With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 08

Chapter 37 First Public Offering

Michael had to stop to see Mr. Foley before he could see his beloved Gabriella. He knew that if he put off his financial problems any longer his worry over them would preoccupy him and ruin his first visit with her. He hated asking Mr. Foley for any portion of the lottery money, but the idea of asking him for a loan eliminated the guilt, a loan that he would pay back with interest. What else was he to do? He had no other alternative. The credit card company threatened to ruin his credit and sue him. Moreover, Mrs. Dooley hinted at evicting him because he was three months behind in rent, and if that happened, he would have to return home and live with his Mom and Dad. He did not blame Mrs. Dooley, she was a single mother with two small children who depended on his rent to help pay for her mortgage.

He stood on his stoop and closed his eyes trying to remember Mr. Foley's address from the checks that he cashed for him at the bank. While standing there with his eyes closed and his hands over his face trying to remember where Mr. Foley lived, a limousine silently pulled up to the curb in front of him. The huge automobile filled his line of vision and, when he opened his eyes, its tinted windows reflected his curiosity about it back at him. He wondered who died or was getting married, the only time you ever saw a limousine in South Boston, not realizing that someone inside the limousine stared out at him from behind its darkened windows.

He looked up and down the street trying to see for whom the limousine was waiting. No one was around, the streets were devoid of people and nothing in the neighborhood appeared out of the ordinary. He put his hands in his pockets, whistled a tune, smiled at the chauffeur behind the wheel, and nonchalantly walked up to the passenger side window of the limousine inspecting the shiny vehicle. Too dark to see within, he leaned forward for a closer look pressing his face against the glass trying to see in the car.

The rear window lowered and Michael jumped back in embarrassment. He could see only the chest and the legs of a man sitting in the back seat.

"Sorry, I was just curious about who—"

Little Ralphie poked out his head and smiled.

"Do you know how ridiculous you look from in here with your ugly puss pressed against the glass of my window? You got smudges all over my clean window," he said laughing.

"Ralphie! Where've you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you and have left messages at your house and on your cell phone."

"I've been," Ralphie let out a big expulsion of air, "on Cloud Nine."

"Cloud nine? What is that a new bar? That explains why you haven't returned my calls," said Michael scolding him. "You turn 21 and like all the other drunks, you start drink—"

"Do you need a ride?" He said interrupting Michael's tirade. Ralphie moved his hand across the interior of the car, as if he was a model at a car show.

"What's this?"

"It's a car, Michael, a limousine, a brand new Cadillac."

"Yeah, I know that it is a car but what is the occasion?"

"Get in, Pop. We need to talk."

With that, the chauffer emerged from the driver's side and appeared at the passenger side door opening it for Michael. Ralphie slid across the leather seat to make room for his best friend.

"Thanks," said Michael looking at the chauffer resplendent in his stiff cap and navy blue uniform complete with shiny, brass buttons. He got in the car and the chauffer closed the door with a thud. The car felt like a sealed tomb it was so quiet. He sat back making himself comfortable and ran his hand across the blue, soft leather of the seat while admiring the shiny crystal bottles and glasses neatly arranged at the bar.

"First time in a limo, huh?" He asked Michael while holding a champagne glass like a trophy.

"This is my first time riding in a car that did not have a meter running driven by some middle-eastern man named Ahkmed." Michael played with the power door locks, power windows, and the power partition that separated the chauffeur from the passengers. He opened the sunroof and stood up looking out. "Wow, this is nice. I feel like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman." He sat back down and closed the roof, as the car pulled away from the curb.

"Yeah," said Ralphie, "only the limo in Pretty Woman was a white Lincoln. This is a Cadillac done in Pearlescent Metallic Midnight Blue."

"Oh, still, it's a limo."

The car pulled from the curb and Michael buckled his seatbelt.

"Michael, no one wears a seatbelt in a limo. It's sacrilegious."

"I do," he said giving Ralphie a look that made him turn and reach for his seatbelt.

"You would," said Ralphie buckling his seatbelt.

"If Princess Diana and her fiancée had been wearing their seatbelts, they would have survived their horrible crash and would be alive and well today," said Michael.

"Michael," Ralphie said giving Michael a look of old money, "sometimes, you just have to go along for the ride without the worry. Sometimes, you just have to let go and trust others."

