Bagged the elephant. Part 1

The closer to the kill, intensity increases and increases, like a pressure cooker. It becomes unbearable. The routine is the same though. I am a matching-junkie and everything will be laid out, the night before, for the following morning’s mission. If I’m wearing blue, red, or black, this will run right the way through, from tie, to cuff-links and socks. A couple of times a year though, this routine will break, just very slightly, and I will wear my lucky gold cuffs, given to me by Tony Morris a week before he died. I choose my days to wear them very sparingly. I know he is watching over me now though. Enjoying following the young animal’s progress, ever learning to fight in the jungle. Still looking on, like I’m the focus of a nature programme, a morbid fascination and pleasure. He will really enjoy today. All the old tricks, and feelings, will come out of the bag, and he knows that everything will be done to close the deal with the biggest player in town.

As usual, I’m early, too early. Everything is in place twenty minutes before, the twenty minutes before, it needs to be, and I start pacing the hotel room. There’s no point going to the airport yet, as it will be worse there. I can only see the punter’s face now. My lust for battle is deep to my core now. There can be no turning back, no shying from the challenge. Now is the time.

I check myself over for the umpteenth time. Business cards, a fountain pen (always black ink), a Star Sports pad of paper, and two sides of prices for tonight’s basketball and baseball games slipped into a plastic sleeve. Pam Statements faxed them through at the last minute, so we go armed with the most up-to-date list. I am unable to compete with the World’s bookmaking Goliaths on so many levels, as I don’t have the ammo to make the choices in technology they do. But it takes two to make a bet, I do have the right to lay the right price, and I choose to do so.

I slip out into the landing outside my hotel room and make my way, like an automaton now, towards the lift. The heat outside the air-conditioned hotel is stifling, and in the couple of minutes it takes to get a cab, I can already feel my collar. I have been here for two days, surveying the scene, but New York’s humidity is something else entirely to try and get used to.

A taxi suddenly swings across the road and pulls up next to me, half on the curb. I open the back right door and step in. There are few, if any pleasantries, with New York cabbies, and no eye-contact is made on the driver’s part. I simply utter ‘JFK, please’ and our period of communication has already started and come to a end.

I know that Gaul Wood, wherever he is on his journey, will be going through the same torment in his own way. The quiet man, that at first was dragged forward with a rough ride, has now glided to the front, and seldom displays any emotion. ‘They’, whoever ‘they’ are in life, perceive him as the soft option. They’re wrong though, he just kills in a calmness and clarity that registers a sound only slightly above silence. He is so much more rounded than me, there is no rust or jagged and chipped edges on his shoulders. Rather than roaring like a lion and showing off his mane in public, he is the definition of pertinence in his communication. Neither does he feel obliged to, as politely as possible, openly offend corporate and computer people. He is able, instead, to accept them for the type of merchants they are. Whilst, of course, I have to ram it right the way home.

At arrivals, I spot him immediately, as he comes through in the distance. His pensive and considered walk, giving him away. Each week his cardigans and corduroys are more a thing of the past, and Gaul Wood in a sharp black suit, with a purple tie, on a white shirt, will be what Mr Gekko first sees of him.

We can’t break the intensity of the moment to greet each other with a hug or a handshake, he just strolls slowly but purposefully past me, as if he already knows the way to the taxi-rank, and utters ‘alright?’, without expecting any kind of nicey-nicey response. At once, we are walking together, at the same speed, with a joined momentum. We are both clearly aware of the gravity of getting this account open. In 1987 Bud Fox came to Wall Street to first ‘bag the elephant’ as it was put in GG’s first film. Today, in 2013, myself and Gary have come to New York to do the job again. However sadomasochistic, the pleasure and pain of this morning’s pressure is, it compares in no way to the low, and mental self-mutilation, that will come if we walk away empty handed.

It has been an unsaid thing, but in recent years, lines of responsibility and decision-making, have been set. Always thinking alike, but at different time-lines, our strategies and targets for the business are in unison. Just, very occasionally, our horns may brush, but not fully lock, in the morning sun. More over an individual moment than any kind of change in journey plan. For the first time though today, his nerves betray him.

‘So what are we going to play him for then?’

In an instant he looks to his left out of the taxi’s window. He knows that was a moment wasted, really a moment of weakness. What was going to unfold now was a very silly conversation because it was a conversation with a drug addict. An ambition addict. You can lock horns with many issues, opinions, questions, and people, in this life. Blind Ambition is not one of those debating-points though. Blind Ambition just says whatever is necessary to get what it wants. Blind Ambition is a liar.

‘I dunno, I was thinking 220’s to win 200’s early. We may have to go a bit higher if he’s getting better elsewhere.

‘Far, far too big, to start, on US sports.’. Was the sensible, correct, pertinent, advice, from the voice of experience. It was said with a sigh though, as Gary knew that it had already left Blind Ambition’s obsessed mind and grating jaw. He didn’t bother continuing the conversation, the conversation that had never even started or existed as far as Blind Ambition was concerned. ‘BA’ was going to go into the meeting with Gekko and do and say whaaatteeevvveeerrr he wanted…

‘BigTimer’ has settled in New York but still has a few favours to return, and taken liberties, to balance back up again. Ahead of those incidents though, that he considers to be in the forgotten past, he’d be keen to score a good ‘drink’ for any action he may be able to put us into.

We ask the driver to drop us off first, at The Four Seasons hotel. This is BigTimer’s new hunting ground. This is where he’s setting the scene for himself in New York. I text him because I don’t want to disturb any manoeuvres he may be carrying out in the bar with potential investors, and moments later he emerges onto the front steps of the hotel. Nothing has changed, he’s still so alpha his testosterone is practically carving his black leather slip-ons into the ground, and his shirt is as open and flash as before. He’s done a lot of weight though. Maybe three stone. London may still be reverberating from his business highs and lows of seven or eight years ago, but he knows that if he is to march forward in New York, when he’s that bit older, he’s got to be in good shape.

The doorman to the hotel walks by and they offer each other a knowing nod. In an instant I can see that the front-man of the hotel has been ‘straightened-up’, to let Big Timer know about any soft looking billionaires that have come to stay. Times have changed, and whilst he’s getting himself going again, to do deals now, BT needs investors to back him. In time, he will leave no stone unturned in the city. Every doorman, high-class madame, tailor, jeweller, and any other professional, coming into contact with the wealthy classes, will have his name in their phone book. If anyone with money wants to start playing in New York, BigTimer will be first in the queue with potential deals and moves for them to get stuck into.

‘Ben, darling, how are you?’ He chimes out, in his jack-the-lad, go-getter, London accent.

‘I’m good, BigTimer. You?’

The pleasantries had ended. He was clearly busy ‘grafting’ in the hotel and didn’t need to waste valuable time creating hot air with me and Gary.

‘Right, I’ve teed you up nicely. You’re a great guy, you take big bets, the service is top-notch, etc etc. I’ve got him nicely brewing to buy an apartment on 5th Avenue for $6mill that I’m sure we can flip for $8.5mill. As you’re bedding yourself in, make sure you push home what a shrewdie on the property-game I am. Okay?’

‘Of course, of course.’, is my rhetorical response.

‘And here’s a little clue for you… Gekko’s set up a charity with the leftie daughter. It’s for ex-cons, giving them second chances, and helping them set up small businesses. Make a donation, or a cash back, or whatever you do, and I think it’ll get you in there.’

I nod as I am saying ‘Yes, yes, good thinking, BigTimer.’

I look into his eyes. There’s something else there this time. His cheeks are slightly rosy, and although time has moved on, his skin young looking. Behind him, I look through the revolving door, and see, side-on, a svelte looking, attractive blonde woman, with sunglasses sitting on the front of her head. She is fiddling around with her Iphone but clearly waiting for him.

He sees that I’ve noticed her and as my eyes return to his, he says nothing. He is in love. Bonnie has met Clyde, once again, on this beautiful earth, and who am I to get in their way any longer.

‘Thanks’ I say, looking into his eyes, smiling gently and knowingly. I am so pleased for him. Fresh starts all round.

‘No, thank you, Ben.’

Just before he turns back to disappear again into his new World, he touches my left arm and whispers, like he’s half embarrassed, ‘10%?’.

‘Of course’, I respond.

He is gone.

And we are now on our way to meet Gordon Gekko, The King of Wall Street.

To be continued….

This blog is, unfortunately, a fictional account, created in my deluded mind, of myself and Gary, going to New York to meet Gordon Gekko. It is dedicated to my dad, Lindsay. He hasn’t been a well boy of late and I send him all of my love and care. Your soft and kind shoulder has always been there for me to cry upon, and it’s also always been so strong to bounce back off again, back into the big-wide-world. This story is written for you and I hope it may ease some pain. Ben xx