Serpent on the Rock (31 page)

As Corbin sipped his drink, he spotted Laurel Vass, a broker from the Stockton, California, office. She was headed toward him with a woman whom Corbin didn't recognize. Apparently, Vass had given one of her two tickets for the trip to a friend.

“Hey, John,” Vass said. “We've got a problem.”

“What's the matter?”

“We're supposed to be in this hotel, and there's something wrong with our reservation,” she said. “They don't have room for us, and they say they want to put us in another hotel.”

This was just the kind of problem that wholesalers were handed all the time on these trips. Corbin figured that he would have to start looking around to find another marketer who could be thrown out of a room. Then the free room could go to the broker and her friend. But all that would take a while and certainly would not be finished that night.

“I'll see what I can do,” Corbin said. “But give me some time.”

Before the women could reply, Corbin spotted Bob Sherman. He was making a beeline directly toward the two women.

“Is there a problem here?” Sherman asked.

“Well, evidently we've got too many people booked into this hotel,” Corbin replied. “And these two ladies were hoping to stay here. But now, I've got to get them over to another hotel.”

Sherman beamed. “Well, ladies,” he said graciously. “Why don't I give you a ride over to your hotel?”

As Sherman escorted the women out the door, Corbin helped move their bags outside. Within a few minutes, Sherman and the women were driving away. Corbin felt relieved that the problem had been taken care of so easily.

The next day, Corbin ran into the two women again on the beach. They started talking. They were all young, single, and attractive, and soon they and some of Corbin's friends began to spend time together. They walked to the beach for some snorkeling and swimming. By evening, Corbin had found the women a room at the El Camino, where he was staying. They decided to have dinner together, along with Rich Gilman from Graham, and headed back to the hotel to get ready.

Waiting for Vass was a message from Sherman and Carrington Clark, a West Coast regional director for Prudential-Bache and a close friend of Sherman's. They wanted to know if the two ladies would join them for dinner. Vass telephoned them back immediately.

“Thank you for the invitation,” she said. “But we've already got something else going on tonight with John Corbin.”

The next night, Corbin and a few friends planned a dinner party at a Mexican restaurant. Vass and her friend were invited. Before they left, Vass received another message from Carrington Clark. Again, he wanted to know if the two ladies would have dinner with him and Sherman. Vass again declined, telling Clark that she was going to a party with Corbin.

About twenty minutes later, a Pru-Bache executive took Corbin aside. Sherman and Clark were angry at him, the executive said. They felt hurt that he was having a party and had not invited them. Corbin called Clark immediately.

“Hi, Carrington,” he said. “Listen, a bunch of us are going out tonight to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. Do you and Bob Sherman want to come along.”

“No thank you, John,” Clark said coldly. “We'd rather not.”

They said their good-byes, and Corbin hung up the telephone. Whatever was happening, it sure sounded to him as though Clark and Sherman were a bit peeved at him.

Corbin had no idea that the events of the last two days could well cost him his job.

Paul Grattarola ran toward the man-made lake by the El Camino Royale. The mariachi band he had hired to perform had just fallen into the water. The group had been standing on a small boat, playing for one of the Prudential-Bache dinner parties, when it capsized. It was the second night of the Cancún trip. Until the band lost its balance, the trip had been marred only when one broker's wife physically assaulted her husband's branch manager. Besides that, everything had been running like clockwork. Grattarola stood by as the musicians were fished out of the water.

Once that problem was out of the way, Grattarola went back to supervising the party. He took his responsibilities for arranging the trip very seriously and hated for anything to go wrong. As his gaze wandered over the crowd, his eyes locked with Bob Sherman's, who was staring directly at him. Sherman moved forcefully toward Grattarola. He obviously wanted to talk.

“Well, you were right about the suites,” Sherman said. “I called Rand Araskog, the chairman of ITT, to see if the Sheraton had something larger than Darr's suite. They don't. He's got the largest suite in the city.”

