Post by Cross Recoba on Jul 8, 2019 9:46:39 GMT -5
There were many things that rankled Alexander Beasant about literally being an Englishman in New York. Chief amongst them was that, above all, two times of the year were put above everything else, above decorum, engagements, and most of all - money. Those times were, of course, Thanksgiving and Independence Day. The week leading up to each event was an effective graveyard for productivity, and when it came to Thanksgiving, no major corporate news would be released that side of the New Year.
This was the reason why he found himself eating lunch ‘al desko’ as every office ‘comedian’ dubbed it. The monthly and quarterly meetings had been pushed back to the week after the holidays and, consequently, Beasant had found himself losing almost the entire day to endless PowerPoint presentations of pie charts and revenue bridges.
The meetings seemed to drag more than they normally did, the parade of middle management trying to peacock in front of those who made the ultimate decisions was tedious at the best of times, add in a nation drunk on patriotism and a World Cup win and it became tantamount to a crime worthy of the UN council.
He thought he heard his PA talking to someone but dismissed it as a figment of an overly rested imagination. He wasn’t due back into the boardroom for half an hour and he’d gone to pains to keep those prized thirty minutes to himself. He’d already caught up on the news coming from England out of the Cricket World Cup while walking to his office, the remainder of his time was his to do at his leisure.
“Alex, your two o’cloc-” the intercom was cut off as quickly as it had come alive. He heard the mahogany door swing open and then shut.
“Look, I won’t keep you, just skim this and sign it then your team can do the rest.” Beasant recognised the voice immediately. For all the pains Cross went to in order to hide his native accent under a transatlantic accent he still couldn’t stop certain words betraying an Illinois brogue.
“Cross, can this wait? Leave it on the desk, I’ll sign it tomorrow.” As Beasant spoke he turned round in time to see the familiar sight of Recoba looking like a scolded younger sibling.
“I’d love to, Alexander, but...sign this and it’s a guaranteed three million going into the coffers by the end of the year. That’ll bring my account in all this up to…” Cross purposefully trailed off.
“You and I both know it’ll be ten million dollars in seed capital raised..” Beasant didn’t even have to look, “Cross, you can lose that grin, Costello told me half of that is coming from Japan.”
“True, but Padovano’s cut, at your projection of a four-fold return is now twenty million.” Cross cooly slid the contract onto the cherry wood table that sat inside the door.
He’d done the mental arithmetic. After Padovano had taken his cut for the family out, and they’d taken out the five million investment it would leave eight million to split between two. Four million of personal profit for laundering wasn’t to be sniffed at.
“I’ll meet you halfway, I’ll sign this now and have the legal team look over it. Once they’re satisfied you’ll be sent a copy of the completed contract.” Beasant looked at his watch, he’d have fifteen minutes left before he’d have to trudge back in the boardroom.
“Come on, you’ve made more money on your lunch-break than 99% of the world make in a year, don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.” Cross protested as he passed the pen.
This was the reason why he found himself eating lunch ‘al desko’ as every office ‘comedian’ dubbed it. The monthly and quarterly meetings had been pushed back to the week after the holidays and, consequently, Beasant had found himself losing almost the entire day to endless PowerPoint presentations of pie charts and revenue bridges.
The meetings seemed to drag more than they normally did, the parade of middle management trying to peacock in front of those who made the ultimate decisions was tedious at the best of times, add in a nation drunk on patriotism and a World Cup win and it became tantamount to a crime worthy of the UN council.
He thought he heard his PA talking to someone but dismissed it as a figment of an overly rested imagination. He wasn’t due back into the boardroom for half an hour and he’d gone to pains to keep those prized thirty minutes to himself. He’d already caught up on the news coming from England out of the Cricket World Cup while walking to his office, the remainder of his time was his to do at his leisure.
“Alex, your two o’cloc-” the intercom was cut off as quickly as it had come alive. He heard the mahogany door swing open and then shut.
“Look, I won’t keep you, just skim this and sign it then your team can do the rest.” Beasant recognised the voice immediately. For all the pains Cross went to in order to hide his native accent under a transatlantic accent he still couldn’t stop certain words betraying an Illinois brogue.
“Cross, can this wait? Leave it on the desk, I’ll sign it tomorrow.” As Beasant spoke he turned round in time to see the familiar sight of Recoba looking like a scolded younger sibling.
“I’d love to, Alexander, but...sign this and it’s a guaranteed three million going into the coffers by the end of the year. That’ll bring my account in all this up to…” Cross purposefully trailed off.
“You and I both know it’ll be ten million dollars in seed capital raised..” Beasant didn’t even have to look, “Cross, you can lose that grin, Costello told me half of that is coming from Japan.”
“True, but Padovano’s cut, at your projection of a four-fold return is now twenty million.” Cross cooly slid the contract onto the cherry wood table that sat inside the door.
He’d done the mental arithmetic. After Padovano had taken his cut for the family out, and they’d taken out the five million investment it would leave eight million to split between two. Four million of personal profit for laundering wasn’t to be sniffed at.
“I’ll meet you halfway, I’ll sign this now and have the legal team look over it. Once they’re satisfied you’ll be sent a copy of the completed contract.” Beasant looked at his watch, he’d have fifteen minutes left before he’d have to trudge back in the boardroom.
“Come on, you’ve made more money on your lunch-break than 99% of the world make in a year, don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.” Cross protested as he passed the pen.
*****