The Job by Douglas Kennedy Page B

$200 million in debt. His bankers decided that he was no longer worth the gamble. So they pulled the plug. And the Ballantine building empire crashed and burned.
    It was a widely publicized downfall. And the public loved it. To many people, there was something deeply satisfying about watching the Waterloo of such a towering testament to self-admiration. We may worship success in America, but we are also riveted by failure. Especially when the individual in question has committed the sin of hubris. Pride goeth before a fall, after all. Particularly in the City of New York.
    Though his business may have gone to the wall, Ballantine wasn’t exactly reduced to selling pencils in front of Bloomingdale’s, as he managed to hang on to most of his substantial personal assets. But after filing for bankruptcy, he did slip out of the public gaze for around three years. The man whose face once dominated the New York media simply vanished from view-and all sorts of gossip began to fly about how he’d had a nervous breakdown, and had become a Howard Hughes-type recluse on some obscure Caribbean island.
    As it turned out, Ballantine used his three-year sabbatical to kick back and consider his next move. Because when he emerged during 1994 and again found the spotlight it was under the guise of his newfound persona. Mr. High-rise had become the Great Motivator-and he started cleaning up on the lecture circuit, giving uplifting, preachy talks about his win-win philosophy of life, and how it had given him the strength to reinvent himself after watching his
    He also started churning out personal empowerment books. To date, he’d written three. They were all national best-sellers. They had titles like The Success Zone and The “You” Conquest. They were brimming with gridiron metaphors, and they all trumpeted Ballantine’s basic worldview: Though the skillful tactician may travel far down the playing field, the guy who hits hardest actually scores the touchdown.
    So, having fallen from grace, Ballantine was now firmly back in the public eye-appearing regularly on talk shows, filling three-thousand-seat conference halls, his face staring out at you from every bookstore window you passed. Of course, there was still much derision among the metropolitan elite about his comeback. Regardless of his mixed press, the fact was, the guy could still walk into a heavy-hitting joint like Patroon and cause it to momentarily fall silent. And that, to me, was real power.
    Ballantine arrived with two men in black suits. One carried a briefcase and looked as if he was the Great Motivator’s personal assistant. The other was evidently some sort of security goon, his eyes scanning every diner in the room. Ballantine made a brief stop at Edgar Bronfman’s table-the Seagram heir already on his feet by the time they arrived and greeting Ballantine with a two-handed shake.
    “See the guy with the briefcase?” Ian said.
    “I bet Ballantine’s going to make him go from table to table and hawk his motivational tapes.”
    “Ian, your voice,” Geena said, whispering.
    “What’s he going to do? Come over here and rearrange my face?”
    As if on cue, the black-suited man approached our table. Ian turned a chalky shade of white. But the guy wasn’t interested in him. He was staring at me.
    “Ned Allen?” he asked.
    I nodded slowly. He was around my age, with a chiseled jaw. I was certain I had seen his face somewhere before. He proffered his hand.
    “Jerry Schubert,” he said.
    “Brunswick High, class of eighty-three.”
    “Jesus,” I said, standing up and clasping his hand.
    “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe this.”
    “Small world. How long you been in the city?”
    “Since leaving college. You?”
    “Ditto. I’ve been Mr. Ballantine’s personal assistant for the past three years.”
    “You’ve done well.”
    Noticing that Lizzie had her hand on the back of my chair, he gave her an approving nod.
    “So have you.”
    “Sorry. My wife,