A titan of industry saves the day

The titan of industry was settled comfortably in the backseat of his 1939 Packard touring sedan, browsing through the pages of the Wall Street Journal, as the rain drummed on the roof of the car. His chauffeur, Otto, kept his steely blue eyes on the street, as he picked his way carefully through the late afternoon Manhattan traffic, carrying his master back to their hotel. J. Packington Paco III rarely had occasion to come to New York, save for the routine January trip to preside at the annual shareholders’ meetings of his various corporations, which were all held on the same day. That day had arrived, once again, and, as usual, the meetings had been love-fests, an opportunity for J.P. to bask in the warmly-expressed gratitude of his minority stockholders, whose investments had thrived under the chairman’s far-seeing perspicacity and unparalleled shrewdness (not to mention his adeptness at staying never less than one giant step ahead of the Securities and Exchange Commission; the Treasury Department had, of course, abandoned all hope years ago).

As Otto brought the car to a stop at a red light, a strange sound caught J.P.’s attention. It was a kind of ragged, roaring noise, such as a large crowd of disappointed fans might make at the close of an important soccer game in some violent Central American country, when the home team had lost a close one, due, in the view of the locals, to the bad call of an incompetent referee. Looking up from his newspaper, J.P. saw, directly out his window, a spectacle of shocking savagery.

A tall man, of advanced middle age, dressed in a business suit that had become saturated from the rain, was running down an alley, heading for the street on which J.P.’s automobile idled at the traffic light. Behind him, in hot pursuit, was a crowd that must have numbered two or three score of similarly attired men – with a sprinkling of women - the ones in the front ranks hurling vegetables, rocks and the odd garbage-can lid at the unfortunate fellow whose lead was rapidly diminishing; he held a briefcase over his head to protect himself from the missiles. As the man drew closer to the street, J.P. noticed a look of terror etched on his face; the faces of his pursuers, on the other hand, were twisted in rage. It was such a scene, J.P. speculated idly, as would probably have occurred when the first Jesuit missionary went among the Mohawks – or (and this turned out to be a more prescient and apt fancy) when a gambler in an Old West saloon inadvertently laid down a hand consisting of five aces.

The man finally emerged from the alley, looked desperately up and down the street, and then noticed J.P.’s car. He ran to the Packard and began beating on the passenger window, pleading for help. At this assault upon the classic automobile which Otto considered to be his exclusive responsibility, the chauffeur glared at the fugitive and reached a gloved hand into his tunic in order to extract a Luger pistol. J.P., noticing the action, patted Otto on the shoulder.

“It’s all right, my boy. I believe the gentleman is simply in need of a lift. Don’t trouble yourself; I’ll let him in through my door.”

“Ja wohl, mein Herr!”

J.P. opened his door, and the man jumped in, barely giving him time to slide the other end of the seat. The light changed to green, and an opening in traffic enabled Otto to pilot the car away from the howling mob.

The man leaned back and sighed in relief. “Thank you, sir. You have undoubtedly saved my life.”

“What on earth possessed those people to chase you?”

The man gave J.P. a nervous glance. “Well…you see…my name’s Jon Corzine. I just came from a meeting with some of my investors. You’ve read, of course, about the unfortunate collapse of my firm, MF Global. And, due to, er, some strange fluke in our record-keeping, hundreds of millions of dollars of customer funds have simply gone pfffft! As you can see, a lot of people aren’t exactly taking it too well.” Corzine withdrew a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his jacket to mop his brow. As he did so, a wad of currency fell on the seat. J.P. arched an eyebrow and picked up the money.

“Yours, I believe?”

“What? Oh, heh, yes, thank you. I’ll just put that away.” Corzine opened his briefcase quickly and tossed the bundle of bills inside – not, however, before J.P. was able to espy an enormous stash of currency and securities within, plus what appeared to be a passport.

“So,” Corzine continued, “I was in my office today – you know, just sort of, um, tidying up – and all these customers showed up, unexpectedly. I explained to them that no one was more regretful than I that their money had gone, uh…well…”

“ ‘Pfffft!’, I believe, is the sibilant you used to describe this mysterious and catastrophic phenomenon.”

