The Job (33 page)

“Of course not, Mr. Ballantine.”

“Sounded that way to me.”

“There was just a little confusion about an old membership matter.”

“But that’s settled now, right? And my friend won’t have to reapply again for membership, will he?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Ballantine. We’ll reinstate him right away. And I do apologize to you, Mr. Allen….”

“Apology accepted,” Ballantine said on my behalf. Then, tapping me on the shoulder, he said, “Come on, kid,” and I followed him toward the locker room.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Ballantine turned to me and said, “Isn’t power a joke?” Then he proffered his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ned.”

“Mr. Ballantine, I’m really sorry you had to get involved back there..

..”

“Why the hell should you be sorry? How much did you owe the club?”

“Eight hundred. But I did pay it off….”

“Just so you could play tennis with me?”

“Well, uh, yes.”

“Kid, that’s both smart and dumb. Smart because you have impressed me. But dumb because you must never, never get all cowed and kiss-assy about a debt as trivial as eight hundred bucks. Remember, you’re talking to a guy who was two hundred million in the hole five years ago-so, to me, eight hundred is not even chump change. Now get your ass into that locker room and then out to Court Four. Our hour starts in three minutes.”

I was changed and on the court within two minutes. Ballantine had taken off his tracksuit and was wearing a pristine white Ralph Lauren polo shirt and matching white tennis shorts. Standing in the middle of the court, he was doing some rather conspicuous stretching exercises and enjoying the fact that everyone on the adjoining courts was noticing him.

“Over here, kid,” Ballantine said, motioning me to where he was standing.

“Jerry tells me you’re quite a killer on the court.”

“Maybe once upon a time. Now. I’m just average.”

“Never call yourself average. Especially when you have the ability to kick ass. You can still kick ass, can’t you, Ned?”

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

He tossed me a tennis ball.

“Well, let’s see you try to kick mine.”

Within five minutes, it was pretty damn clear to me that Jack Ballantine really did play to win. As I hadn’t been on a tennis court for several months-and also felt somewhat tentative about coming out fighting (despite his “let’s-see-if-you-can-kick-my-ass” exhortation)-he won both his service games to love and broke me during a cliffhanger game that went to deuce five times.

Suddenly he was up 3-0 and shooting me quizzical, why-aren’t-you-trying-here? looks from across the court. That’s when I suddenly stepped up my game and began making him run for every point. Ballantine was a classic serve-and-volley player. He tried to ace you off the court. If that failed, he’d hit deep, then race to the net. To him, a point was to be won with a few quick punishing shots. Like a heavyweight boxer, he wanted to finish you off fast. But like most heavyweights, he began to falter when forced into a lengthy brawl. And I gave him a very lengthy brawl, turning as many points as possible into extended rallies that had him dashing all over the court. I also began to crack his high-velocity first serve, which, though brimming with brute force, didn’t have the necessary tops ping or sneaky angle to make it unplayable. That was the thing about Ballantine’s tennis-it was forceful and dynamic, but it lacked finesse. By keeping him on the move, I was able to exploit the twenty-year age gap between us.

Before he knew it, I’d broken back twice and held service twice, and was now up 4-3. There was a tense eighth game that Ballantine just managed to take on a lucky net cord at forty-thirty. But I powered ahead, winning the next service game to love. And then Ballantine lost the plot, hitting two double faults and a wild lob, which suddenly handed me three set points. Facing loss, Ballantine never once radiated fear or concern. He simply hit back hard, reeling off a trio of aces that brought us to deuce. Then I made an unforced backhand error into net, and blew the game with a bad volley that ricocheted way out of court.

Now it was 5-5, and I knew that I was going to let him win. It wasn’t that the fight had gone out of me. Rather, having come back from a 3-0 deficit to holding three set points, I’d shown him I was a battler. But I also knew that, having let Ballantine back into the set, it would be a strategic error to suddenly decimate him. This man was the only thing standing between me and unemployment. I needed to hand him the win-and, in doing so, show him I knew who was boss.

And thanks to a few unforced errors, and a couple of less-than-blatant double faults, Jack Ballantine beat me 7-5. The club buzzer sounded, ending our hour on court. I approached the net, hand outstretched. But before he took it, Ballantine gave me a stern stare.

