The First Meeting Is Always the Hardest
There’s an old joke in the United States.
A rich man walked into a bank in New York and took out a five-thousand-dollar loan, using the expensive car he had arrived in as collateral. A few hours later, he came back to repay the loan, and the bank manager, unable to contain his curiosity, asked, “Sir, you already have plenty of money. Why on earth did you bother borrowing five thousand dollars?”
The rich man replied, “Because there wasn’t a parking space.”
…The point of the joke was this: the bank would lock up your collateral in a vault and guard it with such draconian security that not a hair on its head could be harmed. And in exchange, it charged you only a pittance in interest.
I was doing something very similar to that rich man at the moment.
Only instead of an expensive car, I was depositing gold bars and crude oil, then leveraging them to take out cash I could multiply even further. In that sense, I was using the bank much more efficiently than the man in the joke.
Scritch—scritch—scritch, scritch.
Mayor Mayer signed the last page of the contract with his pen.
When he was done, he lifted the agreement in both hands with such deference that the ink had barely dried.
“Extending the loan was an excellent decision, Chairman. Our head office will welcome it with both arms open.”
I took the contract and gave it a quick once-over.
A fixed annual interest rate of 2.3 percent, no early repayment fee, and an increased ceiling of ninety percent of the collateral value.
Every single condition I had stipulated in advance was there, not a word missing.
The bank was handing me cash equal to ninety percent of the collateral value at a negative spread rate lower than its own funding costs, and yet I was the one being thanked. It was a little ironic.
…I suppose that’s one more consequence of the recession.
I rose from my seat.
“It was a good deal, Manager.”
“Thank you for trusting us with your business, Chairman Lee. It would be our honor to accompany you on your journey from here on out.”
Mayer also sprang to his feet and hurriedly took my hand.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The steps I took as I left the manager’s office were light.
Now then. How am I going to use this cash going forward?
In my head, the financial map of the 1990s was already laid out in stark, vivid detail.
Shorting the British pound. The Mexican peso crisis. And then the IMF foreign-exchange crisis that would sweep across Asia.
The timetable of coming financial upheavals played out before my eyes.
Before the waves of that enormous storm, I would keep my balance by clutching two weights: gold bars and crude oil.
First, I need to officially launch the investment company.
My fund would draw investors in with the promise of gold and crude oil, two assets of absolute safety.
Then, with that capital, I would scoop up collapsed real estate, stocks, and companies at fire-sale prices.
Money would create more money, and more money would create greater power.
By the time I repaid the bank loan years down the line, the dollar would have shriveled under inflation, while the value of the gold bars and crude oil sleeping in the bank vault would have shot into the stratosphere.
Then all I’d have to do was toss back the original principal, which would amount to pocket change by then, and reclaim the real assets I had multiplied many times over.
And once the wealthy realized how sweet this structure was, they’d shove capital into my investment company like mad.
Of course, I’d have to be selective about who I accepted. That’s where the Harvard alumni network would serve as an excellent gatekeeper.
I headed for the bank exit.
Thud—thud—thud—thud.
As I crossed the lobby, a familiar face caught my eye.
Was his name Jason?
The new hire who had told me to take a number and wait in the general seating area when I first walked into the bank.
He saw me and practically jumped as if he’d been shocked by a live wire.
Then he rushed over with all his might and hovered at my side like a personal secretary.
“I-I sincerely apologize for my rudeness earlier, Chairman Lee. Have you finished your business?”
“Yes. Everything went smoothly.”
“Allow me to escort you to the exit.”
Exit or entrance, what did it matter? There was no need to make such a fuss.
But Jason hurried ahead of me anyway and held open the revolving door, which let me step out comfortably without having to push it myself.
His excessive show of respect continued, all the way until I got into the truck I had parked in the lot behind the bank and drove out through the parking exit.
“Please drive safely, Chairman Lee. May your journey be free of trouble!”
Jason bowed so deeply, in the Korean style, that the sight of it at the end was almost more embarrassing than flattering.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
River Oaks, the affluent neighborhood of Houston, Texas.
This district, where oil magnates had been settling since the 1920s, was practically the beating heart of Texas’s energy industry.
As I followed a narrow gravel road winding through dense southern live oaks, a mansion made of cream-colored limestone came into view.
Classic Texas Spanish Colonial style.
An arched front porch opened wide beneath a red terracotta roof, and on the second-floor balcony, wrought-iron railings curved gracefully around the edge.
In the garden, a pecan tree that looked as though it had stood there for at least a century cast a broad shade over the entire estate, and beneath it sat two iron benches facing one another.
The mansion’s living room.
Beneath the high ceiling, Martin Channing was sunk deep into a leather sofa, flipping through the pages of the Wall Street Journal with rough, impatient movements.
Even in his late fifties, Martin was still an imposing figure.
Bald, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with hands like hammers.
The build suited the nickname “Bulldog,” the man who had once ruled the Texas oil industry.
