Chasing the Wind (7 page)

"It's time for lunch," he announced. He softened the interruption with a smile. His smile was contagious, he knew. He'd been aware all his life that this smile of his was a valuable tool, and he used it as such. So he looked around the room, caught each eye and twinkled, catching them off guard, breaking the connections. Otherwise they'd sit here all day, billing him.

"Let's go eat," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get out of here and find some good Creole food. What do you suggest? Galatoire's? I've heard a lot about that place."

Doug glanced at Preston. "We've ordered lunch in," Preston said, scooting back his chair. "I'll go check on that."

"Nope." Bingham's voice was firm. He leaned forward, forearms on the table. "No catered food. I want to try out all your great restaurants. Let's start with Galatoire's. We'll come back here and work after."

Preston looked at Doug.

"There'll be a long line," Robert murmured to Bingham.

"So what?" He looked at Doug. "Can't we do something about the line?"

Doug nodded. "Sure."

"Get someone to stand in for us. Have them call us when they've got a table."

"No problem," Doug said again. Preston rose. Left the room and nodded when he returned. "All set."

"Good," Bingham said.

Amalise stopped at Ashley Elizabeth's desk. "I'm going to lunch," she said.

Ashley Elizabeth looked up from her typewriter though her fingers continued to fly across the keys. She worked for Amalise and two other associates, so she was always busy. "All right." Ashley Elizabeth smiled. "I'm going too. Soon."

When the elevator doors opened, Doug Bastion stood there with several others. He surprised her by swinging an arm around her shoulders. "Amalise, there's someone I want you to meet." He turned to a tall, lean man with a craggy face. The man wore a gray suit that, from the fit, appeared custom made, as well as a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, a burgundy tie, and wingtip shoes. He looked about fifty-five, perhaps sixty years old.

"Bingham," Doug said, "this is one of our finest young lawyers. She'll be working with us on your transaction. Amalise, this is Bingham Murdoch."

"Well, look at this," Bingham exclaimed, opening his arms and smiling. "From the tenth circle of hell an angel has appeared." He turned to two men standing behind him and introduced them as Adam and Robert. "One's a banker," he said, "and the other's a Wall Street lawyer, angel. Don't you singe those wings."

She said hello as Doug released her from his grip.

"Amalise." Bingham glittered for her. "That's a nice name. We're all off to Galatoire's for lunch, and you're coming with us." He chuckled and shuffled beside her, slipping his arm through hers as the elevator continued the descent. "I must say, Doug, your firm has good taste. What a relief." Everyone laughed.

Preston wore a wry smile. "Amalise is a rose among the thorns."

Before she could say a word, the elevator reached the lobby and the doors opened. Bingham steered her along, leaving Doug, Preston, Raymond, Frank Earl, Adam, and Robert trailing behind.

"Call me Bingham." His eyes shone as he led her through the lunchtime crowds. Walking along, he compared in a favorable light the sidewalk crush to the streets of Manhattan this time of day. He mentioned flying into the city yesterday and how he'd felt such a bond with New Orleans the moment he saw it. He talked of a recent trip to Las Vegas and said she was prettier than any of those showgirls, and he praised the orchestra in the Blue Room at the Roosevelt the previous night.

Amalise strolled along beside him, speechless. He commanded all attention until at last they were seated around the table in the restaurant and the menu appeared, at which time he changed the subject to food.

Once Doug attempted to bring up a point under discussion in the term sheet.

Bingham's hand shot up, like a stop sign. "No business here, my boy. Not at lunch."

That afternoon Amalise spoke to counsel
in the various jurisdictions where Murdoch's two companies were organized and did business, arranging for organizational documents and certificates to be sent to her right away. Counsel in Grand Cayman confirmed that the Lone Ranger subsidiary guaranteeing the loans was organized under Cayman Island law. The sole shareholder was the borrower, Murdoch's Delaware Company, Lone Ranger, Inc.

"Thanks." Amalise checked that off her list. "We'll prepare forms of board resolutions and send them to you to revise under Cayman law."

Later in Raymond's office—a duplicate of hers—she and Raymond reviewed the term sheet, the deal point memo that Preston had prepared as the axis around which ongoing detailed negotiations and documents would revolve. Amalise sat in the chair in front of his desk with the term sheet propped on her lap. She made notes in the margins while they talked.

One item caught her attention, and she looked up. "Why is Murdoch providing a personal letter of credit? It's only for one million—not enough to cover the company's debt."

Raymond checked off something on his copy. "It's extra security for the banks in the syndicate. Gives them comfort. Under the terms, they'll draw any overdue interest on their loans from the credit should the company default and fail to pay." Head bent, he looked at Amalise under his brows. "It's not an insignificant amount—one million would cover your salary for forty years without investing it."

"Not yours?"

He smiled.

"I knew I was underpaid."

"Who's the issuing bank?"

"Cayman Trust."

He looked up. "I thought Banc Franck held the accounts." Flipping through the term sheet, he stopped on a page and read. "Well, Cayman Trust it is. Banc Franck just holds the borrower's primary account." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. The letter of credit's a point of trust. It's good as cash."

"I've got the corporate due diligence started. Doug also wants us to see what background we can find on Murdoch. Where do we start?"

Raymond set the term sheet down on his desk and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. He looked at Amalise. "These big money men keep out of the public eye. But go ahead and get started in the case reporters, and
Barron's, Wall Street Journal
. See what you can find."

