On the other hand, Elliot and I quickly became Jedi Masters at the art and then just as quickly we crossed over to the dark side-finding every way possible to juggle cash flow. My favorite was reverse financial extortion, during which you'd turn the tables on an angry supplier by explaining to him that the only shot he had of getting paid back was to accept a small payment on an old invoice in return for extending you more credit; that one worked like a charm. And then there was the old one-signature-check trick, where I'd give a supplier a check with either my or Elliot's signature missing, which would cause the bank to return it for improper endorsement, as opposed to insufficient funds. Of course, we were always careful to alert the bank manager about this check, lest he mistakenly try to clear it and it bounced like a kangaroo.
And there were other tricks too, but none of them was the Bastard's business. So all I said was, “Exactly; it's Business 101, Joel. Before I knew it, I had twenty-six trucks on the road, a legitimate warehouse, and a whole lot of money in the bank. Of course, my balance sheet was a total wreck, although I refused to focus on that. Instead, I relished giving sales meetings to twenty-six nitwits, most of whom were addicted to either crack or smack or were certified alcoholics.
“Still, at least I was the proud owner of a seemingly successful meat-and-seafood company. And all my friends were really impressed with me; they all thought I was a first-rate entrepreneur.” I shrugged innocently. “That's when I met Kenny Greene; he came to work for me in the meat business.”
“Really?” said OCD. “I didn't know that.”
I nodded slowly, wondering why Kenny Greene hadn't been indicted along with Danny and me. He was the third partner at Stratton, although he hadn't been associated with the firm since we'd settled our SEC case four years ago. Still, he'd been a twenty-percent partner up to that point, as had Danny (I owned the other sixty percent). He'd made tens of millions of dollars and had broken as many laws as we had. It seemed highly illogical (and also a tad unfair) that he'd escaped OCD's wrath—unless he'd been cooperating all along!
I chose to keep those thoughts to myself, and I said, “He was a referral from one of my friends from college, a guy named Jeff Honigman. He and Kenny were first cousins.” I motioned to my villains, thieves, and scoundrels list. “Jeff's on there too, although most of his dirty deeds took place after he left Stratton, when he was working for Victor Wang, at Duke Securities.” Once more, I motioned to the list. “Victor's on there too, somewhere close to the top, just above Kenny's name.” I wondered if they were aware of what a truly depraved maniac Victor Wang was. “In fact, Victor worked for me in the meat-and-seafood business too, although only for about an hour. He was too proud and too lazy to actually take a truck out and go door to door; he just showed up to listen to one of my sales meetings. And, of course, I still remember the first time I laid eyes on Victor.” I started chuckling at the memory.
The Mormon chimed in: “How could you forget, right?”
I nodded in agreement. “Right, how could anyoneforget? He's basically the biggest Chinaman to ever walk the planet. He's got a chest the size of the Great Wall, slits for eyes, a brow ridge like a rock ledge, and a head that's larger than a giant panda's.” I paused, catching my breath. “You know, I don't know if all of you have seenVictor, but he's the spitting image of Oddjob, from the James Bond movie Goldfinger.Remember Oddjob? He's the one who killed people by throwing his hat at them—”
“What's your point?” said the Bastard, shaking his head.
I shrugged. “No point, really, other than that Kenny and Victor were childhood friends who dealt drugs together back in high school—both of them, I might add, being backed by Kenny's mother, Gladys. But I refuse to give you any information about Gladys; she might try to kick my ass.” I smiled ruefully. “In fact, the last time someone got under Glady's skin was at a bowling alley. I think she ended up tossing the guy for a strike. Or maybe it was in a supermarket, where she knocked out a woman in the express line. Either way, if you'd ever actually seenGladys it wouldn't really surprise you.” I nodded my head three times, for emphasis. “There's not an ounce of fat on her, and her gut could stop an English musket ball fired at more than twenty paces. Know the type?” I raised my eyebrows.
Nothing but blank expressions, punctuated by silence. I soldiered on: “Anyway, Gladys belongs on that list too, although I assume you're not interested in her, right?” I crossed my fingers.
“Right,” the Bastard said tonelessly. “We're not interested in her. Why don't you get back to the meat business.”
I nodded, relieved. “Fair enough; but just so you know, this whole Kenny-Gladys-Victor triangle leads right back to your earlier question about where the first wave of Strattonites came from. Kenny and Victor both grew up in Jericho. Kenny was a pot dealer and Victor was a coke dealer, and Gladys was their backer.” I paused, then added, “But her motives were pure, of course. I mean, you know, she was just trying to keep the family afloat after Kenny's father died of cancer. It was all very sad.” I shrugged, hoping Gladys could somehow hear my words and would choose not to beat me up if we crossed paths. “Anyway, out of the first wave of Strattonites, about half came from Jericho and Syosset—which are sister towns—and virtually all of them had been clients of Kenny and Victor. That's how Stratton was able to grow so quick; even before we gained a reputation as a place for kids to get rich, I had dozens of them lining up at my door. And then they'd move to Bayside to join the cult.
“But let me take things in order: Kenny worked at the meat company for only one day, at which point he crashed up one of my trucks and then never called me again, or at least not until I was out of the meat business. And Victor, as I said, never worked there at all; he just showed up once to listen to one of my sales meetings and he never came back.
“In the meantime, my business was on the verge of imploding.” I shook my head slowly, preparing myself to relive the dreaded memory. “You can only play the cash-flow game for so long before it reverses itself on you. In our case, the reversal started in January of 1987. It was a ferocious winter, and sales had plunged through the floor. Cash flow, of course, had plunged with it. I gave meeting upon meeting, desperately trying to motivate the salesmen to go out and sell, but it was no use. It was too cold, and sales came to a grinding halt.
“And by the very nature of the cash-flow game, that's when the boomerang came flying back the hardest. Remember, it's Business 101, Joel. When you're growing on credit, today's bills are for things you sold thirty days ago or, in our case, sixty days ago, because we were already thirty days behind on our bills.” I paused, then corrected myself. “Actually, we were ninety days behind on most of our bills, but we were no longer doing business with those companies; they'd already cut us off, so we'd been forced to move on to more-fertile pastures—meaning, new suppliers who hadn't caught wind of the fact that we didn't pay our bills.
“But that part of the game was over now too. Word was out that we were a bad credit risk and shouldn't be shipped to unless we paid cash up front. Meanwhile, Elliot and I were still trying to keep things afloat. We'd exhausted our personal credit cards, and every day we were falling deeper and deeper into debt. We hadn't paid our truck leases, our cell-phone bills, our car leases. And our new landlord, a Syrian bastard, had an eviction order against us and was making us pay double rent until we were current.”
I shook my head slowly, still amazed at how deep a financial hole we'd dug for ourselves. Then I said, “It was right around that time, in the winter of ‘87, when I started hearing rumors about a kid from my neighborhood named Michael Falk. He'd landed a job on Wall Street straight out of college—right around the same time I was starting dental school—and he was supposedly making over a million dollars a year.” I paused for effect. “At first I didn't believe it. I mean, growing up, Michael Falk was not a sharp kid. In fact, he was more like the neighborhood loser, someone everyone else made fun of for not taking a shower. He wasn't quick or bright or well spoken or anything else, for that matter. He was just average, nothing more. So I figured it was bullshit, that there was no wayhe could be making that sort of money.