The Collectibles by James J. Kaufman Page B

don’t like the way they come out when Elsie does them, or when I send them out. Now, what’s bothering you, Pres?” She unplugged the iron, trudged in to the large den, and slumped down on the ottoman. Marcia was in her late-thirties with dark brown hair and effectively applied make-up that made her look even younger. Her body reflected hours of working out in the private Trump Tower health club.
    Preston watched Marcia as she sat down, giving particular attention to the way Marcia’s body filled her brown wool skirt and sweater outfit.
    â€œWhat are you doing today?” he asked, catching a whiff of her perfume.
    â€œLunch with the girls at Daniel. How was your morning?”
    â€œOh, same old. Meetings. Met with Andrew Brookfield.”
    â€œReally? How is old Andrew? Elegant as ever? Did he have his French cuffs on?”
    â€œYou don’t like Andrew, do you?”
    â€œI don’t know. He reminds me of a couple of guys I worked with when I taught at Columbia. He’s supposed to be a big-shot lawyer from an old line firm, Harvard and all of that, but I find him a bit of a snob. He needs to lighten up. Why were you seeing him?”
    â€œWe’ve got some business problems with the companies. He called Casey and thought we should go over the financials.”
    Looking at the drink in Preston’s hand, she said, “It’s a little early, even for you, isn’t it? How serious are the problems?”
    â€œNothing for you to worry about,” Preston replied. From the look on her face, he knew that she would worry anyway, particularly about his having talked her into signing personal guarantees, against her will, on all the corporate debt. He remembered all the nights when he’d assured her, “It’s just a formality.”
    Preston abandoned his drink and headed out.
    â€œAre you telling me everything, Preston? I really feel as though you’re holding something back. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”
    If she finds out how bad this is, and that I have not protected her . .
. we’ll be in real trouble . . . she’ll freak out . .
. she’ll leave . . . I need to talk with her, but not now. What a mess.
    â€œI’ve got a luncheon meeting at the Four Seasons Grill Room and then more meetings all afternoon at the Manhattan store,” Preston called over his shoulder. “If Casey calls, be sure to have him get me on my cell.”

 
Chapter 7
    E ven though Preston was in a meeting, he opened his cell phone.
    â€œYeah, Case, what have you got?”
    â€œTalked with Fred Drucker, the legal head hunter at Antel. He thinks he has a positive search, but I’m not so sure. You want to hear it?”
    â€œWe need help. Go.”
    â€œTurns out he knew a guy in the Navy named Joe Hart, who was a submarine commander and is now an attorney in some hick town in the South. Drucker was going to get a short list of attorneys this guy would recommend to do the job. As a matter of course, he checks the guy out first. Five out of the six recommend this guy. They’ve all sent him work, heavy stuff, you know, the kind of cases they either can’t handle or don’t want to take on the risk. If he wins, they’re heroes. If he loses, it’s his fault. They don’t know how the hell he does it. But he does it.”
    â€œWhat specifically does he do?” Preston asked.
    â€œHe looks at the same case they looked at, the background and financials, collateral, equity, that information. Then he figures out where he wants to go. They say he cuts through it and persuades everybody involved – even though they’re all fighting with each other – to follow his plan. It really doesn’t matter what the case is, as long as he’s interested in taking it. It’s not about money with this guy. If he needs to, he litigates, and he wins. But he’d rather do it without litigation. In fact,