In the firm library Amalise checked regulatory opinions under both names, Lone Ranger and Bingham Murdoch. Murdoch had mentioned transactions in Atlanta, Florida, and California. His U.S. company was organized in Delaware, and he lived in New York. So she perused the
Federal Reporter
, and also the
State Reporter
for case law and other public proceedings. She searched back issues of
Barron's, The Wall Street Journal
, and
Forbes
. She also searched
Who's Who
ten years back, all with no luck, as Raymond had surmised.

At last she asked the librarian, Mrs. Plauche, if it would be possible to run a Dun & Bradstreet credit report.

Mrs. Plauche, bending over the card catalog, stuck her finger behind a card and gave her a look. "We don't do that here," she said.

"It's for a transaction." Amalise persisted. "For Doug Bastion."

"You could try accounting," Mrs. Plauche said in a vague tone, her eyes clouded. "They might have that information. But you'd need approval to even make the request." She shook her head. Her eyes bored into Amalise's as if she'd stepped over a line. "Who's the client?"

Amalise blinked. "It's First Merchant's customer, actually. We're representing them."

She went back to the card catalog. "Well, you'd think a bank would already have that kind of information, wouldn't you?"

Amalise felt the blush that rose. They would and surely did, Raymond confirmed when she reported back. A credit check on First Merchant Bank's client wasn't the firm's responsibility. He wasn't going to stir that pot.

Amalise lounged in the chair in front of Raymond's desk. "Then I guess we're at a dead end. I found nothing on either Murdoch or the companies." Thinking of the property that Murdoch would destroy in the Marigny District to build his hotel, the thought popped into her mind that she would love to see this deal die. The rogue idea frightened her, and she shook it off.

Raymond spread his hands. "Finding nothing is a good result. The Reports and SEC opinions would only bring bad news." Besides, he went on, his friend Josh Bart at Lehman Loeb vouched for anyone Tom Hannigan at Morgan Klemp recommended. He looked at Amalise, cocked his head and shrugged. "In the end, it's all about relationships."

He had plenty of work lined up for her to do. Bingham Murdoch was First Merchant Bank's concern, not a problem for Mangen & Morris.

Later that night Bingham stood at the living room window in his executive suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, gazing at the harvest moon. The full moon would cycle around once more, then wane as the closing date grew near. He was remembering a time when calculations of the moon's cycle meant to him life or death.

His heart beat faster as he thought of this, and he almost whispered the thoughts aloud.
A quarter moon is what you want, at most. The enemy would be waiting below for their chutes to open on a moonlit night, those mushrooms hanging over you like iridescent targets.
He nodded to himself.
Yes, you pick a dark night. If you're lucky, maybe the weather's acting up a little—some fog, light rain, low cloud cover. At most a quarter moon.

Bingham smiled, shrugging off the memory. The pinnacle was now in sight. Six weeks, at most. Thanksgiving. And he had a lot to be thankful for.

He turned away from the window, adjusting his shirt collar. He licked the tips of his fingers and smoothed back his hair. Robert was waiting downstairs in the Blue Room, and he'd invited two pretty ladies to dine with them tonight. As Bingham walked into the bedroom, he sang,
"New Orleans ladies . . . they sa-shay by . . ."
Yes, he loved this city.

And Robert was doing well, so far. Bingham mused over his luck. The young investment banker was the perfect chief executive officer to run the hotel. Good with money, tough, aggressive, and smart. But Robert could stand to learn a few things. He was abrasive, and his flashpoint was low.

Bingham inspected his wardrobe, then pulled out his tux, a white shirt, a black bow tie. He untied the tie he'd worn all day and pulled it off. Despite the sorry economy, he figured the markets were poised to soar, and he sensed the kid had keen insight into the ideal ratio of risk to reward. Finding Robert was a piece of good fortune, all in all. The kid would keep the lid on things. He was hungry. And he'd chum up with the local champions of the public good.

Yes. Robert was a necessary evil.

He laid the clothes he would wear tonight out on the bed in the order in which he would put them on. When he'd finished undressing, Bingham turned on the shower and stepped inside. A rush of pleasure hit him all at once as the hot water streamed over him, a jolt of pure, unselfish joy. He always did like a good, hot shower. He dried off with a thick, soft towel and pulled on the robe with the hotel logo embroidered on the front pocket. Yes, he thought to himself while he shaved, things were moving along. He'd been told these lawyers were the best in town. Most of the banks had already committed to the project—they knew a good opportunity when one came along.

He swiped off the last of the shaving cream, splashed his face with water, and went off to dress, humming. He slipped on the white shirt the maids had washed, starched, and ironed and worked his fingers over the row of tiny buttons down the front, thinking a man needs a woman for this kind of thing. This made him think of Amalise Catoir, the pretty young associate at Mangen & Morris. Then he shrugged off the thought. She was too young and already a widow, he'd heard. He frowned, struggling with the gold cuff links. Plus, he was over the hill and better off alone. No sense in making a woman a widow twice.

Bingham pulled on the black pants and snapped his suspenders up over the shirt, thinking he wouldn't mind wearing a tuxedo every night. This was the good life. High polish on the black wingtips. He held up the shoes and sniffed the new leather. You can always tell an expensive shoe by the smell of the leather, he thought. And you can tell the quality of a man by the shine on his shoes.