The Collectibles by James J. Kaufman Page A

interest and principal on the loan for the flooring line went back into the business in one form or another. That the monies were used for operations and other legitimate corporate purposes. Any non-corporate use exacerbates the problem. Private parties, the Lear jet, personal yachts . . . . ”
    By this time, Preston, having heard enough, had already stood and was heading for the door. He turned to Casey, moving his hands to instruct him to pack his papers in his briefcase.
    â€œSo what you’re telling us is we’re screwed and there is nothing you can do about it. Where have you been?” Preston said, putting his hand on the large brass door handle and looking over his shoulder. “You’ve had no trouble billing the shit out of me. Probably paid for half this office. Come on, Casey, let’s get out of here.”
    Riding down in the elevator, Preston slammed his fist against the elevator door, and turned to Casey. “You know what really pisses me off? We keep these guys high up in their fancy offices with all the glass, but in the end, they tell us to go down instead of bailing us out. I want you to find a smart attorney with guts who can figure out ‘how to’ instead of ‘why not.’ And I want you to find him now!”
    The elevator door opened, and they marched out past the green marble walls, their shoes clicking on the marble floor.

 
Chapter 6
    â€œO kay. I get it. What you want me to do is find a lawyer who specializes in automobile financing and understands SOT?” Fred Drucker asked Casey.
    â€œI want you to do much more than that. Look, you’re an experienced head hunter, right? I want you to talk with lawyers around this country who have experience in asset-based financing, automobile dealerships, commercial real estate transactions, banking, litigation. I want you to develop four or five solid recommendations for a bright and savvy lawyer who is an experienced litigator, understands business, and understands how to get the damn job done. A fighter. A fucking legal warrior. With balls. Get it?”
    â€œMr. Fitzgerald, you’ve got to learn to get over being so shy,” Fred said. “Try to speak your mind.”
    â€œWhere’s the coffee?” Casey asked, getting up and looking around.
    â€œActually,” the recruiter said, after pouring coffee from the silver pot on his credenza, “I know a man who was in the Navy who really was a warrior, and, in fact, is now a practicing lawyer somewhere in the South. I don’t know what kind of law he practices, but I can tell you he’s a leader, in fact a former commander, and he knows how to deliver. Surprisingly, he’s a really nice guy. I’ll check it out and find out what kind of law he practices, and maybe he can lead us to the right man.”
    â€œOkay. Just get it done. And after you find the right guy, have one of your investigators check him out. Mr. Wilson wants to know everything about the people he hires. Everything. Get it?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Fitzgerald, I understand. I’ll get back to you shortly,” Drucker replied.
    Â 
    Preston rode up to his co-op on the thirty-eighth floor without seeing any of the people in the Trump Tower elevator.
He takes my company’s temperature and then tells me we’re gonna die and there’s nothing he can do about it.
    Marcia was listening to McCullough’s
John Adams
while ironing one of Preston’s Faconnable shirts when she heard the door open and slam shut. “I’m in here, darling,” she called.
    Preston sauntered to the bar, poured himself a Chivas Regal on the rocks and collapsed into his Italian brown leather chair, propping his feet up on the matching ottoman.
    â€œWhy don’t you have Elsie do the ironing? That’s what we pay her for,” Preston shouted in Marcia’s direction.
    Marcia took off her head-phones. “I iron your favorite shirts, Preston, because you