He was a veteran landman and active lobbyist who had spent decades brokering mineral rights deals between oil companies and landowners.
“Daddy, please behave yourself today, okay? Don’t be rude, absolutely not!”
From the sofa opposite him, Caroline drove the point home with absolute certainty.
When she said she wanted to bring home the man she called her boss and introduce him, Martin had agreed to meet him for the sake of it, but the lecture had already been going on for twenty minutes.
“He’s my friend and my boss, and he’s a really good guy, too. He usually stays either in the dorms or in Garden Queens even during vacations, but when I said I wanted to introduce him to you, he said he’d come all the way here. He’s really interested in this line of business, and he wanted to ask for advice, and—”
“Lord, I’m sick of hearing it. Enough.”
Martin cut her off in annoyance.
Then he muttered, incredulous, “If anyone should be reading the room, it ought to be that punk, not me…”
“Daddy! I’m getting mad!”
“Tch. Fine, fine!”
It was the first time in her life that his daughter had insisted on something this many times over.
Martin couldn’t hide how absurd he found the whole thing.
He was one of the most seasoned veterans Texas’s oil industry had ever known, wasn’t he?
From small-time landowners below him to the White House above him, Martin had a network and a talent for dealmaking that would make anyone stare.
At his level, the other side should be the one bowing and scraping.
What kind of bastard is he, anyway, to brainwash my daughter like this?
Martin did not think he was in a position to be told to “behave himself” or warned not to “act weird.”
But however the subject changed, his daughter had always eventually backed down and gone along with his opinion—except this time, she was completely unyielding.
“Anyway! Daddy! This time I really mean it.”
Caroline raised her voice.
“I’m telling you, once you meet him, you’ll like him too! There’s a reason I work as his secretary, you know?”
“Shut up! What secretary?”
Martin’s irritation flared inside him.
The word “secretary” was a sore point for him.
A few months earlier, when Caroline had called to say she’d “started working as a secretary,” Martin had shouted so loudly the whole house must have heard it.
His daughter was the sort of girl who should be the boss wherever she went.
That beautiful, brilliant girl working under someone else?
It was ridiculous.
Martin had told her to quit at once, and Caroline had fired back by yelling at her father for the first time in her life.
After that, the family had been locked in a cold war for quite a long time.
As the saying went, a daughter beats her father in the end, and Martin was the one who finally had to give in first.
He had allowed Caroline to become a secretary, but inside he had snorted in disbelief.
What office used a college student as a secretary? And even if such a place existed, there was no way a proud, sharp-eyed girl like Caroline would really keep her head down under someone else.
He had assumed she’d quit and come home before long.
But she really was working as a secretary.
And doing it with startling diligence, too—with genuine enjoyment.
“What kind of kids are boss and secretary, anyway? Are you two maybe playing boss-and-secretary? You aren’t doing anything indecent like that, are you?”
“Daddy, that’s disgusting. Why would your mind go there? I’m working seriously, okay? I even signed an employment contract!”
“Hah. Fine. Then let me see this so-called serious boss of yours.”
Who in the world was he? What kind of guy had twisted his daughter up like this?
With irritation, anger, and a touch of curiosity tangled together in his chest, Martin had waited for this moment.
“Whatever his name is—Lee Sanha, or Sanha Lee, or whatever—if that bastard is even one minute late, I’m getting up and walking out.”
“Daddy, please!”
“Shut it! Do you know how busy I am? Plenty of oil-company executives line up just to get one meeting with me!”
“Then why didn’t you just refuse from the beginning? Why say you’d meet him and then act like this once the time actually comes?”
“Shut up! I said shut up!”
Martin leaned back against the sofa almost as if he were lying down, still disgruntled.
A primitive sense of hurt flickered through him.
The fact that his daughter was nervous for another man, and paying more attention to him, rubbed him the wrong way.
There was no reason whatsoever to humble himself first before some guy he didn’t even know.
Martin snorted, glaring at the three shotguns hanging on the wall.
Right then, the front doorbell rang.
……Ding-dong!
Exactly three o’clock.
Martin glanced at the wall clock.
The fact that it was neither a minute early nor a minute late irritated him all over again.
“Eek! Sanha! No, my boss!”
Caroline bounced over and opened the door.
And then a tall, youthful-looking Asian man stepped through the entryway.
“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m—”
“Wait, wait, let me introduce you!”
Caroline stepped naturally to the young man’s side.
Martin did not miss the flash of admiration and respect that passed through her eyes as she looked at him.
Gurgle… gurgle…
Without knowing that Martin was slowly simmering, Caroline said brightly, “This is Lee Sanha, my best friend in private and my boss in public! And this is my dad, Martin Channing Jr.! Eek—finally, you two are meeting! Hurry up and say hello to each other!”
“…….”
“…….”
For a brief moment, a silence like hell itself swallowed the mansion.