“Exactly! Pfffft! But you know how it is when money’s involved; people let their avariciousness interfere with their logic. The crowd became surly, so I fled. Before long, they were chasing me down the street. That’s when you came along. Again, many thanks. By the way, you look very familiar. Do I know you?”

“I am J. Packington Paco III.”

“Ah, yes, of course!” A flicker of hope briefly animated Corzine’s face. Might he not try to tap into this well-known magnate’s substantial boodle in an effort to salvage his dying company? The light of hope quickly faded, however, as Corzine recalled an incident from a couple of years ago, when one of his agents had attempted to gain entry to Paco Tower dressed as a telephone repair man, in order to make a sales pitch to the great financier. He was not entirely clear on all the details, but he had a general recollection of the agent’s imposture having been discovered by some kind of hulking manservant, leading to a traumatic confrontation that had so shaken the agent that he got out of the investment banking business altogether (he had, in fact, changed his name, grown a beard, and taken up ostrich ranching in Arizona).

“Perhaps,” J.P. suggested, “you would care to stop at my suite at the Waldorf and dry out a bit?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

The rain had stopped by the time Otto drew up in front of the Waldorf. He moved briskly to open J.P’s door, and scowled as he saw the pool of water that their hitchhiker had left in the backseat. “Schweinehund!” he muttered, under his breath.

While Otto parked the car in a nearby garage, J.P. escorted Corzine to his suite. Upon entering, the two men were immediately greeted by Spurgeon, J.P.’s formidable gentleman’s personal gentleman.

“Jon, this is my man, Spurgeon. Spurgeon, Jon Corzine.”

Now, only an extremely keen observer of butlerine physiognomy – and J.P. was certainly one such - would have noticed the sudden dilation of nostrils and the flash of eyes, as Spurgeon gave Corzine an almost imperceptible nod. His curiosity piqued, J.P. invited Corzine to hang his sodden jacket in the bathroom, while he took Spurgeon aside.

“Spurgeon,” he whispered, “I take it that you are struggling with a strong revulsion over this fellow’s presence.”

“Forgive me, Sir, for that unseemly display of emotion, but might I inquire, is that the Jon Corzine, of the lately defunct investment house of MF Global?”

“The very same.”

“Well, Mr. Paco, do you recall my cousin Matilda? The one who married the sheep rancher in Australia?”

“Why, yes, of course. She’s the one who sends us a box of those marvelous home-baked cookies every Christmas. Which, to digress for a moment, we didn’t receive last year for some reason.”

“No, Mr. Paco, we did not. Matilda placed nearly half of her life savings with MF Global, and her money was apparently among the customer funds that the firm criminally comingled with its own investments. Her savings are now lost, and her spirits have been so low that she simply couldn’t manage any baking. I fear that she may never again find herself up to the task.”

“Gad! Why, this is terrible! I spend an inordinate amount of time, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, thinking of nothing but those sublime cookies. She was quite destroyed by the unpleasant discovery of her missing investments, then, was she?”

“She took it very much to heart, Sir. So infuriated was she, in fact, that in a recent telephone conversation she unburdened her feelings to the extent of placing an extraordinarily opprobrious connotation on the ‘MF’ in MF Global.”

“Ah.”

“In her defense, I must emphasize that she has lived for many years in a rural setting among a very rough lot, which environment has tended to lend a certain coarseness to her language.”

“No explanation necessary, my dear fellow. Well, this is a bad business, to be sure. How much did she lose?”

“At the current rate of exchange, I should say approximately fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty thousand, eh?” J.P. was looking off into the middle distance and suddenly noticed that he was eyeing Corzine’s briefcase. One of his irrepressible guffaws bubbled to the surface.

“Bwaha! Spurgeon, I have a plan. Attend closely.” J.P. had a hurried, and quiet, conversation with Spurgeon, and then moved hastily away as Corzine reentered the living room.

“There you are,” J.P. said, adopting a convivial tone. “Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment? I’ve some good brandy on hand.”