Grattarola just looked at him. He knew that Sherman was trying to awe him with his easy access to the chairman of ITT, which owned the Sheraton hotel chain. But he was not impressed. With Sherman the head of retail at a national brokerage firm, Grattarola would have been shocked if he hadn't been close to someone like Araskog.

“Well,” Grattarola finally said, “I guess that's the answer then.”

“No, that's not the answer,” Sherman said. “I want Darr out of that room. I want it. I'm his boss. Hell, I'm everybody's boss here. I want you to fix it. Tonight.”

Grattarola tried hard not to grit his teeth. “Look,” he said. “I can't go around throwing senior guys out of their rooms. If you can work this out with Darr, that's fine. I'll help get you moved over there. But I'm not going to just throw him out.”

The scowl descended over Sherman's face again. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of merrymakers.

Two nights later, about four hundred brokers, managers, and their spouses milled about a courtyard at the El Camino Royale. It was the last full night that the group from Prudential-Bache would be staying in Cancún, and it was meant to be something special. At other dinners that week, there had been singers, fireworks, and elegant food. But this time, Graham went all-out. The hotel's man-made lake had been partially drained to create a big private beach. A special awards ceremony had been arranged to honor the brokers who had sold the most energy income partnerships. A representative from the president of Mexico had even been invited to extend his greeting.

Darr had agreed to make a rare talk to all of the firm's brokers, during which he would present the awards. Darr asked for a Graham executive to write the speech but refused to describe what he wanted to say. So, with no input from Prudential-Bache, a speech was written about the great sales performance that year by the firm's brokers in the Energy Income Fund.

The Pru-Bache managers and brokers had started gathering early in the courtyard. On the stage, Darr and other executives hobnobbed with the Mexican official.

The crowd quieted down as Darr walked to a podium on the stage. With a tone of respect, he introduced the special guest. The Mexican official, a man of average height dressed in a light suit, stepped up to the podium amid polite applause. His heavy accent made his English difficult to comprehend. But almost everyone understood the gist of his words: On behalf of the Mexican president, he thanked them for coming, extended his hopes that they had enjoyed their stay, and invited them to return in the future.

Suddenly, from the back of the courtyard, there was a loud noise.

“Come on!” Bob Sherman yelled. “Let's get this show on the road!”

Everyone turned and looked as Sherman staggered in, accompanied by two attractive women in their twenties who were not part of the Prudential-Bache group. Everyone could tell that Sherman was rip-roaring drunk. Some thought that if he didn't have the women to lean on, he'd fall down.

The Mexican official continued speaking.

“What's with this?” Sherman shouted. “Doesn't this guy speak English?”

Sherman and the women wandered through the crowds. Some wives of brokers shot their husbands dirty looks as Sherman walked by with the young women under his arms. More than a few seemed to be wondering what their husbands had done on other trips they had attended by themselves.

“Come on!” Sherman shouted. “Let's get it over with. Let's party!”

Suddenly Sherman started pointing at Darr, who was visibly upset by his boss's behavior. “Holy shit! Look at that old man up on the stage with the white hair,” he shouted. “He is fucking ugly!”

The Mexican official sat down. Then Sherman spun around, yelling at the assembled brokers. “You guys think you're so fucking great! But you might not even be at this fucking firm next year! We don't need you!”

Grattarola, who was up on the stage to help hand out the awards, began to think that it might not have been a good idea to pull the restrictions on Sherman's bar tab. He leaned over to speak with Darr.

“We've got to do something,” Grattarola said. “We've got to get him out of here. Do you want to take care of it, or should I call the hotel people?”

“I'll take care of it,” Darr replied. He stood up and walked down from the stage, signaling one of his regional marketers to come with him over to Sherman. For about thirty seconds, Darr spoke with Sherman, trying to calm him down. Darr wrapped his arm around him, as the marketing executive got on his other side. They turned Sherman around and, walking as if in a chorus line, headed for the exit.

