"Well, by the time all this happened, I was off studying engineering

at the University of Texas. But when I graduated, I decided to do

something else. I headed for Yale Law."
"If you can't lick 'em, join 'em? Something like that, Mr. Walton?"
"Not exactly, Ms. Austen. I wanted to find out if the Bible's right:
that guys who live by the sword better be ready to die by the sword.
After the sheepskin, I shopped around and found the Manhattan law
firm that handled the biggest oil-field-service outfit in the country, then
applied to that firm's corporate department. A couple of years and a lot
of memos later, our oil-field client somehow got the idea they ought to
go vertical, acquire their own source of equipment. Next I ran some
numbers and showed them how profitable it would be to acquire a
certain tool company that now owned the patent on a terrific drill bit.
Of course, it would require a hostile buyout, but with a little
restructuring they could swing it financially."
"And?"
"I worked nights and weekends for six months and personally
devised the takeover. By oddest coincidence, when we were through we
decided to strip all that company's overpaid executives of their 'golden
parachutes' and dump them on the street. My graduation present to the
old man."
She rolled her eyes and waved at her sound man to shut off the
mike. "Mr. Walton, I think our viewers would be more interested in
personal stories."
What did she want, I wondered. This was the most "personal" story
I had.
"What do you mean? What I eat for breakfast?"
"I do personalities." She looked around the living room. "Are you
married?"
"I was."
On came the tape. But she didn't get what she wanted. Joanna
wouldn't appreciate being critiqued on Channel Eight's evening news.
And Amy would have killed me. So I just plunged ahead and finished
off the other saga.
"There's a bit more to this intimate bio. Guess I'd seen enough
quick money in the oil business that I'd forgotten you were supposed to
be impressed by it. Or maybe I'd just never mastered the art of kissing
my elders' asses convincingly. You'll find, Ms. Austen, that those are two
attitudes whose rewards are largely intangible; Wall Street compatibility
definitely not being on the list. After five years the Management
Committee offered a partnership, but by then I'd decided to go out and
try making it on my own. Be my own man."
She waved the sound man off again. "You mean you quit?"
"Couldn't have said it better. I hung up a shingle . . . and started
playing the other side of the scrimmage line."
"I understand you've been in quite a few takeover fights."
"Let's say I've fought a lot of takeovers, Ms. Austen. There's a subtle
but important distinction."
Donna Austen turned out to be more interested in my marital status
than in anecdotes about corporate mayhem. Thing was, beneath all that
glitz I found her a challenging woman. Amy, on the other hand,
despised her. But then she never likes anybody I bring home. The real
problem, however, was that I kept thinking more about Joanna than I
did about Donna. As witness this evening, when that sadder-but-wiser
brunette headed out the door reminded me of her more than a little. . . .
"Hate to see that young specimen depart without a good-faith offer
of condolence." Henderson was wistfully eyeing the young blonde.
Definitely his type. "Trouble is, I couldn't locate the equipment tonight
with a compass and a search warrant." He hoisted his glass, then turned
back and reached for another Dunhill. "So tell me what brings you
uptown. Never knew you to venture this far into civilization just to
stand a drink for your oldest and wisest confidant."
Back to reality. "William H., you will undoubtedly find this difficult
to accept, but I just got asked to front some Treasury action for a new
client. Selling futures."
"Where do you find your suckers?" He grinned. “That's never been
your game."
"Hey, at least I know the rules. Corporations have been known to
hedge their debt offerings, my friend. But what I've done up to now's
been strictly bush league compared to this."
"So what's the play?"
"A foreign outfit that wants low profile. And P.S., they're talking
substantial numbers."
"What do you mean, 'substantial'?" Suddenly Henderson's input file
was on red alert.
"Probably wouldn't impress a high roller like you, Bill." I paused.
"Half a trillion dollars."
"Jeezus." He went pale. "Who's putting up the earnest
money for this shot? Let interest rates head the wrong way, you couldn't
cover the margin calls on a position that size with the GNP of South
America."
"What if it happened to be some of our friends from across the
Pacific? An outfit that calls itself Nippon, Inc." I looked at him. "Ever
hear of it?"
"Nope." He just stood there, examining his drink as though it
suddenly had acquired an enormous insect. "But you've got a surefire
knack for really messin' up an evening."
"I guess this is what's meant when people talk about the big time."
"Christ Almighty. Tell you one thing, that's a hell of a number to
put on the table. I'd sure like to see those boys' hand."
"Maybe somebody's paying to see ours." I finished off my drink and
signaled for another. The more I thought about Matsuo Noda, the more
I realized I needed it. "You know, this half scares the crap out of me."