"I'll remind you of that when the EMT's pick your lifeless body off of the pavement." Michael looked around the car. "So, what's with the limo?"

"I'm celebrating and I could not think of anyone else who I would want to celebrate my good fortune, correction, our good fortune with, than my best friend, my mentor, my idol, you."

"Thanks, but what are we celebrating?"

"We are celebrating," Ralphie put down his champagne glass, handed Michael a glass, lifted a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, vintage 1984, from the ice bucket and poured. He waited for the bubbles to settle and topped off Michael's glass before refilling his own.

Michael picked up the bottle from out of the ice bucket.

"This is the good stuff. This must have cost you a few hundred dollars a bottle."

"Chump change, my dear man, chump change," said Ralphie taking a sip of champagne. "We are celebrating my decision not to go into business, after all."

"Not go in business, but why, Ralphie?" He paused, waiting for Ralphie to answer him and continued when he did not. "That's crazy. Won't you lose the one hundred thousand dollar prize money? What about your idea? Don't you want to see that to fruition?"

"The one hundred thousand dollars is a mere pittance, my surrogate father, a mere pittance."

"A mere pittance?" Michael smiled with relief. Now, he would not have to ask Foley for a loan. "Then, you can give me back my $35,000."

"Sorry, that's impossible. I can't do that. That was the money you gave me to invest in my idea."

"Hey, easy on that stuff," said Michael reaching for Ralphie's glass but Ralphie pulled it out of his reach spilling some of it on the thick blue wool carpet.

"I am 21, I am not driving, and I am celebrating."

"I'll remind you of that when your hangover doubles the size of your already too big of a head in the morning."

"Cheers," Ralphie lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip.

"What do you mean impossible?"

"The money you gave me is long gone, long gone," he said looking at Michael. "I spent all of that and more on attorney fees, court costs, registration fees, patent fees, copyright registration, and all of that other legal mumbo jumbo that goes along with the protection of my legal rights that is required under the Securities and Exchange Commission with the intent of a First Public Offering."

"First Public Offering? Ralphie, I trusted you with my money, and now, that I quit my job, I can't pay my credit card. I don't even have money to give Mrs. Dooley for rent and I am three months behind on that. She is ready to evict me." He made eye contact with Ralphie. "I don't want to have to return home to live with my parents. Now, I have no other alternative than to ask Mr. Foley for a loan."

"Foley? Who is Foley?"

"Foley is a long story for another time."

"You worry too much, my friend." Ralphie threw an arm around Michael's shoulders, "you always have and you always will worry more than necessary" Little Ralphie smiled at him. "Perhaps, I can change things for you so that you do not have to worry, anymore, at least, not about money."

"What do you mean?"

"Hey! Stanley!" Ralphie leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition that separated him from the driver. "Pull over here," he yelled. Ralphie pressed the button that lowered Michael's window.

The driver pulled along side a newspaper stand. A boy of about 12-years-old approached the car and stuck his dirty face inside the window.

"D'ya want a newspaper, Mister?" He asked Michael.

"No," said Michael leaning back in his seat.

"Yeah," said Ralphie. The kid handed Michael the newspaper and he put it on the seat between him and Ralphie. Ralphie put his champagne glass down, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a neatly folded stack of newly minted one hundred dollar bills. He peeled one off and leaning over Michael, handed it to the kid. When the kid reached in his pocket to change the large bill, Ralphie said, "Keep the change, kid."

"Wow!" The kid held the bill up to admire it and said, "Thanks, Mister."

Ralphie raised Michael's window with a push of a button and the car slowly inched out in traffic.

"Ralphie, you gave that kid one hundred dollars for a fifty-cent newspaper."

"Oh, my God! What the Hell was I thinking?" Ralphie leaned over Michael, lowered the window and yelled out. "Hey, kid." The chauffeur stopped the car.

"Yeah?" The kid ran over to the limo.

"I forgot to pay your for the paper." Ralphie handed the kid two quarters.

The kid walked back to his newspaper stand smiling.

"You gave some kid," Michael looked at Ralphie, "my hundred bucks for a newspaper. I don't get it."

"Correction." Ralphie closed Michael's window again and signaled the driver to drive. He held up his wad of cash to Michael's face. "This is my money." He pocketed the cash, reached in his jacket pocket, and withdrew an envelope. "And this," he smiled his smug smile that he smiles when he thinks he is being so smart, "is your money." He handed Michael the envelope.

