an aristocratic presence.

      “Good morning, Mr. Ryman,” said Victor with a firm handshake.

      “Franklin, please,” said Ryman, rising only slightly. “Mr. Martini, I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

      “Victor, please.”

      A high-protein, high-fat breakfast appeared, complete with muenster cheese omelet, a side order of grease-laden sausages, and a buttered onion-and-garlic bagel. Before Ryman took a bite, he whipped out the obligatory power symbol — a twelve-inch Cuban Macanudo. For the next twenty minutes, he puffed, slurped his coffee, wolfed down his omelet, chomped on the sausages, and told his life story.

      Victor noticed the butter drip off Ryman’s bagel onto what appeared to be a very expensive Hermes silk print tie resting on a bold burgundy striped shirt with a heavily starched white collar. Was Ryman aware of these fine points? Did he care?

      “I’m just a kid from a middle-class Jewish family on Long Island, Rockville Center, to be precise. Dad was a mid-level accountant in the financial department at Long Island Gas and Electric Company. Guess I inherited his gift of statistical analysis.” Ryman stopped to chuckle at his joke. “Dad graduated with honors from Melville High School at sixteen, a little ahead of the curve,” continued Ryman, believing everybody craved the minutest details of his life. “He was accepted into the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, but my grandparents couldn’t afford the tuition. So, he joined the business world, had a family and kids, and lived unhappily ever after.”

      ~

      “What a coincidence,” responded Victor, poised to perform his famous schmooze routine. “As a kid, I used to spend the summers as a vendor on the beaches in Rockville Center. My dad was a butcher who scraped up a little cash to buy a summer bungalow.”

      Ryman didn’t give a shit. His mission was to impress Victor.

      “Got a full scholarship to Wharton and graduated with a degree in finance. My first job was a junior analyst on Wall Street with Smith Barney. As I completed various research reports on the company’s buy list, I began to realize many of the so-called ‘hot model’ companies were built primarily through mergers and acquisitions and the elimination of operating duplication, rather than real internal growth.

      Wall Street is all about instant gratification. When it comes to money, everybody’s a fucking pig. Right?” Ryman gave Victor no time to answer. “Acquisitions grow revenues and profits instantly and geometrically; stockholders love the action. In my spare time, I began searching for an industry that had not been picked СКАЧАТЬ