Limitless

‘The future?’ she repeated, laughing out loud and walking away with the coffee pot held up in mid-air. ‘Get in line, honey, get in line.’

When I got home to the apartment, the little red light was flashing on my answering machine. I reached down and flicked the ‘play’ button and waited. There were seven messages – which was about five or six more than I had ever received on it before at any one time.

I sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the machine.

Click.

Beeep.

‘Eddie, this is Jay. I just wanted to let you know – and I hope you won’t be pissed at me – but I was talking to a journalist from the Post this evening, and I … I gave her your number. She’d heard about you and wanted to do a story, so … I’m sorry, I should have checked with you first, but … anyway … see you tomorrow.’

Click.

Beeep.

‘It’s Kevin.’ Long pause. ‘How was dinner? What did you guys talk about? Give me a call when you get in.’ There was another long pause and then he hung up.

Click.

Beeep.

‘Eddie, it’s your father. How are you? Any stock tips for me? (Laughter.) Listen, I’m going on vacation to Florida next month with the Szypulas. Give me a call. I hate these goddamned machines.’

Click.

Beeep.

‘Mr Spinola, this is Mary Stern from the New York Post. I got your number from Jay Zollo at Lafayette Trading. Erm … I’d like to speak with you as soon as possible. Erm … I’ll try you again later, or in the morning. Thank you.’

Click.

Beeep.

Pause.

‘Why you don’t call me?’ Shit, I’d forgotten about Gennady. ‘ … I have some idea for that thing, so call me.’

Click.

Beeep.

‘It’s Kevin again. You’re a real jerk, Spinola, do you know that?’ His voice was slurred now. ‘I mean, who the fuck do you think you are, eh? Mike fucking Ovitz? Well, let me tell you something about peop—’ There was a muffled sound at that point, like something being knocked over. A barely audible shhhiit followed, and suddenly the line went dead.

Click.

Beeep.

‘Look – just fuck you, OK? Fuck you, fuck your mother, fuck your sister.’

Click.

That was it. End of new messages.

I got up from the couch, went into the bedroom and took off my suit.

Kevin I could do nothing about. He would have to be my first casualty. Jay Zollo, Mary Stern, Gennady and my old man I could deal with in the morning.

I went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under the jet of hot water. I didn’t need these distractions and I certainly didn’t want to waste any time thinking about them. After my shower, I put on a pair of boxer-shorts and a T-shirt. Then I sat at my desk, took another MDT pill and started making notes.

In the dimly lit library of his Park Avenue apartment, Van Loon had sketched out the problem for me. The bottom line, predictably enough, was that the principals in the deal couldn’t agree on a valuation. MCL stock was currently selling at $26 a share, but they were asking Abraxas for $40 – a 54 per cent premium, which was way above the average for an acquisition of this kind. Van Loon had to find a way of either reducing the MCL asking-price or of justifying it to Abraxas.

He’d said that he would have some material couriered down to my apartment in the morning, relevant paperwork that I really needed to have a look at ahead of Thursday’s lunch meeting with Hank Atwood. But I decided that before any ‘relevant paperwork’ arrived I needed to do some research of my own.

I went online and skimmed through hundreds of pages of material relating to corporate financing. I learned the basics of structuring a takeover deal and examined dozens of case histories. I followed a trail of links throughout the night and at one point even found myself studying advanced, mathematical formulae for determining the value of stock options.

I took a break at 5 a.m. and watched some TV – re-runs of Star Trek and Ironside.

At around 9 a.m., the courier arrived with the material Van Loon had promised. It was another thick folder, containing annual and quarterly reports, analysts’ assessments, internal management accounts and operational plans. I spent the day wading through all of this stuff and by late afternoon felt that I had reached some sort of a plateau. I wanted the lunch with Hank Atwood to be happening now, and not in twenty hours’ time, but I had probably absorbed as much information as I was going to, so I figured that what I needed at this point was a little R & R.

I tried to get some sleep, but I couldn’t settle down – not even enough to doze for a few minutes, and neither could I bring myself to watch any more TV, so I eventually decided to just go and sit on a bar-stool somewhere, and have a couple of drinks, and chill out.