"What's this?" Michael looked at the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a cashier's check. It looked real enough, but even after having worked for two banks, Neighborhood Bank and Earth Bank for all of those years, he had never seen a check with so many zeroes before.

"That is your return on the $35,000 investment that you made on me."

"Ralphie," Michael stared at him with mouth gaping. "This check is for thirty-five million dollars." He looked at Ralphie and then looked back at the check, again. "Is this a joke?" Again, he looked at the check and then back at Ralphie.

"No," Ralphie took another sip of champagne. "I assure you that," he pointed to the check that Michael held in his shaking hand, "is no joke." He raised his glass in toast to him. "That is your money to keep and to do whatever you want with it."

"It's a Hell of a return on my investment, but I don't understand." He looked at Ralphie. "What am I going to do with thirty-five million dollars?" He stared at the check, again.

"Retire and live it up," Ralphie smiled, and then in a flash of enlightenment, he gave Michael a hard look. "Yet, knowing you as I do, you'll probably do something really stupid like start your own bank in that loser South Boston neighborhood where you grew up."

Ralphie's insight flashed across Michael's mind like an electrical charge. He could hardly contain his excitement with the thoughts of starting his own neighborhood bank, but Michael controlled himself. He did not like the idea that he was so predictable to his friend.

"Are you going to help your community? Surely, there is something that you could—"

"No. What did those people do for me except make fun of me and buy a lousy newspaper from me and most times without even giving me a tip? They are all such assholes."

Michael gave him a long look but, not wanting to ruin his celebration with a lecture, he let Ralphie's hostility pass uncontested. Besides, he knew that Ralphie was an even bigger softie than was he and, no doubt, would eventually come around and enjoy playing the big shot philanthropist.

"So, tell me, how this all came about."

"Do you remember the meeting that I had with Earth Bank's loan committee?"

"Yeah, you had an appointment with Ms. Davis, Vice-President of something or other."

"Yeah, Ms. Marilyn Davis, Earth Bank's Vice-President of Entrepreneurial Internet Creative Start-up Development something or other." Ralphie emptied his glass of champagne. "Well, it turns out that she is more than just another Earth Bank Vice-President. She is Earth Bank's West Coast personal banker for a very important customer." Ralphie looked at Michael raising an eyebrow, "A very important customer." He poured himself another glass of champagne.

"Who?" Michael glared at Ralphie pouring more champagne. "Who is the customer?"

"I signed an agreement to keep the identity of the buyer confidential, but it does not take much of an imagination to know who has the wherewithal to afford such an extravagant payment for just an idea, the technology to create the product from concept to reality, the personnel to develop it to product, and the markets to sell it world-wide."

"Buyer? Who do you mean? Do you mean Bill Gates of Microsoft paid you all of this money for an idea?"

"I never heard of the man or of the company." Ralphie gave Michael that smug look and took another sip of champagne.

"You sold an idea?" Michael grabbed at the glass and Ralphie pulled it away. "That's enough. You'll be sick."

"Yes, I sold the idea," said Ralphie putting down his glass. "Can you believe it? He, I mean, they bought my idea."

"They are willing to give you all this money for an idea? I don't understand."

"Do you remember I said that the software had a catch? The catch is that a third party can examine, manipulate, and download the customers' proprietary information for their own personal benefit.

"It sounds illegal."

"It is more unethical than it is illegal. Yet, now the ball is in their court. I came up with the idea and sold it. What they do with it, is up to them and not me. Chances are that they are working on this type of computer spy stuff already." He lightly punched Michael in the shoulder. "And that's not all," said Ralphie looking at Michael and waiting for his appropriate attentive response.

"What else more could their possibly be, Ralphie. This is already too much for my brain to assimilate." He looked at Ralphie. "I cannot even imagine what else."

"They want me to work for them. I can work when and wherever I want. They'll even set me up with a terminal in my limousine, in my house or on my yacht."

"Yacht, what yacht? You don't have a yacht. Don't tell me you are going to buy a yacht. You can't even swim." He looked at Ralphie's smug smile. "I don't believe that you, of all people, someone who is afraid of the water is thinking about buying a yacht."

