quickly on the biting end of an obscene verbal barrage from the room’s
lone and moody occupant.
He sat in his chair, shoeless feet on the polished desk, tieless, collar
undone, unshaven, a nearly empty bottle of his strongest whiskey within
easy reach. Sandy Lord’s eyes were now mere blots of red. At the church
he had used those eyes to stare long and hard at the shiny brass coffin
containing Sullivan’s body; essentially it contained both their earthly
remains.
For many years Lord had anticipated Sullivan’s demise and had, with the
help of a dozen PS&L specialists, established an elaborate series@ of
safeguards that included cultivation of a loyal contingent on the board
of directors of the parent holding company of Sullivan Enterprises, all
of which would ensure continual representation of the huge network of
Sullivan entities far into the future by PS&L generally and by Lord in
particular. Life would go on. The PS&L train would thrive with its chief
diesel engine intact and even replenished. But an unexpected development
had occurred.
That Sullivan’s passing was inevitable, the financial markets
understood. What the business and investment community apparently could
not accept was the man’s death, allegedly by his own hand, coupled with
the increasing rumors that Sullivan had had his wife’s alleged killer
gunned down, something that once accomplished, had prompted him to put a
bullet into his own brain. The market was not prepared for such
revelations. A surprised market, some economists would predict, often
reacts wildly and precipitately.
Those economists were not disappointed. Shares of stock in Sullivan
Enterprises plummeted sixty-one percent in value on the New York Stock
Exchange the morning after his body was discovered, on the heaviest
trading volume for a single stock in the last ten years.
With the stock selling a full six dollars a share below book value it
had not taken long for the vultures to circle.
Centrus Corp.”s tender offer was, upon Lord’s advice, rejected by the
board of directors. However, all indications pointed to overwhelming
acceptance of the offer by the shareholders, who had nervously watched
as a large chunk of their investment had evaporated overnight. It was
likely that the proxy battle would be complete and the takeover
finalized in two months. Centrus’s counsel, Rhoads, Director & Minor,
was one of the largest law firms in the country, wellstocked in all
areas of legal expertise.
The bottom line was clear. PS&L would not be needed. Its largest client,
over twenty million dollars’ worth, almost one-third of its legal
business, would disappear. Already rdsurn6s were flying out of the firm.
Practice groups were trying to cut deals with Rhoads, pleading their
familiarity with Sullivan’s business as a hedge against the dreaded and
costly learning curve. Twenty percent of the heretofore loyal PS&L
attorney ranks had submitted their resignation and there were no
indications the tidal wave would subside anytime soon.
Lord’s hand slowly meandered along his desi until the whiskey was
tilted back and finished. He swiveled around, checked out the gloom of
the winter’s morning and had to smile to himself.
There was no deal awaiting him at Rhoads, Director & Minor and, thus, it
had finally happened: Lord was vulnerable. He had seen clients bite the
dust with alarming swiftness, especially in the last decade where you
were a paper billionaire one minute and an impoverished felon the next.
He had, though, never imagined that his own fall, if it ever came, would
be as terrifyingly fast, as painfully complete.
That was the problem with an eight-figure gorilla of a client. It took
all of your time and attention. Old clients dried up and died away. New
clients were not cultivated. His complacency had come back to bite him
right in the ass.
He calculated swiftly. Over the last twenty years he had netted roughly
thirty million, dollars. Unfortunately, he had managed somehow not only
to spend the thirty mil but a good deal more than that. Over the years
he had owned a string of luxurious homes, a vacation place in Hilton
Head Island, a hideaway fuck nest in the Big Apple where he had taken
his wedded prey. The luxury cars, the various collections that a man of