Chapter Two 

Before we continue, I’ll explain a bit about my company, the great American publishing house Card Wainright & Co,  and my job, selling Card Wainright & Co.’s on-line database service, Cardwainright.com.   Headquartered in Chicago, Card Wainright looms large on the world’s business journalism scene publishing 648 titles worldwide, the most important of which are The Mid-western Financial Review in the US, and the widely-read weekly Card Wainright Capital Asia in the Far East, an essential magazine for anyone doing business in the region.  Other titles in the Card Wainright stable include niche publications such as Options Trader Gazette, AgriFutures Weekly, and Card Wainright Country Reports – boring crap all of it, but some poor fuckers read it.

 In the late eighties, long before the Internet, it occurred to some bright spark that people would pay for an electronic database, accessible via modem, comprising the back issues of these publications.  The database was created and proved very popular with  research-oriented people such as librarians, research analysts, and lawyers.  Using key words, clients could search hundreds of thousands of news articles and country reports in seconds;  better yet, they were willing to pay thousands of US dollars a month to do so.   With the coming of the Internet, Card Wainright had discontinued the software used to access the database and created a web site, Cardwainright.com, through which paying clients with a password could access the database.   This is the service I was responsible for selling in Hong Kong.

 Despite Cardwainright.com’s success Card Wainright’s journalists, who utterly dominated the company, treated the unit as something of a poor stepson.  To them, the breaking of big stories and the writing of scything country reports were far more important than the sordid business of peddling old news to business people.  I didn’t, for example,  get a desk in Card Wainright’s regional headquarters on the 44^th floor of Sun Hung Kai Tower, but only a cubicle in the crowded, computer-strewn IT support office down on the 4^th floor, where everyone but me was a Chinese techie. 

 This institutionalized disdain for Cardwainright.com accounted for my boss’s complete indifference to my activities.   Caz Bozkowski, the editor of the international desk, was based far, far away in Chicago.  As an ardent journalist, he could barely conceal his distaste for being saddled with overseeing me, a business person.   In my four years with the company I’d only seen him 3 times, and all of these meetings had been brief.  He did little more than unquestioningly sign off on my expense reports, which in no small way was responsible for my descent into sloth and borderline alcoholism.  He was oceans away and unconcerned: the perfect boss.

 Reporting to Caz was peculiar in a few other ways.  One peculiarity was that it effectively meant I had no contact with Cardwainright.com’s US sales organization, an intense, competitive place led by its aggressive, evangelical managing director, Kit Matthews.   I’d never understood why I wasn’t chained into that hellish world of sales forecasts, client-call reports, and military-like marketing campaigns, and I dared not delve too deeply for fear it might spur them to reorganize things to make me more accountable, thus threatening my early retirement.

 Another peculiarity, one from which I profited handsomely, was that long before I arrived at Cardwainright.com an independent distributor called All Asia News Base had been hired to sell Card Wainright’s database product in Hong Kong.  Run by an aging Welshman named Orson Crane,  an old friend of Card Wainright’s top honcho in Asia, All Asia News Base still sold Cardwainright.com; indeed, All Asia’s two sales reps, Dickie and Carsolita, brought in just about all the revenue, I being content to sit back, have a few drinks, and embezzle the money.

 Such were things as I sat down at my fourth-floor desk the day after learning of Thomas’s and Inksy’s e-strategy.  No sooner had I turned on my computer than my mobile rang.

 “Jake Stratton, good morning.”

 “Jakey me lad, it’s Orson.”

 “It’s a bit early for you…didn’t you go out last night?”

 “Nah, shoulda done though.  Having problems with the lil’ woman.”

 “Which one?”

 “Rexy from Club Country 88,” he said, his voice breaking.  “She’s so beautiful, lad, but I just don’t understand her.  She can be so cruel.  I feel like a pile of shite today.”

 “Is she the one with the leopard tights from two weeks ago?”