“Why’d you throw the set?” he asked.

From his sharp tone I realized this was not the moment to trade in you-won-fair-and-square bullshit. So I returned his stare and said, “Because I really want the job you’re offering me. And because, as you yourself said in The Success Zone, there are times in life when it is strategically advantageous to lose a game or two.”

Ballantine allowed himself a small smile. Then, finally shaking my hand, he said, “Welcome to the team.”

My office was tiny. It was an eight-by-eight closet, furnished with nothing more than a steel desk, a steel straight-backed chair, and a phone. This cubicle was situated in the backwater of the skyscraper that housed Ballantine Industries. Whereas the hub of Ballantine’s empire was located in a large, stylish suite of offices on the eighteenth floor of the building, I found myself at the extreme rear of the third floor. This was the low-rent district of the office building-a long, dingy corridor lit by fluorescent tubes, with twenty or so frosted doors behind which worked JOHN MACE: PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, THE BENTHEIM COLLECTION AGENCY (“No Debt Is TOO Small”), and MAN SOUR & SONS: INT’L RUG MERCHANTS. My cubbyhole was at the end of this corridor. Its minuscule window afforded me a panoramic view of a neighboring air shaft. Besides being deficient in natural light, the office also lacked all basic business amenities. It depressed the hell out of me.

“I know, I know,” Jerry said when he saw my stunned reaction, “it’s not exactly a lavish setup….”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I said.

“Couldn’t you find me something up there with all of you on the eighteenth floor?”

“As I told you before, we really are a lean operation. So our space is at a premium-to the point where two secretaries share the same office. Anyway, as you know, the fund has to be kept separate from Ballantine Industries. I tell you, they love to hate Mr. B. in this town-and they really can’t stand the fact that he’s bounced back as a best-selling author. So the moment some goddamn financial journalist or gossip columnist finds out about Mr. B.“s connection to Excalibur, we’re going to start seeing all sorts of bad press disparaging the fund. And once a private equity fund’s image is tainted, it’s dead. And you can kiss your job good-bye.”

I certainly didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize the fund-because, after all, it was my lifeline, the means by which I would pick myself up again. But I still felt deeply let down by this office-and said so.

“Okay, I agree with you,” Jerry said.

“It is definitely not ideal. But, hey-as Mr. B. probably told you yesterday-yours is a real pioneering kind of job. You’re helping build something from the ground up. And if it works as well as we think it should, then we’ll be able to rent you a penthouse here.”

Indeed, Mr. Ballantine did hit me with the same sales pitch. After our tennis game, we headed to the club’s lounge, where the Great Motivator gave me a demonstration of his formidable self-empowerment skills. Like any canny guru, he had the ability of making me feel as if I were the most important person he had ever met-and that he saw in me the potential for… well, greatness.

“You know what I like about your tennis game, Ned?” he said, sipping a glass of orange juice.

“The fact that it’s tough but tactical. I saw what you were doing out there. You were trying to wear this old guy down. But you didn’t attempt to slam-dunk me off the court. You played a very consistent game, and you didn’t mind waiting a while before winning a point.

“Now, to me, that sort of strategy is the key to true salesmanship. You displayed steadiness and diligence, you never overplayed your hand, but knew exactly when to move in for the coup de grace. And that’s why I’m certain you will not only succeed brilliantly with Excalibur… but you also might get rich in the process. Because, my friend, what I see in you is exactly what I also see in this brave new world of private equity funds: unlimited potential.”

Okay, maybe Ballantine was laying it on a little thick. But, having been on a downward curve for the past few months, I was more than receptive to such ego stroking. He obviously knew what I had been through-because everything he said was designed to rehabilitate my battered self-confidence.

“You’re not just a fighter, Ned. You’re also a survivor. Takes one to know one, kid. I’ve gone to the wall, too-and, believe me, I

understand just how bad it hurts. Especially when it’s not just your professional dreams that are destroyed, but your personal ones as well. And I’ll let you in on a little secret, Ned. On the pain meter, the collapse of my second marriage made the collapse of my real estate business seem like nothing more than a sprained ankle. I’d never felt agony like that in my life.”