“Come on, Bob,” Darr said softly. “Let's go.”

A few minutes passed by, and Darr returned. He walked briskly to the stage, hopped up on it, and headed back toward the podium.

“Well, I'd like to apologize to everyone, and particularly the wives here tonight, for the language,” he said. “Bob's not always like that. Obviously, he had too tall a beer.”

His audience tittered. Darr was putting them all back at ease.

“All right,” he said. “It's time to start presenting the awards for some really great work.”

Nothing more was said about Sherman, but as the evening wore on, a heavy pall settled over the crowd. Sherman's performance had left many of them uncomfortable. He was the highest-ranking executive there that night. He was one of the people responsible for making the decisions that directed the huge sales force of the giant brokerage firm. Investors around the country were affected by what he decided to change and what he chose to ignore.

It was hard to believe someone that important could be such a public embarrassment.

Carrington Clark called John Corbin as soon as everyone returned from Cancún.

“I have never been treated so shabbily in my entire life, John,” Clark said. “I want you to know that I hold you personally accountable for ruining my trip to Cancún.”

Corbin didn't know what to say. He had no idea what Clark was talking about. But he did know that Clark could make his life miserable. Not only was Clark the director for the West Coast region that Corbin covered for Graham, but he was also one of Sherman's best friends. If Corbin didn't smooth the problem over, there might be hell to pay.

“I'm sorry if you had a bad time, Carrington,” he said. “What is it that happened?”

“Don't give me that,” Clark snapped. “You kept taking out that girl when you knew I was interested in her. You ruined my trip.”

Corbin paused. Now he understood. Clark and Sherman had kept asking out Vass and her friend. Each time, the two women went out with Corbin and his friends instead.

He knew Clark had a reputation among the female brokers at Pru-Bache. More than a few of them had talked about sexual harassment problems at the firm involving Clark, and Sherman as well.
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But apparently, Clark thought that his position entitled him to go out with whomever he pleased and to tell Corbin whom he could take out. Corbin shook his head. He didn't need the permission of Clark or Sherman to go out on a date. But there was no saying that to Clark. He was too angry.

“I'll tell you how things are going to be from now on,” Clark said. “I don't want you offering anything to my brokers that isn't offered to me. Not one meal, not one drink. And I want to know everything you're doing in my region, anytime.”

“All right, Carrington,” Corbin said. “That's fine.”

Corbin hung up and sighed. Having dinner with those women had brought a heavy price. Now Clark—and probably Sherman—didn't like him at all.

Tony Rice, the chief financial officer of Graham, eased into a chair by the telephone at his comfortable home in Stamford, Connecticut. He didn't like what he was about to do. But the instructions had come from Jim Darr himself. John Corbin, the biggest-selling wholesaler at Graham, had to be fired.

While there had been some complaints that Corbin exaggerated the performance and safety of the Energy Income Funds, that was not Darr's concern. Apparently, Corbin had offended Bob Sherman and Carrington Clark in Cancún—something to do with some woman. Now, to appease them, Prudential-Bache wanted Graham to get rid of him.

For Rice, the relationship with Pru-Bache was too important to argue about the matter. He had always lived in Connecticut, far from Graham's Louisiana headquarters, so he could keep a finger on the pulse of Wall Street. It had been his job to make sure Darr was happy. At first the two men had had a strained relationship. Then Rice did Darr a few favors, like pulling some strings to get him accepted at the Greenwich Country Club. Since then, the two had developed a good rapport. Rice was not about to blow it over John Corbin.

Rice started calling around, trying to find Paul Grattarola, who as Graham's national sales manager was Corbin's boss. Rice eventually tracked him down in San Francisco, where Grattarola was visiting with his son.

“I've got to talk to you,” Rice said. “It's an emergency.”

“What's up, Tony?”

“You've got to fire John Corbin.”

The request was greeted by a few seconds of total silence.

“And why is it we need to fire our number-one salesman?” Grattarola finally said, his tone disbelieving.