Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(74)
“It’s been quite a ride,” Matthews agreed after taking a sip of his Scotch.
“Yes, it has, and you and I have been well rewarded along the way. As good as things have been, Brad, they’re about to get a lot better. If this IPO goes as intended, a very lucrative payday awaits both of us.”
Sherman waited for a reaction. Not receiving one, he continued. “Billions of dollars are at stake. It’s critically important that we avoid any situation that would dampen the enthusiasm of the investment community.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Matthews said amiably.
“Brad, I’m going to speak candidly. Finding the money to pay settlements to the women you,” he paused, “had misunderstandings with is a greater challenge than we anticipated. Every dollar we spend is being scrutinized by investment bankers to determine just how profitable we are. I’m sure you’ll recall Michael Carter, who met with us at the club. He just told me he needs another six million dollars to continue his efforts. The question is, where do we get the money?”
Matthews poured himself another drink. Sherman had barely touched his and declined the offer to have it topped off. “Tell me, Dick, what’s the answer to that question?”
“The six million is going to be used to solve problems you created. That will be on top of the twelve million REL has already anted up. This time, it’s only fair, the six million is going to come out of your pocket.”
Matthews smiled his anchorman’s smile. He took a long sip and used his finger to wipe his lips. “No, Dick, I don’t think so. When, or should I say, if, this IPO goes through, you are projected to pocket over sixty million dollars. That’s a lot of money. In fact it’s more than twice what I’m slated to get. You’re right. We’ve both got a lot to lose, but you’ve got more at stake. Way more. So if you and your bean counters over in accounting can’t figure out a way to come up with the money, you write the check.”
Sherman got up to leave, the fury building inside him, and heard a voice behind him.
“Dick, not so fast.” Matthews grabbed a pen, scribbled on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sherman. “I’ve had some time to think since that ambush you pulled at the golf club. Tell your errand boy Carton to make a deal with these two girls. Now get out of here.”
Sherman turned and Matthews called to him again.
“Dick, two more things. Be sure to close the door when you leave. And the next time you want to talk to me in my office, make an appointment.”
Sherman complied by slamming the door so hard that the window blinds in Matthews’s office gently rattled.
* * *
Sherman ordered himself to focus on the task at hand. He picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Ed Myers’s secretary. Wasting time on pleasantries was never his thing. “Is he in his office?”
“Yes, Mr. Sherman, do you want—”
“Does he have anybody in there?”
“No, should I—”
“Don’t do anything. I’m on my way over to see him.”
Two minutes later he was at Myers’s door. He entered without knocking and closed it behind him. Myers, who had been on the phone, appeared startled to see him. “Something’s come up that I have to tend to right now. I’ll call you back,” he said as he hung up the phone.
“Ed, I need another six million to go to Carter & Associates. When will you send it?” Sherman remained standing, looking down on his CFO.
Myers leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses, and began to chew on one of the rims. “I know better than to ask any questions. The numbers for this quarter are really good. It will be better to take the hit now. I’ll get it moving by tomorrow.”
“I knew I could count on you, Ed. Thanks.”
It was a rare expression of gratitude that Myers would have welcomed if the circumstances had been different. As Sherman was heading for the door, Myers asked, “Dick, do you have any idea how much more money this Carter group is going to need?”
Sherman stopped, turned around, and faced him. In a voice that was devoid of its usual bravado he responded, “I’m hoping this will be it.”
Myers waited a full minute before he picked up the phone and dialed the extension of Frederick Carlyle, Jr.
81
Gina trudged woodenly out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, and unlocked the door of her apartment. To say she was in a daze would have been an understatement. While walking to the subway after her meeting with Geoff, she had been oblivious to a DON’T WALK traffic signal. She had stepped in front of a taxi that swerved to avoid hitting her. The driver had blared his horn while shouting at her in a foreign language. In all likelihood whatever he said was not complimentary.
She pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and plopped into a chair at the kitchen table. The overwhelming feeling of fatigue that washed over her had little to do with having gotten up early to catch her flight. She felt like a marathon runner who collapses after completing a grueling 26 miles, with only 352 yards to go and the finish line in sight.
She glanced at her phone and saw that five new emails had arrived. One was from Andrew Ryan, Cathy’s brother.
Hi Gina, I’m sorry to reach out to you again. My mother calls me twice a week to ask if there’s anything new in your investigation of Cathy’s death. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t tell you how grateful my parents and I are to you. No matter what you find, it will be a great comfort to know what really happened to my beloved sister. You have our eternal gratitude. Andrew