"Nah, I don't want to buy a yacht."

"Good because that is a waste of—"

"I already bought one. I bought it yesterday. Actually, that was my first purchase. The limousine was my second purchase." Ralphie ran his hand across the blue leather seat. "I bought this today."

"I'm dreaming," said Michael. This is so unreal."

"So, I'll be connected to the private network of other egg-headed techno-geeks where—"

"I'm afraid to ask but how much did they give you for your idea?"

"One hundred fifty million, well, one forty-nine million after I paid my attorney to help negotiate the deal and to set up a tax shelter so that I would not owe half of the one hundred fifty million to the government. With all that in place, now, I should receive a sizable refund from this year's taxes, as well as a nice return on my investments."

"And why are you giving me so much, thirty-five million?"

"I could not have done it without your help and without your money, Pop." Ralphie reclined back in the softness of the leather seat placing his hands behind his head. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be working for my father collecting betting slips and breaking legs and busting heads when the bums who waged their bets could not pay their losses." He sat up straight. "Besides, I have one hundred fourteen million, before taxes, that is, with more to come, once they release the software some time in a year or two, in a percentage of the profits, world-wide. More than I could possibly spend in my lifetime." He smiled. "I'm set for life."

"This is nuts." Michael held the cashier's check up to the light looking for the watermark and rechecking its validity. "I can't believe this. This better not be a joke, Ralphie."

"No joke, Michael." Ralphie snapped out his hand flashing a shiny gold Rolex. "Matter of fact, I'm late for a meeting with my tax attorney."

"Was that your third purchase?" Michael asked pointing to Ralphie's watch.

"No, this was my fourth. He looked over at Michael and smiled. "I paid cash for a house in Manchester-by-the-sea, four million, this morning, after I bought the limousine. Do you want take a ride to see it?"

"No, I can't, not today."

"Why not?"

"I'm seeing Gabriella. I haven't seen her in weeks, since that time when we were in front of the bank," he smiled at Ralphie, "making out."

"Yeah, you are such a dog, Michael, and she is such a hot sweetie. She is too good for you." He looked over at Michael. "Maybe, now, that I am so rich, she may want a younger man."

"Fat chance. She loves me." Michael looked at his watch, the same one that he had since seminary school, the one that had the crucifix at twelve o'clock. He liked it better than Ralphie's new gold Rolex watch.

"I'm late."

"Where can I drop you?"

"She lives on Charter Street, 109. Drop me off there."

Ralphie leaned forward and rapped on the glass, again.

"Sir," The chauffeur's voice sounded over the intercom, "you can use the intercom by depressing the red button on the center console to speak to me without yelling."

"Oh," Ralphie looked down at the center console that housed the four-dozen buttons that controlled the stereo, TV, DVD, climate control, intercom, and car phone, as well as the door locks and windows, and the power seat, power headrests, and seat cushion heaters.

"Where'd you find your driver? He's awesome."

"The dealership put me in touch with Stanley. I hired him on the spot." Ralphie winked at Michael. "He's also my bodyguard. He has a black belt in Judo or Karate or something like that. Plus he is licensed to carry a gun."

"Impressive."

"Drive to 109 Charter Street, please, Stanley."

"Yes, sir."

"No, wait." Michael grabbed Ralphie's arm. "I can't go there empty-handed." He threw his head back in the seat. "I need something—"

"Stanley," said Ralphie depressing the intercom.

"Yes, sir."

"Drive to Winston's Florist on Newbury Street." He looked at Michael. "Calm down. You look like a heart attack." He laughed. "You act like this is your first time." He looked over at Michael, again. "Oh, my God! Tell me that you got laid before. Tell me that this is not your first time. Tell me that you are not a 29-year-old virgin."

"Ralphie, not everyone requires sex to satisfy them," said Michael turning away and looking out the window.

"Yeah, right, even the priest gets a little release from the nuns, sometimes." He turned to Michael making a hand gesture like someone giving a blow job.

"You are going straight to Hell for thinking that, let alone for saying that."

Ralphie laughed, pulled another unopened bottle of 1984 Dom Perignon Champagne from out of the ice bucket and wiped the wetness off with a towel.

"Here," he said handing him the champagne. "Take this with you. What kind of flowers does she like?"

"I don't know." He looked to Ralphie for help. "We never discussed flowers."