Corzine, still somewhat resembling a Labrador retriever that had had a busy day fetching dead ducks from a pond on the opening day of hunting season, acquiesced in the offer gladly.

Spurgeon filled Corzine’s snifter, and made sure to keep it filled for the next half hour, while J.P. sipped on a glass of soda water. Gradually, the alcohol began to dull the edge of Corzine’s agitation over his earlier narrow escape, and he drifted into a mood of extreme contentment. As an imbecilic smile spread across the flushed face, J.P. smacked a hand against his own forehead.

“Heavens, Spurgeon!” , he roared, “What time is it?”

Spurgeon withdrew an antique silver watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and popped the cover. “It is a quarter past four, Sir.”

“Death and damnation! I’ll never make it to the bank on time, now.”

Corzine, roused by his host’s voluble announcement, stirred drowsily in his chair.

“Wha…whazzamatter, old top?”

“I have a couple of cd’s that matured today and I had intended to cash them in. I’m leaving town tonight and driving back home. Blast! Now I’ll have to remain another day. You know, I’d gladly sign the things over at a discount to someone if I could be spared the inconvenience of staying another night in New York just to make a trip to the bank tomorrow.”

Corzine, filled with brandified bonhomie – and an idea for garnering a fast buck – waved his hand in a magnanimous gesture. “I’ll pay you for your cd’s. Er, how much is the value?”

“The value – the face value - is fifty-five thousand dollars.”

“Tell you what - *hic* - I’ll take ‘em off your hands for, ohhhh, say, fifty thousand dollars in cash.”

J.P.’s face beamed like that of a particularly large cherub, and he clasped his hands in delight. “Oh, would you, really?”

“Noblesse -*belch* - oblige.”

J.P. hastily drew up an agreement which served to transfer ownership of the cd’s to Corzine. Corzine, swaying dangerously in front of his briefcase, opened it just wide enough to slip a hand in and pull out a few bundles of bills. After miscounting the stack of money several times, with the assistance of J.P. he finally arrived at the agreed-upon amount and handed it over.

“How fortunate that we should have run into each other today,” J.P. said. “Now, you just take this transfer document down to the Manhattan office of the Environmental Bank of Guatemala first thing tomorrow, and you’re all set. Can I have my chauffeur drop you at home?”

“No, no. Thasawright. I’ll catch a cab. Toodle-oo, old chap!” Corzine caromed off a table and a low-hanging chandelier and then disappeared from sight. As J.P. closed the door, Spurgeon approached his chief, a puzzled expression on his map.

“I beg your pardon, Sir, but it wasn’t my intention for you to foot the bill for cousin Matilda’s loss.”

J.P. patted Spurgeon on the shoulder. “You know I would do anything to help you or that excellent baker of cookies out of a jam, but, as fate would have it, it hasn’t cost me a cent.”

“But, Mr. Paco, you exchanged certificates of deposit worth fifty-five thousand dollars for a substantially lesser amount of cash.”

J.P. smiled cyptically as he took a cigar from the box on the coffee table. “I said they were ‘cd’s’, Spurgeon; I didn’t say anything about certificates of deposit.”

* * * * * * * *

Late the following morning, a completely befuddled Jon Corzine stood in the tiny office of a Mr. Antonio Villalobos, gerente of the New York branch of the Environmental Bank of Guatemala.

“Bu..but…I don’t understand. Aren’t these cd’s?”

“Sí, señor. They are carbon debits.”

“Carbon debits? What the hell are they?”

“They are the opposite of carbon credits.”

“But aren’t they worth fifty-five thousand dollars?”

“That is the face value, señor, not the market value. Since the carbon debit is a brand new investment instrument, the trading volume is very thin.”

“How thin,” Corzine asked, with mounting anxiety.

“Well, the parent company of the Environmental Bank of Guatemala, Paco Financial Services, is the only issuer and the only market maker in this particular type of security. Right now, our bid price is ten cents per one thousand dollars of par value. So, your investment is worth five dollars and fifty cents. Less a transaction fee of five dollars, that would mean fifty cents. Would you like that in quarters, señor, or dimes?”