 “Nah, that’s Ooi.” He got suddenly excited:  “Did I tell you about Ooi?  I took her back that night and shagged her doggy style on the floor.  A good shag that one.  Highly recommended.  Had a porno going and everything.” 

 I had a disturbing image of a Viagra-fuelled Orson - short, pot-bellied, red-faced, and old - pumping some Thai teenager on all fours.   I guess that’s the problem I have screwing hookers: I don’t mind paying for it, but I can’t stand the thought of all the foul dogs that get into them before I get my crack – not that this ever stopped me, of course.  

 “So,” I said.  “What can I do for you today?”

 “Dickie signed up a new account.  One thousand US per month.”

 Instinctively I calculated my cut: 40% of US$1,000 per month meant US$400 per month, or US$4,800 per year.

 “Excellent.  Who with?” 

 “Euro-Asia Agriculture.”

 “Really?  That’s a superb company.” 

 “Aye, sure is.  They need the account set up right away.”

 “Hang on,” I said, placing the phone on the desk.

 I opened Explorer and went to Cardwainright.com’s Intranet; once inside, I hit the account opening tab, which prompted me for a password.  After entering this, it prompted me with three fields, which I filled out accordingly:

CARDWAINRIGHT.COM ACCOUNT ACTIVATION PAGE

 CUSTOMER NAME:           Euro Asia Agriculture

TYPE:                         Private Company

BILLING AMOUNT:           Trial account/No charges apply

 The last item, Trial account/No charges apply, was crucial, for Cardwainright.com’s billing system in Chicago would generate no invoice for a trial account, leaving Orson free to invoice clients directly, which meant that I’d get 40% of gross revenues in cash and tax free, and not the measly 3.5% stipulated in my contract with Card Wainright.  To avoid raising suspicions in Chicago we would sometimes create a real account that would be billed from the US, but I’m not sure we needed to: nobody, and certainly not Caz ,  seemed to have any idea what we were up to.  None of it was exactly ethical or honest, but that didn’t bother me greatly: was our business model any worse than, say, some CEO using accounting tricks to inflate his company’s profits and hence his own bonus?

 The computer produced an account number and a password. I picked up the phone and read them to Orson. 

 After he’d jotted down the information, he said, “I really think you should get our account opening privilege back, Jakey.”

 We’d been through this a dozen times.  Years before, just before I’d come aboard, All-Asia’s account opening privileges had been revoked at a time when its lucrative distributorship had been imperiled.  I’d eventually saved All-Asia’s distributorship, ensuring my retirement in the process, but had so far resisted returning their account opening privileges, wishing to keep the golden key to Cardwainright.com all to myself. 

 “Dude, Caz says no way.”

 “Aye, but Caz doesn’t give a toss what goes on out here.  You’ve said so yourself, Jakey.”

 “But you know how he is on this one point,” I lied.  “Just bear with me.  Anyway, can you give that package we discussed yesterday to Dickie?  Him and I have a ten  o’clock demo at BCCI.”

 “You know I don’t trust that cunt, he might peek inside.”

 “Orson, Dickie’s clueless.  Do like last time, put it in a video case and seal it in an envelope.”

 Orson grumbled a bit more, but agreed to give Dickie the package.

 At Lippo Centre 30 minutes later, Dickie Tan, carrying his oversized laptop case, came up the escalator from the MTR.  He wore a baggy double-breasted suit that rested awkwardly on his narrow frame and a floral tie – today he had on one of my favorites, a pink thing with two large blue orchids.   I cringed as he approached: I’d never gotten used to his sunken cheeks, his acne, and his smile of jagged, wayward teeth, which reminded me of a garoupa I’d once seen on a dive in Borokay.  It had always been hard to resist recommending that he get braces, but since he was the sole breadwinner for his wife, daughter, and 4 grandparents – they all lived together in a two room flat way out in Shatin – I reckoned he could never afford them, especially on the crap wages Orson paid.

