But it was simply impossible.

Indeed, they were, without question, beyond doubt, totally screwed.

The call from Jack Wiley came out of the blue at nine the next morning. Agnes tried her best to ward him off, unloading an array of contrived excuses-Perry was feeling ill, indisposed in the bathroom, expecting a conference call that would last at least an hour, and every minute of every hour of the rest of the day was overbooked.

Truth was, Perry was hiding in his office, planted firmly behind his desk, aimlessly shuffling papers and avoiding his workers, still trying to come to grips with the disaster. He had arrived at work as always at six, left strict orders not to be disturbed, and hibernated in stony silence ever since.

Agnes quietly pried open the door and poked her head in. “It’s a Mr. Jack Wiley. He insists on talking with you.”

“I’m busy,” Perry replied. He shoved a few more papers from one place on his desk to another, anything but busy.

“He says you definitely want to talk with him, now. Says it’s very important, very urgent.”

“Don’t know him. Tell him to call back later.”

Agnes crossed her arms and studied her boss. He was in a deep funk, cranky and surly, trying stubbornly to ignore her. She wouldn’t budge, though. She’d never seen him this way, and was determined to make him snap out of it. His eyes glanced up occasionally. She crossed her arms and coughed a few times.

“Oh, all right,” Perry said in a reproachful tone, and lifted up the phone.

Jack quickly introduced himself. “You might not remember me, Mr. Arvan. I was seated in the back of the conference room when you briefed my partners at Cauldron a few months back.”

“I recall the meeting.” He paused very briefly. “But you’re right, I don’t remember you.”

“I thought you and I should get together. I have a business offer you’ll definitely want to hear.”

“I’m busy right now, Mr. Wiley.”

“Please, call me Jack. I’m nearby. An hour of your time is all I ask. Sixty minutes, and if you don’t find me interesting, you can leave at will.”

“Well… what time?”

“Noon. Lunch at the Princeton Inn, my treat.”

“Look, I-”

“And please bring your moneyman. Mat Belton, right? He’ll want to hear this offer, too.”

At noon, Perry and Mat entered the upstairs restaurant of the Princeton Inn amid a loud and rowdy crowd of locals, parents of university students, and Tiger alum, arriving early in a swirl of orange-and-black tones for the weekend game against dreaded Yale. Their mood was festive. Princeton was heavily favored by the Vegas crowd; the idea of putting it to the uppity Elis was almost intoxicating.

Perry and Mat, with their dour expressions, looked dreadfully out of place.

A cheerful young waitress awaited them at the entrance; they were promptly welcomed, then ushered straight into a small private dining room in the back. Perry and Mat had thrown blazers over their usual office apparel of tennis shirts and blue jeans. Jack, in a fine gray suit and stiffly starched shirt, was standing by a window, looking anything but casual, and gazing out at the usual midday bustle of Palmer Square. The second they entered he turned around and approached them.

Handshakes were cordially exchanged and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, hauling a tray with a scotch on the rocks for Jack, a cold beer for Mat, and a diet Pepsi for Perry.

“How did you know I like diet Pepsi?” Perry asked, narrowing his eyes, suddenly suspicious.

“A good guess,” Jack said, an obvious lie. “Incidentally, I preordered. You’re busy and I thought it would save time. Everybody okay with steaks?”

“Fine,” said Perry, and Mat nodded.

They sat around a small table, unfolding their napkins and studying their knives and forks. Jack barely waited until they were comfortable before he came to the point. He looked at Perry, who was sipping his Pepsi. “I hope this doesn’t sound presumptuous, but I want to buy your company.”

Perry choked so hard his face turned red. He pounded his chest and caught his breath. “What?”

Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “That probably sounds a little abrupt, doesn’t it?”

“Abrupt… no, not at all. You got it right in your opening sentence-presumptuous. Who do you think you are?”

“All right, let me explain. Until a few days ago, I was a partner at Cauldron. Like a lot of financial guys, I’m bored with investing in others, tired of watching from the sidelines. I make plenty of money, but I produce nothing. I’m ready to run my own business.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been searching for the right opportunity for about a year.”

“Have you now?” Perry asked, slightly amused.

“Yes, and after you briefed my partners, I became intrigued about Arvan Chemicals.”

“Glad you find us interesting.”

“So I did a little digging. You’re public, and it wasn’t hard. You have a fine company, Mr. Arvan, a very impressive outfit.”

“We’re quite proud of it.”

“And you’re in deep trouble.”

Perry and Mat exchanged looks. How much did he know? the looks said. Maybe nothing, maybe he was throwing darts in the dark.

Straining to look relaxed and unconcerned, Mat spoke first. “There have been a few minor setbacks. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Jack let that incredible statement rest unchallenged on the table for a moment that felt like an hour. The silence said everything-had he screamed “bullshit” it would’ve been less cruel, and less revealing.

He knew a lot.

Eventually, and in a matter-of-fact tone, Jack confirmed their worst fears. “Two years ago, your sales were four hundred million. Last year sales sank to two hundred. And unless my research is flawed, the military munitions market is even slower this year.” Jack’s eyes shifted to Mat’s face. “I assume that’s what you mean by minor setbacks.”

Trying hard to mask his surprise, Mat said, “Times are hard, Mr. Wiley. What’s new? Survival of the fittest, and we’ve been around forty-five years. Believe me, we’ll be standing when the dust settles.”

“Don’t view me as the enemy, Mat. I’m not.”

“Oh, you’re our friend?”

“No, but we’ll get there.”

“Don’t bet on it, pal.”

“Look, you have good people, great products, an admirable reputation. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“We’re not for sale,” Mat insisted, scowling and trying to stare Jack down.

Perry was casually nibbling a breadroll, allowing his younger, pushier CFO to carry the battle. But in fact he did not look like there was any fight left in him, hunched down in his chair, shoulders stooped, neck flaccid. He looked ancient, spent, and for a man who was inveterately neat, slightly unkempt: unshaven, hair unwashed with a large cowlick at the back, shirt hanging out of his pants.

Mat thought his boss had aged a dozen years in the past twelve hours.

But Perry ignored the bread for a moment and commented, “You know, running a company isn’t the same as investing in one.”

“Believe me,” Jack said, “I know that.”

“Takes strong people skills. Customer relations, management expertise, technical knowledge. How much you know about chemicals, son?”

With a timid smile, Jack replied, “I took a course in college.”

“And how’d you do?”

“I’m a fast study,” Jack said, ducking the question. It was an inane claim anyway, speaking as he was, to a man with a doctorate in thermochemistry. “Look, I’ve done or participated in over a dozen corporate turnarounds. I understand business, Mr. Arvan.”

“Good for you, Jack. We like to think we know a little about it, too. We’re not selling insurance or breakfast muffins, though. We deal with highly volatile chemicals. One small mistake and there’s a large crater in the middle of Trenton.”

“We can spend all day discussing my lack of qualifications. But why don’t we first focus on what I bring to the table?”