The First Billion

He watched Tustin and Llewellyn-Davies exchange concerned glances. For all their adversarial banter, the two were close friends. A year earlier, when Llewellyn-Davies had suffered a relapse, Tustin had visited him nightly, bringing books and videos and sometimes sneaking in a plate of the Englishman's beloved five-alarm curry from his favorite Indian restaurant.

"I thought we were safe on that one," said Tustin, his swagger conspicuously absent.

"It's spread out," said Gavallan. "Lehman and Merrill took ten apiece, but it's still a handshake deal. Best case, we're left holding thirty million."

"That's a high price to win some business, Jett old boy."

"Maybe," said Gavallan.

They were talking about the bridge loan he had floated Mercury to win the deal: a short-term, fifty-million-dollar facility to help the company tie up real estate, purchase much-needed hardware, and lease fiber-optic cable. In good times, bridge loans were a wonderful way to leverage the fees a bank could earn on a transaction. You were out the money maybe ninety days. You charged a juicy premium over prime. And you won the loyalty of your client by showing faith and shouldering some of his risk.

But these weren't good times, and right now the bridge to Mercury was looking to be a damned fool thing. First off, it had eaten up the last of the firm's capital. Second, it had left Black Jet reliant on current earnings to meet its cash flow requirements. Maybe Tustin was right. Maybe it was a high price. But it had been necessary. Crucial even. Black Jet needed the Mercury business and the bridge had won it, allowing the smaller upstart to steal the prestigious offering from under the noses of the big guns in New York.

So far, Gavallan had managed to farm out twenty of the fifty million to a few friendly banks- half of what he'd hoped. If the deal went south, Black Jet would be out thirty million dollars. It would be too late for layoffs. He'd be forced to sell his company to the first interested party at a fire-sale price. If the deal went south…

Gavallan swore to himself it would not.

"We can't just sit still," he said, at once disheartened and energized by the latest development. Like all adrenaline junkies, he functioned best in time of crisis. "Our silence will be regarded as an affirmation of the Private Eye-PO's warnings. The pictures were one thing, but Tony's right- he's gone too far this time. It's as if he were building a case against us." Against me, came an unprovoked thought. "Bruce, do me a favor and get Sam and Meg down here, on the double."

Sam Tannenbaum was Black Jet's in-house counsel, Meg Kratzer its head of investment banking.

"Aye, aye," said Tustin, saluting, then turning on a heel and hustling out of the room.

"Stupid git," laughed Llewellyn-Davies, a bit of color returning to his cheeks. "Doesn't even know you're Air Force."

Gavallan laughed too. "You want a coffee? Something to eat while we wait?"

"No thanks. I'm fine as is."

"Sure? I'm thinking of a breakfast burrito. Sausage and egg. Maybe a soda. Didn't teach you to eat like that at Eton, did they?"

"Stone the crows, no. A burrito would probably send me to the heavens." Llewellyn-Davies coughed once, violently. "Pardon," he said, raising a hankie to his mouth.

"You okay, Tony?" Gavallan asked, concerned.

"I'm alive, Jett. That's good enough for me."

"If you need anything…"

"Yes, I know. Ask." Llewellyn-Davies knitted his brow inquisitively. "Not looking for another ticket to the ball tonight, are you? Hoping I might opt out?"

"No," said Gavallan abashedly. "No, no, no."

"Good, because I have every intention of attending. I can't wait to see you mount the dais and make a bloody fool of yourself. You have to pay good money for that kind of entertainment."

"You bastard!" said Gavallan, laughing in earnest for the first time that morning and clapping his friend and colleague on the back. Sometimes it was hard to hide his admiration for Llewellyn-Davies. It had to be damned tough living your life on a leash, he thought, relying on ten different combinations of six different pills- "cocktails," they were called- to be taken six times a day. He remembered the frail, sallow man who'd showed up for the interview seven years earlier, the thousand-yard stare, the unflinching honesty.

"I'm sick," Llewellyn-Davies had said. "You can see that. But I can work. Have to, actually. Can't go out leaving debts behind me. What would my dad say? An accountant, don't you know?"

His resume read like gold. Oxford, Harvard, a year at a bulge bracket firm before being fired for excessive absences. Gavallan had made some calls beforehand. Smart as a whip, came the unanimous response. Polite. Great sense of humor. Clients love him. But, come on, the coughing, the sweating, all those doctor's appointments. How long's he got, anyway? Six months? A year? Who wants to sit next to a fuckin' cadaver all day long? Besides, you never know. Shit may be contagious that way, too.