 "Ready to make some money?” I said, shaking his hand.

 "You bet, Jake.  These guys are serious."

 “How many passwords?”

 “About 100 passwords in ten countries.”

 “Good job.  How much you proposing?”

 “Ten thousand US.”

 I whistled softly.  Ten thousand US per month was excellent:  my cut would be US$4,000 per month, or US$48,000 per year.

 "Competition?"  I asked. 

 "Everybody...Economical Times, Hootens, Waxis."  

 Not good: the more competition, the more price cutting.  We’d surely get the deal - Orson and I could, if necessary, go from asking US$10,000 per month to US$1 per month and still make money for ourselves, if not necessarily for Card Wainright - but the lower the price, the less money  going down to the Philippines.  Proponents of laissez-faire be damned, the best, easiest jobs are with monopolies.  Fuck the public.

 “Don’t worry,” said Dickie.  “We’ll just cut price.”

 “That’s what they taught me in MBA school.”

 Dickie grinned up at me.  “I hope I get an MBA one day.”

 “It’s a lot of work, Dickie, but as I always say, I wouldn’t be here without it.  Did Orson give you a package for me?”

 For an instant Dickie’s smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed.  But then he reached into his bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and passed it to me.    I felt the hard video case inside.   A bit later, on the 40^th floor, I told Dickie I needed to use the restroom.

 “I come with you,” he said.

 The bathroom was small with only two stalls.   One of them was occupied and its occupant was doing a good job noisily stinking up the place.   Dickie went to the mirror to adjust his over-moused hair and I took the empty stall. 

 For appearances sake I dropped my trousers to my ankles, sat down, and waited until I heard Dickie leave before using the pocket knife on my key chain to cut open the envelope.   In the video case I found two bricks of solid cash held together with rubber bands.   HK$200,000 to be exact, in brand-new HK$1,000 notes, not bad for one month of non-work.   I closed my eyes and caressed the notes’ rough texture, and then raised them to my nose to enjoy the smell of new money.  

 After adoring the cash a few minutes – I would have stayed longer but for the guy in the next stall - I put one brick in each of my lapel pockets and left the stall.  Before re-joining Dickie, I stopped to regard myself in the bathroom mirror:  ‘6’2 of American corporate stud, white, tall, green eyed, and all topped off with a head of wavy black hair.  In my suit wearing my red tie, what company wouldn’t want me grinning – my shined wing tips up on the desk so I could rest my elbow on my knee - from the cover of its corporate brochure?  As if my looks weren’t enough I was charming as well, or so I’d been told: one ex-girlfriend had called me “silver tongued,” and this is how I liked to think of myself - young, good looking, silver tongued, and rich. 

 The lobby of Bank of Credit and Commerce International was all marble, steel, and glass with a pretty receptionist behind a desk that appeared to have been hacked from a solid block of marble.  I joined Dickie on a leather and chrome couch that was probably more expensive than everything in my apartment combined.

 "How’s Orson?" 

 "Very hungover yesterday,"  Dickie replied.  "All this drinking no good."

 "Alcohol isn’t all that bad.  It’s part of our western culture, just like you Chinese like to gamble."

 "No good," Dickie shook his head.

 "By the way, Orson told me about Euro-Asia. Congrats.”

 “Thanks man, One thousand US per month.”

 Which worked out to US$400 per month for me, US$400 per month for Orson, and US$200 per month for Dickie, who we were careful to keep in the dark about things.  After 12 months, in fact, Dickie stopped earning commissions on an account, and then my cut and Orson’s cut would rise to 50% each.  Orson explained he didn’t want Dickie to get complacent and start thinking he could make money without working, a sentiment I agreed with.

 “Jake, what are you up to with United American Bank?”

 “What do you mean, up to?   It’s only a small account, and they’ve got a big regional deal with Economical Times, so we’re shut out for now. Let me handle it.”

