of a negotiation? Or maybe that’s what he should have expected. Cutting a deal is like bare-knuckle fighting. Structuring finances is like tuning a piano. Bare-knuckle fighters and piano tuners don’t have too much in common.
“Bassett’s still talking to us, right? What does that mean? All he’s worried about is what he gets out of this thing, and right now, he thinks he’s going to get enough. ‘Sir Andrew!’ He’s a winner. And don’t worry about where the cash is coming from. The bankers will deal with that. All you have to do is give me the stock price. Just keep it up for me, Ly.”
Their eyes met. The company’s next filing, for their third-quarter results, was due at the end of the following week. Since Mike Wilson aimed to use Louisiana Light stock to pay for the majority of BritEnergy, the level of the Louisiana Light stock price was critical. If the stock price fell, he’d have to offer more. And even if he did, against the background of a falling stock price, they might well walk away.
“Let’s give the market something to smile about.”
“I’m squeezing all I can, Mike.”
Wilson smiled. “Just as long as you’re not doing anything illegal.”
Lyall winced. He hated it when Wilson said things like that.
“There’s nothing left after this,” said Lyall quietly. “I want you to understand that, Mike. The cupboard’s bare.”
Wilson shrugged. There was always more from somewhere. Gelb had never let him down.
“I’m serious, Mike. After this, there’s nothing else. The filing after this, I don’t know what happens. There’ll be nothing to show.”
“Just give me this one. Keep the picture pretty.”
“And then?”
“We do the deal.”
“Before the next filing?” said Lyall disbelievingly. “In under three months?”
Wilson nodded. “This is the last time Louisiana Light files as a single entity. Doug says we can do it. He’s looked into the UK regulations. He says we can get it all done in ten weeks if everything goes right.”
“If everything goes right? Jiminy Creeper, Mike! Do you know how many things can go wrong? Have you even—”
“We’d better make sure everything goes right then, hadn’t we?”
Gelb stared at him.
“Just keep the numbers up next week,” said Wilson. “We’ll get out of this, Lyall. Trust me. Give me this one last filing. Let’s not make it ridiculous, but let’s make it pretty.”
* * *
Gelb didn’t leave right away. After two days out of the office he had things to do. Later, one of the company drivers took him home. On the corner of North Street, St. Joseph’s Catholic Cathedral with its tall spire loomed pale in the moonlight.
Lyall worshiped as an Episcopalian, but he had been brought up a Catholic. In Baltimore, his mother had been active in the church and the family was at Mass every Sunday. It was a deeply traditional congregation with an old Irish priest, Father Ahern, who raved about sin and damnation. Lyall remembered the crust of white spittle Father Ahern always had in the corners of his mouth. Lyall was sent to a Catholic school, along with his brother and three sisters, and there was Sunday school as well, with Father Ahern drumming the catechism into them. Sometime in his teens, however, Lyall started to question his faith. In college, far from his mother’s gaze, it lapsed altogether. It was his wife, Margaret, who brought him back to religion. She was from a strong Episcopalian family in Memphis. When Lyall got together with her, he realized how much he missed that spiritual component in his life, how important it was to him. The spirituality, the faith, not the Catholic ritual. And definitely not old Father Ahern with his fire and brimstone. He settled comfortably into Margaret’s Episcopalianism. It caused trouble with his family. Or with his mother. Still did, sometimes.
Lyall gazed at the cathedral as the driver waited for the traffic light to change. He had never been in there. Twice a
“Bassett’s still talking to us, right? What does that mean? All he’s worried about is what he gets out of this thing, and right now, he thinks he’s going to get enough. ‘Sir Andrew!’ He’s a winner. And don’t worry about where the cash is coming from. The bankers will deal with that. All you have to do is give me the stock price. Just keep it up for me, Ly.”
Their eyes met. The company’s next filing, for their third-quarter results, was due at the end of the following week. Since Mike Wilson aimed to use Louisiana Light stock to pay for the majority of BritEnergy, the level of the Louisiana Light stock price was critical. If the stock price fell, he’d have to offer more. And even if he did, against the background of a falling stock price, they might well walk away.
“Let’s give the market something to smile about.”
“I’m squeezing all I can, Mike.”
Wilson smiled. “Just as long as you’re not doing anything illegal.”
Lyall winced. He hated it when Wilson said things like that.
“There’s nothing left after this,” said Lyall quietly. “I want you to understand that, Mike. The cupboard’s bare.”
Wilson shrugged. There was always more from somewhere. Gelb had never let him down.
“I’m serious, Mike. After this, there’s nothing else. The filing after this, I don’t know what happens. There’ll be nothing to show.”
“Just give me this one. Keep the picture pretty.”
“And then?”
“We do the deal.”
“Before the next filing?” said Lyall disbelievingly. “In under three months?”
Wilson nodded. “This is the last time Louisiana Light files as a single entity. Doug says we can do it. He’s looked into the UK regulations. He says we can get it all done in ten weeks if everything goes right.”
“If everything goes right? Jiminy Creeper, Mike! Do you know how many things can go wrong? Have you even—”
“We’d better make sure everything goes right then, hadn’t we?”
Gelb stared at him.
“Just keep the numbers up next week,” said Wilson. “We’ll get out of this, Lyall. Trust me. Give me this one last filing. Let’s not make it ridiculous, but let’s make it pretty.”
* * *
Gelb didn’t leave right away. After two days out of the office he had things to do. Later, one of the company drivers took him home. On the corner of North Street, St. Joseph’s Catholic Cathedral with its tall spire loomed pale in the moonlight.
Lyall worshiped as an Episcopalian, but he had been brought up a Catholic. In Baltimore, his mother had been active in the church and the family was at Mass every Sunday. It was a deeply traditional congregation with an old Irish priest, Father Ahern, who raved about sin and damnation. Lyall remembered the crust of white spittle Father Ahern always had in the corners of his mouth. Lyall was sent to a Catholic school, along with his brother and three sisters, and there was Sunday school as well, with Father Ahern drumming the catechism into them. Sometime in his teens, however, Lyall started to question his faith. In college, far from his mother’s gaze, it lapsed altogether. It was his wife, Margaret, who brought him back to religion. She was from a strong Episcopalian family in Memphis. When Lyall got together with her, he realized how much he missed that spiritual component in his life, how important it was to him. The spirituality, the faith, not the Catholic ritual. And definitely not old Father Ahern with his fire and brimstone. He settled comfortably into Margaret’s Episcopalianism. It caused trouble with his family. Or with his mother. Still did, sometimes.
Lyall gazed at the cathedral as the driver waited for the traffic light to change. He had never been in there. Twice a
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