My eyes fogged over. I turned away from Ballantine, not wanting him to see my distress.

“Sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I really don’t know why I’m…”

“Don’t ever fucking apologize for feeling, Ned,” Ballantine said.

“Feeling is good. Feeling is right. Feeling means you understand loss and regret. And unless you understand loss, you will never experience growth. Growth leads to positive change. And positive change always results in success. That’s the upward trajectory you’re now on, Ned. So every time you feel that overpowering sense of loss about the collapse of your marriage, tell yourself this: “By acknowledging the pain, I am beginning the journey back to success.”

” It’s funny how, when you are at your most vulnerable and needy, you lose all sense of irony-and take comfort in sentiments that you would normally find laughable. Of course I knew that Jack Ballantine was talking psychobabble. But in my emotionally raw state, it was exactly what I wanted to hear. Because he innately understood that I now felt like a very abandoned, very scared little boy-suddenly all alone in the big bad world and desperate for a daddy. And he was going to fill that role. He was going to be the father of my dreams-the guy who totally believed in me and would nurture me back to self-respect.

And if, in exchange for such nurturing, I had to put up with a shoe box office, so be it. It was a small price to pay for the faith that Jack Ballantine had in me.

“All right, I’ll live with the office,” I told Jerry, “but can I at least buy a few crucial things to make it functional?”

“No problem,” Jerry said-and later than afternoon handed me an envelope with $5,000 in cash.

Will that be enough to get you started?” he asked.

“More than,” I said.

“I’ll make certain you have receipts for everything I buy.”

“Sure, sure,” Jerry said absently.

“Just remember: If you’re getting anything delivered, don’t have it sent care of Ballantine Industries. It should go to you directly at the Excalibur Fund.”

“You mean, just in case the sales guy at Comp USA turns out to be a reporter from the New York Times?”

“Very funny,” Jerry said with a grimace.

Comp USA on Thirty-eighth and Fifth, was the first stop on my shopping expedition. I bought a desktop IBM Aptiva, a fax modem a laser printer, an answering machine, and an Office Software Suite. The salesman worked hard at appearing New York blase when he saw me whip out a fat roll of $100 bills-but his eyes betrayed him.

“Where do you want it delivered?” he asked.

I printed the Excalibur Fund’s office address. Glancing down he asked, “What kind of fund do you work for?”

“The kind of fund that makes people money,” I said.

He glanced again at the wad of cash in my hand.

“I can see that,” he said.

Leaving Comp USA I walked one block east to an office furniture shop on Madison and Thirty-seventh, where I found a stylish secondhand beech wood veneer desk, a black-and-chrome desk chair, and a high-tech Tizio desk lamp-all for just under $1,200. The manager of the shop let me use his phone. I called the phone company and arranged for a separate fax modem line to be installed in my office on Monday, and also asked that they deliver a modern Touch-Tone phone. Then I walked up to Forty-second Street and Lexington and shelled out $199 for a cellular phone at one of those cheapo electronic goods emporiums that crowd the eastern side of Grand Central station.

I had one final errand on my shopping run. I dropped by Kin-ko’s on Fifty-fourth between Madison and Fifth and placed an order for Excalibur Fund stationery and a thousand business cards with my name and title-FUND EXECUTIVE-situated in the lower right-hand corner.

After helping me choose an elegant light gray paper for the stationery, the Kinko’s printing clerk asked, “Do you have a company logo or typeface you’d like us to copy?”

I handed over a very glossy, well-produced brochure. THE EXCALIBUR FUND was embossed in silver letters on the cover.

“Could you use the same typeface for the stationery and the cards?” I asked.

“No problem,” he said, flicking through the pages of the prospectus.

“Is this your baby?”

“Sort of.”

“Pretty impressive. Will it make you rich?”

“That’s the idea.”

Or, at least, that’s what I wanted to believe. The fact was, I really didn’t know how (or if) the fund would work. All I knew was what Jerry told me over dinner. To date, the fund was made up of a half dozen private investors (FOB’s-Friends of Ballantine), each of whom had entrusted $1 million to the fund. So far the fund had backed one small company, Micromagna, which had just gone public.