 “But I called a guy in their research department and he sounded interested.  Why can’t I go talk to them?”

 “You called them?  Why’d you do that?  Dickie, United American is my account.  Remember?”

 “But we always work together, I…”

 “Dickie,” I interrupted.  “It’s my account, so stay the fuck out of it.”

 Dickie, never one to back down easily, was about to say something but a secretary appeared and took us to a conference room.

 There was a big window facing north.  While Dickie and the secretary set up the laptop and overhead projector I checked out the view.  It was a clear day and I could make out the rock formations on the mountains behind the sprawl of Kowloon;  closer in, ferries moved about the harbor and immediately below stood the upside-down looking Prince of Wales Building, the lair of the reclusive PLA garrison.  Off to the right the roach-like convention center sat on its reclaimed chunk of harbor, and beyond the old Kai Tak runway jutted into the sea. 

 Relishing it all, I reached up to feel the hard packets of money through my jacket.   It would have been nice to take them out and smell them again, but I had to be satisfied with reaching into my pocket and tweaking one corner.  If I could keep Dickie and Orson away from United American, there would be much, much more.  Hell, even if they did find out what I was doing I need not cut them in, although that would annoy the hell out of them.

 Presently the prospects started arriving (there were about twenty) and taking seats around the conference table.  Dickie and I greeted them at the door and collected their business cards, which was pointless as I immediately forgot which person corresponded to which card.   They were all Chinese, and mostly men, but the last to arrive was a gweilo – a stocky, balding Jew with a big a big nose and square, steel-rimmed glasses.  I disliked him immediately.

 “Jake,” said Dickie when he saw the guy’s card.  “You both went to Ebbers.”

 “Huh?”

 “You went to Ebbers?” said the Jew, surprised.

 “Sure did, I’m Jake Stratton.”

 “Manny Goldstein, nice to meet you.  What year?” He seized my hand so I hard I winced.

 “Ninety four.  You?”

 “Ninety three.  It’s strange, I don’t recognize your name and our paths have never crossed.  You must know Dave Donovan over at Enron, he graduated in ninety four.”

 “I think I’ve heard of him,” I said.

 Goldstein frowned at this.  “But…”

 “Actually,” I interrupted, “why don’t we meet up for a drink sometime.  I don’t’ want to keep your colleagues waiting.”

 Goldstein, still frowning, handed me a card and made his way to the back of the room.  I glanced down at it.  Printed below his name, Emmanuel Goldstein, and his title, Senior Vice President/Risk Management, was MBA/Ebbers School of Business.  What a wanker.

 After everyone settled down Dickie thanked them for coming and introduced me, which was my cue to rise and give my stock speech about Card Wainright.  I began with the firm’s 19^th century origins in the Chicago stock yards, and threw in some juicy details about the illustrious forbears of our current batch of idle, inbred majority shareholders.  Blah blah blah.  I’d given the speech hundreds of times, and the slack expressions in the room suggested the audience found it as boring as I.

 After this I sat down and Dickie, using the overhead, gave a demonstration of Cardwainright.com – 648 publications, exclusive access to Card Wainright Capital Asia, and the world’s best country reports.  Blah blah blah.  I’d seen this far too much for my liking, so I zoned out and thought about the fantasy novel I hoped to write when I retired.  Not the effort and work involved in writing the thing, of course, but the critical acclaim and fame it would bring me.  Indeed, I’d be to Borokay what Hemingway was to Key West. 

 Dickie finished, the lights came on, and he asked if anyone had a question.

 Silence.

 "Well, I guess that means they want to buy it,”  I said.  “Get these folks a contract, Dickie." 

 Embarrassed laughter, but then a woman hesitantly put her hand up.

 "Yes, a question,” I said. 

 "Why is this better than Hootens dot com?" 

 Bitch.  Hootens.com was our main competitor. 

