Allan S. Lyons - Getting Away With Murder!

Getting Away With Murder!

Allan S. Lyons

Also by Allan S. Lyons

The Chicken Flickers Granddaughter

Bamboozle

Enhanced Convertibles

Winning in the Options Market

Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught

- Honore de Balzac

Prologue:

The luncheon at the Pierre, a posh mid-town New York hotel where a continental breakfast can set you back a months rent, was filled when Robert Levin arrived. Levin, a seasoned money manager edging over the plus side of forty, was weary from a night in which, for a reason he couldnt explain even to himself, he failed to remember not to be The Innocent Bystander, advice he was once famous for given investment clients about the disaster at Enron. It was a night in which he had been fucked, or more accurately, hadnt been, that on top of market glitches that had him on edge, worms, eating away at his investment performance - as if someone inside his skull was wired to the synapses in his brain. Before tumbling into a too-brief troubled sleep, he left a message on his secretarys cell phone: Going straight to lunch meeting; in office at 2:30: Bob.

The luncheon, known in the trade as a Dog-and-Pony Show, replete with all the trappings save the dog and pony, hosted by Merrill Lynch, was to introduce iTronics, Silicone Valleys latest hot IPO. At the circus were those whose thumbs up or thumbs down would mean success or failure, the investment industries elite, securities analysts and money managers.

Levin pulled up an empty chair at a round table, gave a perfunctory smile to the men and women at the other seats, most of whom he recognized, and pretended to turn his attention to the literature left at his place. His thoughts went to the first luncheon hed attended as a raw, unseasoned junior securities analyst. He could laugh now, but back then he was acutely aware of his responsibility. He tried to appear nonchalant, cool, as if it was an every day occurrence, but his insides were jumping. He recognized none of the faces at the luncheon, but there were names hed heard of, All Stars, securities analysts voted to that select roster by money managers in Wall Streets annual poll. This, he was aware, could be his opportunity. Those men and women thumbs were worth big bucks; some were as handsomely paid even as sports stars. He had pretended to keep his eyes fixed on the literature that had been left next to his plate, but he was keenly aware of every one in the room: Most, save for the CEO, were in their mid thirties or forties, some even younger, no-nonsense A-Types, strong jawed, keen, probing eyes. Their glasses had severe steel-wire frames, their mega-thousand-dollar suits navy or charcoal. Women wore blouses and ties, men 5-inch-wide red suspenders. Many were greeted as they entered the room by a nod or a wave from the execs at the head table. Hed been acutely aware is suit was off-the rack.

The luncheon began with the waiters, the corps de ballet serving with a flourish. He remembered eating mechanically, not then aware that chicken would be served so often at these luncheons that they might, eventually, be in danger of making the Endangered Species List. He hawked forward, anxious to catch every word of the CEOs presentation. The chicken in his gut seemed to be historys second resurrection.

All too soon the presentation that followed was over. Looking around, he had noticed rapt expressions on the audiences faces.

What had he missed?

Had there been vital information hed missed? Returning to his office he jogged his memory, reviewed as much of the words he could remember again and yet again. Was there a clue the others had gleaned that he hadnt? Stripped of the hype, fancy words and colorful phrases, all he could make out what Motorolas CEO had said was:

MOTOROLA IS GREAT!

MOTOROLA IS VERY GREAT!

MOTOROLA IS GOING TO BECOME GREATER YET!

He was not so raw back then that he hadnt known that it was illegal for a company to divulge inside information, even to a group such as this, unless it disseminated it to all simultaneously. Yet somehow the securities analysts apparently had received all the information they needed to elevate -or depress- their thumbs. More amazingly still, each recommendation the analysts issued after the luncheon included an estimate of Motorolas upcoming quarters share earnings and each estimate was within pennies of each of the others.

How did they do that?

In time, he learned the secret:

The law said it was illegal for a company to tell an analyst, even a group of analysts, what it was going to earn unless it simultaneously disseminated that information to all

But it did not say it couldnt say what it was not going to earn.

Following one of these luncheons hed pick up the phone: Hi John, hed begin when the CEO or CFO answered, Its Bob Levin.

What would then follow would be five minutes of hearty palsy-walsy bullshit - someone listening could almost believe that the two of us had been separated at birth and had only recently discovered we were fraternal twins. At last, as if reluctantly, the conversation would turn to business and he would ask John probing questions about each company division, greeting each reply with an enthusiastic Ah Ha! suggesting that the information was of grave importance. John might report that Plastics operations were firming up, the outlook for Glass was clearing, the Engine division was humming, and so forth. In fact, Johns replies were largely irrelevant.

I know you dont make earnings estimates, John, hed continue when John ran down, but overall it sounds as if an earnings increase of 10% might be in the ballpark this quarter? In answer, John might reply, you know Robert we dont make earning estimates but that might be a bit on the high side.

Ah, hed reply, as if processing this. I thought as much. I suppose 8% would be more in the ballpark.

And so, after a few more in the ballparks, my earnings estimate would be sent off.

It was one of those days when everything bothered him, the hypocrisy of this business, what he had become, the worm eating away at his investment performance and, perhaps worst of all, that he was not the warrior he wanted to believe he was, the man Carlos Castanadas brujo spoke of in A Separate Reality, a man complete unto himself, a man who needed no one.

Too bleary to make sense of any this, he sat at his desk when he returned from the luncheon, the latest Fed numbers swimming before his eyes, and nodded off into a troubled sleep.

December 2005

Yew! Youre taking me here! Susan squeaked, her nose pinched, to this dump!

Giorgio grinned, looked down at the five-foot six-inch bundle of energy he was squiring. It was their first date.

Wait here, he ordered, backing away from the tarnished brass handles, the aroma leaching through the doors. Be right back.

What! Youre leaving me standing here? Here? On this sidewalk?

I need to go to the drug store. Its just round the corner.

The drug store!!! If you think youre getting lucky tonight, fget it!

Giorgios black eyes sparkle impishly remembering the evening he first stumbled on this dump, the evening that changed his life, the evening he cast off the name Gino and set off on the course his life had since taken.

The last remaining cafeteria in Manhattan is Katzs Delicatessen, square on the corner of Houston and Delancy Streets, a street crammed with barrels of pickles and sour kraut, cheap house dresses, underwear, suits hanging in windows, looks as if it hadnt been refurbished since it opened in 1888. It was the smell that drew Giorgio into that dump that night. The paint on the walls was the color of infant upchuck, the black and white checkerboard floor tiles were chipped and cracked, the Formica wooden table tops a watery yellow, the cane-backed chairs bowed, but the corned beef! Behind the fifteen-foot long steam table to the right is a sign dating from WWII: