Book 2 The Deadly IPO: Lion The Leo Hennessy Series, #2

LEO

PARIS

HENNESSY TOWER

NETTA

DUE DILIGENCE

CENTRAL PARK

THE ROAD SHOW

CABLE

THE WOLF

THE IPO

THE FIERCE HAND

THE SEA WOLF

BLACKBIRD

THE MARGARET

LEO: A Prologue

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New York was in shock.

THE LION QUITS THE JUNGLE.

The Times worried. Leo Hennessy has made $6.8 billion by taking risks and turning them inside out. Why has the man some call ‘the last of the honest bankers’ decided to call it quits?

Bloomberg TV wondered. A small army of clients and friends has come to count on Hennessy’s ‘ingenious’ solutions to ‘impossible’ problems. So the question is: Will he turn off the ‘miracles’ in retirement?

Even Page Six chirped. As a widower of fifty-three, the man who invented the Risk- Reverse is New York’s most eligible goldmine. How risky is that?

What the media never knew was that Padraig Liam Leo Hennessy had learned – in Hell’s Kitchen, in the Marines, in the CIA and in too many Fortune 500 board rooms – to sense danger the way an animal can sense a coming earthquake.

So, on the day he sensed that the people he called the Bastards of the Universe were about to let their delusion of financial entitlement crush the markets under the weight of their own greed — again — he quit.

And his retirement speech was vintage Hennessy.

My grandmother used to say, ‘We were so poor for so long... we got good at it.’

He made his roughhouse-to-riches rise sound easy – never mentioning the scholarships, the medals, and the close calls with a world full of dangerous people. The speech was humble, thankful and over in three minutes — while, in the back of his mind, Leo calibrated the odds that the parade of people with impossible problems would ever really let him retire.

It wouldn’t.

PARIS

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L’hotel Façion Nouveau  1:30 p.m.

Simonetta Vespucci was too beautiful to live.

The woman’s lush voice purred from the huge speakers as the cameras clattered from both sides of the long runway and the rapt crowd of journalists and fashionistas ogled the procession of slinking models – not your usual angry anorexics, but willowy women with a bit more meat to their bones, thrust to their nipples and promise to their lips – each dusted with white powder and wearing a ghostly, diaphanous gown.

At age sixteen, Simonetta was brought from Genoa to Florence by her parents, to marry the wealthy Marco Vespucci. The year was 1468, and for the next seven years Simonetta captivated all the men in Florence.

Projected on the back wall of the stage was the stylized NETTA logo above the pronunciation (Né – tah) to remind the crowd that they are witnessing fashion genius.

Simonetta inspired dozens of poets and artists, including Allesandro Botticelli, who used her face and figure in many of his masterpieces. She was adored by countless nobles, including Lorenzo de’ Medici and his brother Giuliano, who entered a tournament with her portrait, painted by Botticelli, on his shield.

The woman with the microphone stood hidden behind a curtain that separated the audience from the frantic clothes-changing of the models. Tall, with wild flaming hair curling over her shoulders, her double-pouted lips formed the words from the script.

But tragically, love could not save the girl who had became known as The most beautiful woman in Florence – perhaps even the world. For, at the age of just twenty-two, Simonetta fell ill and died of consumption.

Now, the gallery of over-sized Renaissance paintings began to fade from the walls, focusing more and more attention on the willowy wraiths who glided along the runway.

All Florence mourned. Thousands followed the casket to Simonetta’s grave. And, so lasting was her beauty that, nine years after her death, Botticelli painted her – from memory – in his immortal Birth of Venus. And begged to be buried at her feet."

Suddenly the stark black and white of the ghostly parade began to change as each new outfit brought with it more color, and the models blossomed from deathly pale to vibrant life – while Botticelli’s famous red-haired Birth of Venus appeared within the NETTA logo, projected on the wall.

As the woman with the microphone continued to intone her fashion descriptions, two tiny women, one mousy and plain, one beautiful and butch, directed the many assistants who hurriedly changed the clothes and makeup of each model, propelling them back out onto the runway.

A tall young man watching the stage magic from the wings, slipped out his cell phone and moved to the door marked Sortie. Dad! he whispered, Dad, you won’t believe this!

***

MANHATTAN 7:30 a.m.

Sean? Where are you? What won’t I believe?

Leo Hennessy whispered into his cell phone as he stood in the morning sun at a buffet table in a conference room on the 47th floor of Morgan Stanley in New York.

"I’m in Paris, Dad. At a fashion show. And you know the boutique chain, Netta? They’re on Fifth Avenue, Rodeo Drive, all over – I told you I know the CEO, Netta Vespucci – the woman who wants to take her company public?"

Sean, take a breath.

What’s wrong, Dad?

Nothing. It’s just that I’m in a meeting...

A meeting? At seven in the morning? What ever happened to retirement? Y’know, goodbye to the greed, the dishonesty...

Sean? I’m at a fund raiser. It’s breakfast. Just some friends.. 

Leo looked over the men and women around him, who politely pretended to ignore his conversation. Listen, can I get back to you? What’s it about again?

It’s about the IPO.

Leo could feel the distance growing between the dark back-stage of an haut couture showroom in Paris and the morning sunlight in Manhattan.

Sean...

Remember? I told you she wants Hennessy Bank to take her company public?

Can you call me later?

C’mon Dad, you could do an IPO in your pajamas.

Leo paused. Sean? You didn’t promise anything?

Silence. Then, Well...

Peeved, Leo held the phone away, I’ll call you later.

We’re going out later ...

Then you call me, okay? Tomorrow?

Thanks, Dad. I knew you’d say yes.

I didn’t say...

You’re breakin’ up, Dad. I’ll call tomorrow. Love ya, Dad. Bye.

Sean? Leo stared at the phone as though it had just bitten his ear. Kids.

Your son? An extremely tall and courtly banker about Leo’s age nodded in sympathy.

Yeah, Joe, you’ve met Sean.

A very successful young entrepreneur... Other men and women gathered around them as the tall man continued. Went out on his own, didn’t he? Wouldn’t take help from the old man? Did it the hard way?

Right. He wouldn’t even use the family name. Had to change it to Williams.

A beautiful white-haired woman wearing the clothes and manner of a CEO raised her eyebrows and nodded approval. Sean Williams is your son?

Sean William Hennessy, Carol. He didn’t want the family name or the money. We had quite a row. He just wanted to make it on his own. Told me, ‘I don’t want you to feel responsible – in case I crash and burn a few times.’  Leo laughed, Lucky for both of us, he’s doing okay...

The woman smiled. More than okay, I’d say.

Well he has his mother’s brains and his father’s pigheadedness.

So... was it nature or nurture?

Either way, kids get to blame their parents.

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La Grande Cascade.  Paris. 11:00 p.m.

The city’s ever-beautiful two-thousand-acre Bois de Boulogne was haunted by addicts and hookers outside.

But inside La Grande Cascade — the park’s sumptuous belle époque restaurant — was a buzzing champagne celebration of sex and addiction of a different sort.

Fashion. And the magical, profitable, Netta Corporation had filled these art nouveau rooms with a hundred models, designers, journalists, business people, hangers-on and a special guest — Leo Hennessy’ son Sean.

But Netta kept him away from the obnoxious Americans. Men with staring eyes and mouths open like sharks. Women with gold in their hair and brass in their voices.

Sean’s tall good looks, and the charm of the Hennessy smile, give him an easy air of control. Everyone knew he was Netta’s latest so they stayed away and he sat alone at a small table, observing the scene. Until Netta herself plunged out of the crowd, her blood-orange hair cascading over a clinging black dress.

Sean! How did you like it? she waved as she approached. But, once she reached him, a steely tone belied her creamy flesh.

Did he say yes? she whispered, trailing her low-cut blouse across his blinking eyes.

Not yet.

Oooohhh, she pressed her warm cleavage into his face for emphasis, that makes Netta so very sad.

Chill. Sean pulled his head back. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no.

She straddled him and called, Julio!

A worried-looking little man with a black toupee and a grey van Dyke came out of the crowd as Netta commanded. Come talk to Sean, Julio. He has made Netta very sad.

Well, we can’t have that now can we Mr. Hennessy?

Sean was watching two young  men who had started watching him when Netta originally called out. They were muscular, with slick-back pompadours, and black t-shirts with the face of a grey wolf on the back. At first, Sean thought they were part of the large gay entourage. But now he sensed, by the way they focused on Netta, they were Security.

Only then did he realize that Julio had just called him Mr. Hennessy.

Hennessy? Sean moved Netta gently to one side and stood towering over Julio. The name is Williams! Sean Williams! He turned on Netta. You know that, Netta! So, why did he call me Mr. Hennessy? Have you just told everyone here? The two security men moved closer. But little Julio waved them away as he began bowing in apology. Please, Mr. Williams. I’m terribly sorry. Please relax!

Julio was now practically on the floor in humiliation and Sean felt suddenly guilty and a little dazed.

He was about to speak to Netta, but now two small women assistants come scurrying through the crowd. One was a blond mouse, the other, equally short, but strong boned, with crew-cut, black hair and shining black eyes. They pulled Netta aside and talked in anxious whispers until she exploded in a hushed growl of her own.

No! I don’t want you there! You have a lot of work to do! Go back to New York! Tonight! And don’t talk to any reporters! I’ll call tomorrow! Be there!

The two women scurried away through the crowd and Netta returned, frowning.

I’m sorry, Sean. I had to tell Julio about your background last week. He’s my Chief Financial Officer and my partner. He has to know.

Who were those women?

Staff. Like children. I should never have let them out of New York.

Sean was a little confused but caught himself. Listen, Netta, the name is Williams. He glared. "Any other name is not... I repeat, not... going to help you. He looked down angrily at Julio. Clear?" Then looked around, realizing everyone was watching him... and that he was a little drunk.

Where did those two wolf-guys go?

HENNESSY TOWER

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Sunset.  Manhattan.

Hennessy Tower, a graceful white-onyx column sixty stories high, topped by a two-story glass house — part luxury home, part super-tech office — stood like a lighthouse at the edge of the Hudson.

On the South Terrace, facing the glistening New York Bay, Leo raised a glass of Chablis. "Here’s to the first day of real retirement."

Standing next to him, Leo’s long-time confidant, fellow cold-warrior, and now chauffeur, pilot and security chief — Colonel Sterling Reginald Pete Peters, late of Her Majesty’s Military Intelligence Section Six (MI-6) — raised a glass of iced-tea.

Here’s to seven years, eleven months and four days sober.

They sipped politely and Peters raised another toast. "Dum vivamus — vivamus.  While we live — let's live!" 

Coming from the kitchen, the redoubtable Mrs. Gridley raised a small platter of canapés and lectured the two men imperiously. Yer talkin’ that French again Pete, and I don’t like it. Them froggies got us into two wars and called themselfs ‘chefs’ while the rest of us was just ‘cooks.’

Peters reached to help her with the tray. Not French at all, Mrs. G. But Latin — the language of Cicero and Caesar. He winked at the short round woman. The mother tongue those froggies stuffed up their noses and honked out as French!

Delighted, she headed back to the kitchen. Let us know if you boys’ll be dinin’ out or eatin’ in.

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Midnight.  Paris.  Hotel Concorde La Fayette.

Netta and Sean were curled up on top of the rumpled sheets, naked and exhausted. He was nodding into sleep. But she had a purpose.

You said you’d call. She pulled him over on his back and straddled him, holding out his phone. For Netta? Please?

She had already pressed Speed Dial and put the phone next to his ear.

Leo’s voice answered, Sean, what’s up?

Netta heard it, and laughed out loud.

Who’s that? Where are you, Sean? You okay?

Dad, I’m fine. Still in Paris. We’re taking the flight tomorrow. But, the reason I’m calling is that I never got a chance to talk to you yesterday about this IPO...

Stop right there, okay? There’s no way I’m going to get involved in an IPO or anything else in the banking business, okay? I... am... retired!

You don’t understand, Dad...

I understand everything, kid...

It’s not like you’ll have to go back to work. It’s just a simple...

Nothing simple about it...

At least let me explain, Dad.

"What time is it there, Sean? Midnight? You out partying?

No, Dad! We’re... I’m in bed! Leo stared at the ceiling as he heard the woman’s chuckling in the background.

Listen, Sean, tell your lady-friend there’s no way I’m going to do her IPO.

Please, Dad! At least let me come talk to you. I’m flying back to New York, not Boston, so I can come see you.

Sean... listen... Leo was gentle but firm, trying to slow him down. You know you’re welcome here any time...

Suddenly, Leo knew he’d made a mistake.

That’s great, Dad! Thanks! Call ya tomorrow!

Sean was gone while Leo finished the sentence himself. ...but not to talk about an IPO.

Hennessy Tower.

Leo tossed the phone onto the table. Smartass kid... knew what I was gonna say. I wonder how serious he is with that girl.

Peters quietly unfolded a tabloid newspaper and slid it across the table.

You might want to take a look at this, Colonel.

It was a supermarket scandal-sheet open to the centerfold, showing a picture of Sean surrounded by fashion models, and with his arm around an attractive woman.

The headline:Fashion CEO snags banker’s son.

***

11:30 a.m.  Liberty International Airport.  Newark. N.J. 

Sean and Netta stood in one of the crowded lines heading for the booths marked: Customs Returning U.S. Citizens.

Netta nudged him. Call.

Dutifully, he tapped his cell phone and waited.

Dad? We’re home! Everything okay?

Yeah. How about you?

Fine. Just wanted you to know. We’re just coming through Customs at Newark.

Newark? What’re you doing in Newark?

Netta has an uncle in Jersey. So we flew... Sean heard the horns and traffic on Sixth Avenue. Dad where are you? I thought you’d be sailing or playing golf...

I wish! I’m on my way from one meeting to another.

So you’re still working? I thought you said...

Suddenly the two young men in wolf tee-shirts come cutting through the crowd, grabbed Netta and pulled her with them past the other passengers – leaving Sean behind.

Hey! Sean covered the phone and called after Netta, What’s up? Where are you going? Hold on!

He tried to follow her, but she turned and put up a hand. Sorry. My uncle is picking me up. He has a connection in Customs. See you tonight!

She moved through the crowd behind the two men, calling back to Sean.

There’s a party at Harry’s house. We’re taking the helicopter. I’ll call you around five, sweetie.

He tried to follow her, but a security guard started pointing at him, Sir! Sir! No cell phones! See the sign?

Sean growled into the phone. What the hell?

Leo was losing patience. What’s going on, Sean? You okay?

Angry and confused, Sean stood, holding the phone and watching Netta disappear. 

I’m okay. I’ll call you tonight.

***

Midnight. East Hampton, Long Island.  A House on the Beach.

A few dozen people, mostly young, many nude, migrated between the house and the beach, where a contingent of drinkers stood around a bar, ostentatiously calling for More Cristal! Garçon! More Cristal!

At a dark end of the beach, Sean, wearing nothing but his cell phone, was trying to get away from Netta long enough to call his father.

Dad? Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late.

Sean? Leo was jarred awake. Where are you? Are you okay?

Of course I’m okay! We’re in the Hamptons, at a friend’s house. I just wanted to touch base.

Netta, also nude, came out of the dark, giggling and grabbing for him. Touch the base!

Who’s that?

Nobody, Dad. I told you about the company...

Netta mocked. Naked company!

Sean continued ...that wants to go public.

She danced around him in the dark, waving her arms and singing Public nudity! Skinny-Dipping!"

Sean turned away from her and walked toward the beach. Dad, I sent you a video of Netta’s TV interview. It was on the news channel last week. It’s very impressive. Gives you a great overview of the company.

Listen! Sean! I was being polite! I have NO intention of talking to those people!

Dad! Just take a look at the video. I messengered it to you this afternoon. You’ll have it first thing.

Sean cupped the phone. I just wanted to remind you that you and I agreed to meet tomorrow.

Netta reached out and grabbed. The big meet!

Ouch! Sean pulled away. Dad, just take a look at the video. I’ll call you in the morning.

No videos! No calls! No meetings!

But Sean was gone. Leo’s heart was pounding. He wouldn’t sleep.

NETTA

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5:30 a. m.  Hennessy Penthouse. The Gym.

Leo stood on the treadmill and reached over the control panel to slip a disc into the DVD player, then punched the treadmill Speed up to 4 and the Incline to 3.

The TV screen filled with an elegant logo: Haut Fashion/Finance