Читать книгу This Little Piggy - M.G. Crisci - Страница 5

MANHATTAN...two years later.

Victor Martini’s climb of the executive ladder at A&J Advertising was in full swing.

The self-proclaimed “New York City Street Kid,” raised in the violence-riddled South Bronx, the son of a butcher and a telephone operator and the graduate of a local commuter college, had scratched and clawed his way from a $70 a week job in the mailroom to a pretentious, power corner office at Arthur & James, now Madison Avenue’s reigning snob-patch.

Nothing appeared out of reach, including an improbable run at the top. Rumors abounded that the company’s visionary president, Gordon Naye, was retiring in five years. As one of only six direct reports, Martini naively assumed the Tarot cards were aligned in his favor.

Nobody at A&J worked harder to prepare for important meetings than Victor. Victor believed knowledge controlled. He was also a master at blowing smoke. As one of the agency’s Fortune 500 clients explained, “When Victor talks to you, he makes you feel like the most important person in the world at that moment.”

~

It was showtime! In the cherry-wood paneled conference room at the executive offices of A&J, now the world’s largest advertising agency, the athletic, well-groomed, blue-eyed Victor, dressed to impress, was holding center stage. He was pontificating on a new market research study, “The Eating Behavior of Upper Socio-Economic House-holds,” to a young, equally well-groomed group reeking of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. They were the boys and girls of Piedmont Foods, America’s largest processed foods marketer, with an advertising budget somewhere north of $150 million.

Victor, the graduate of a modest New Rochelle commuter college, named Iona, had his blue blood audience on the brink of adding an “incremental” $20 million to this year’s Piedmont Farms Stuffing Mix budget. “Piece of cake, people,” he said confidently. “We’ll capitalize on the increasingly value-conscious mindset of our core users by offering them high-satiety recipes that don’t look or taste like inexpensive, boring, everyday meals. Consumers will feel good when they eat Piedmont bread…pardon the pun.”

The room chuckled. “I assume you’ve thought about integrating Internet activities?” asked senior client Tom Brown.

Victor, a master at imagining on his feet, effortlessly snagged the curveball. “Absolutely, Tom. We just ran out of time to get the research findings together. The data arrived late, and I assumed it was today’s priority.” Then he played humble pie. “I’m sorry if…” He had Brown exactly where he wanted him. “If it’s any consolation,” continued Victor looking at the agency’s creative director, Anthony Osgood, “as we speak, your creative team is putting the final touches on an interactive online template that can stand alone or incorporated into Piedmont’s current website. Right, Anthony?”

Osgood had dealt with Victor’s impromptu agreements before. He smiled and nodded, making a mental note to cancel his weekend in Southampton. All that remained was an approval signature on the multimillion incremental media proposal.

~

Victor’s longtime assistant, Janet, unexpectedly entered the room and handed him a discretely folded note from Johnny Katz. She whispered, “Katz says, ‘it’s extremely important’” Victor hadn’t talked to Katz in more than two years. He shook Janet off as if to say, not now. Janet stood fast. “Boss, the guy was begging. As crazy as he is, my instinct tells me you should take this one.”

Martini, who trusted Janet with his life, acquiesced. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got a little family emergency. Do you mind if we take a short break?”

“Go for it,” said Brown, himself the father of three. “Those teenagers…just full of surprises.”

Victor hurried into the nearby executive bathroom, cell phone in hand. “Johnny, this better be goddamn good!” started Victor. “I’m in the middle of increasing my fucking Christmas bonus.”

“Easy, Victor, easy,” said Katz, “Remember how we always fantasized about being rich beyond our wildest dreams? Bagging the corporate bullshit?”

“You mean before or after you decided to become a drug dealer?” responded Victor curtly.

“Listen, the past is past. It's a new day. Your gravy train has just arrived — Ryman is back. THE Franklin Ryman!”

“You pull me from a room full of important clients to tell me Franklin Ryman is back. Who the hell is Franklin Ryman?!”

“The one and only. Mr. Super Rich, Mr. Mover and Shaker, Mr. Wall Street. I’ve convinced him you’re THE man to drive his new initial public offering. It’s that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a big one. He wants to meet you ASAP.”

“Johnny, give me a goddamn break. How could you even get Ryman’s ear, much less convince him that…”

“Long story. Let’s say we took a few trips together. Along the way, he cleaned me up. I’m stone-cold sober. Honest. Trust me.”

Despite Katz’s antics, the one thing he had never lied to Victor. “Okay, let’s assume what you’ve said is true; what the hell do you and I know about public offerings?”

“Franklin’s taught me the whole Wall Street thing is not rocket science. It’s just a pot of gold waiting to be tapped by the right people.”

“I have to get back inside. Otherwise, I could be selling pencils on Wall Street. So, where and when?”

“Epstein’s Coffee Shop, 52^nd and First, Friday morning at 8:30. You and the Great Ryman, alone.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. This genius who is going to shake up Wall Street at a fucking coffee shop?”

“Hey, what can I tell you? He likes the place for meetings. It’s around the corner from his Sutton Place penthouse.”

~

The remainder of the Piedmont meeting went even better than the first part. A&J was awarded a $25 million budget increase, $5 million more than originally recommended. “Victor,” chuckled another senior Piedmont Foods client and close friend, Steve Thompson, “Consider the additional $5 million a performance kicker…Christ, you could sell ice to the Eskimos in the middle of winter.”

When the clients had left, a pleased Victor returned to his office. His chunky assistant was beaming. “Boss,” she said in her distinct New Yorkese, “Mr. Naye called. He wants to see ya on Thursday morning, his office.”

Victor’s jaw dropped. “Boss, relax. da man said it was all good. He even asked if I knew how the meeting was going.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him from the smile on our clients’ faces; you did good. Real good.”

“Where do you get the chutzpah to tell the chairman that?”

“Boss, was I right?” Victor nodded. “So what’s to stress? Isn’t my job to cover your back?