 “First of all,” I said.  “We have considerably more news content, and only through us can you access Card Wainright Capital Asia and Card Wainright’s country reports.  Would you seriously consider investing in China without consulting our reports first?  You’d be taking a major risk.”

 “But Hootens has one thousand publications,” she said.  “You only have six hundred and forty eight.  How can you claim to have more?”

 “Also,” said Goldstein, “BCCI has been investing in China for years without your reports.   What difference can your service possibly make?”

 Dickhead.   Goldstein was likely more important than the chick, though, so I ignored her.

 “Well, Manny, you’ve been taking a serious risk then.  You have an Ebbers MBA, so you know how important Card Wainright is.  I’m being totally frank with you here.”

 I immediately regretted this for Goldstein snorted and shook his head.  Before he could reply, though, Dickie spoke up:  “Hootens sometimes lies to people about their sources. They do carry one thousand publications, but sometimes they’re not full text so when you search you’re not searching everything.   Everything on Card Wainright is full text, but that doesn’t matter because we’ll charge you a cheaper price.”

 I smiled and nodded at the group, who didn’t look too pleased.  Almost hostile, in fact.

 "But my department has been using Hootens for years and it’s been great,"  said a  weasel-like guy next to Goldstein. 

 "Really?” I said. “I’m surprised to hear that.  But anyway, I know how you feel.  A lot of my clients who cancelled Hootens to sign up with us felt the same way, but after switching to Card Wainright they found out how superior we are – and cheaper too.  For this regional deal we’re offering a special low rate of just ten thousand US dollars per month, but we’ll undercut anything Hootens offers."

 “Hootens is offering to charge us fifty cents a month,” said Goldstein, grinning.  “Will you charge us forty five?”

 Everyone laughed.

 “Very funny, Manny,” I said, pretending to be amused.  “Look, I have to get to my next appointment, and I’m sure you guys are busy too.  But I just want you to know that  we’ll undercut any serious offer Hootens or anybody else  puts up.  Got it?”

 This sparked some quiet talking in Chinese.  

 “Do you have any more questions?” said Dickie.

 “No,” said the weasel.  “We’ll call you.”

 People rose and started leaving. Goldstein came up to me.

 “What do you think of the service?” I said.  “Pretty cool, huh?”

 “How did you end up in a job like this?” was his reply. 

 “Oh, this is a great job.  I love going out, selling, meeting people, and helping them do their jobs.”

 “Whatever,” he rolled his eyes and left. 

 Cunt. 

 Soon they were all gone.  I was irritated to see most of them had left the cheap photocopies we used for product brochures. 

 "I think they’ll buy it,"  said Dickie, gathering the leftover sheets.

 "Leave those here, the next group to use the room will see them.”

 “Good idea.” 

 “Another MBA trick for you, Dickie, but don’t forget the only thing that matters is price.  At least we're better at selling than that whore from Hootens."

 "Alicia,"  Dickie grimaced. 

 Alicia was my opposite number at Hootens, and we loathed her and she loathed us.   Once, after Dickie and I had undercut her to win a big account, she’d sent Orson a four page letter complaining about what she called our “dishonest, unprofessional, and positively abysmal selling techniques.”    The Tuesday after getting it, Orson had responded by getting drunk and calling her voicemail at 2:30am from a Wanchai bar.  Slurring, he’d promised to “fire the cunts.” He also said if she was still upset that “a right good shag” would fix her up like “the dog’s bollocks.”  She’d never complained again, but whenever she bumped into me she’d stick her nose in the air and ignore me, which was a pity because she was gorgeous with long legs and brilliant flowing hair - you can’t get them all. 

 “I’m glad you told them that people are canceling other services for us,” said Dickie, rolling a phone cord.

 “It’s essential to cut down the competition.  That’s one of the first things I learned at Ebbers.”

 “Wah, Ebbers MBA so prestigious.” 

 “I wouldn’t be here without it.”

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