"Matt, old buddy, do yourself a favor. Stand clear. Just back away."
He was getting more sober by the second. "You'd be lifting up some
kind of big rock when you don't know what's under it. I never do that.
Ironclad rule. Same as I always cut losses at ten percent and never let a
long position ride over a weekend. And I'll tell you something else.
Nobody lays down a bet like that unless he knows the casino's fixed."
He paused. "I wonder if maybe we oughtn't to give Jack a call?"
"O'Donnell?"
"Low-key. Just touch base. Inside word is his Finance Committee's
going to be holding hearings on foreign investment, maybe in a couple
of months. Besides, I know for a fact he owes you a few."
That was true. Senator Jack O'Donnell was headed for reelection
headaches. He was America's corporate nightmare— a former professor
of labor law at Columbia who'd gone out and bought some tailored
suits, shed thirty pounds, dyed his hair, and actually gotten elected to
the U.S. Senate. He was despised on Wall Street for good reason.
O'Donnell was the Grand Inquisitor of the corporate scene, hauling
CEOs in front of his committee every time he sniffed some new scam to
shortchange stockholders. Since we saw eye to eye a lot, I'd made it a
point to lean on a few of my clients and come up with some campaign
bucks for him, telling them it was good "insurance money." Still, if I
leaked this to Jack, I'd probably be reading it tomorrow in The
Washington Post.
 "Henderson, I can't bring him in. Nobody's talking anything illegal.
Still, I'm beginning to think I ought to keep an eye on this from the
inside."
"Matt, you haven't been listening. Let me pass along a major
working principle on how to keep your ass intact in this world. Write it
down and tape it to your phone: Staying on the sidelines is a position
too. That applies to Wall Street, and it damned sure applies to life." He
stretched for a Dunhill, then leaned back. "Ever tell you about that feisty
'coon hound I used to have, redtick I called by the name of Red?"
"Only about a hundred times." Red was his favorite sermon text.
"Well, ol’ Red somehow conceived the idea he was just about the
meanest fucker in the county, and he was always out to prove it. Then
one night he made the mistake of treeing a big old mama 'coon, up in
this little sycamore we had down by the creek. I heard him barking and
raising hell and I knew I wouldn't get a wink if I didn't go down and see
about it."
"Henderson, Christ, I've already heard this."
"Well, I'm gonna finish it anyhow, by God. Sounds like you could
use a refresher course." He took a drink. "Now then, after I made it
through the copperheads and briers and got down there, naturally the
first thing I did was shine that tree with my light and count the eyes.
Turns out that mama raccoon had a bunch of her little ones up there
too. So she was in a real disagreeable frame of mind. Her eyes were
bright red and I could tell she was thinking she just might eat herself a
smartass hound for supper. I tried to explain this to Red, call him off,
and get him to come on back up the house, but no, sirree, nothing
would do but he had to take her on. So I figured it was time he had a
little reality contact. I chunked a couple of rocks, got lucky, and down
she tumbled. Next thing ol’ Red knew, he thought he had his ass caught
in a brand-new John Deere hay baler. I finally had to kick her off him
and get her back up the tree before she really got mad."
"Henderson, I hear you."
"Listen up, friend. There's a moral. You see, ol’ Red didn't have
enough expertise that night to know when to stand off. But I'll tell you
one thing: he learned real fast. Next time he chased that particular mama
up that sycamore, he took one sniff and just trotted right on back to the
house." He sipped again. "Every time I come across a tree full of
something I don't know about, I remember old Red and just turn
around and walk away."
 "I'm taking your warning under advisement." I threw down a fifty,
glanced at the soundless Mets game on the TV over the bar, and reached
for my coat.
"You'd damned well better."
"Henderson, get some sleep. As a friend and colleague, I must in all
honesty advise you, you look like absolute hell."
"I've always valued your candor." He waved for another drink. "But
I've got some heavy thinking to do."
"Okay, get home safe. Let's keep in touch."
He saluted with his glass. "Tell you what, Matt, maybe I'll just do a
little sniffing around myself, see if I can't get a fix on what's up the tree."
"Okay." I was putting on my coat, checking through the window to
see if the rain had stopped. Looked like it had. "Let's both sleep on it."
"You do that." He wasn't smiling as I headed out the door.
Henderson, who could slumber like a baby when he was down a
million for the day, didn't look like he had much rest ahead that night.
For all my brave talk, I didn't either. Now that the rain was over, I
wandered over to Fifth to look at the trees sparkling in the streetlights.
And to think. If you're from West Texas, you love to see green things
wet.
Then I hailed a cab downtown, still with lots of unanswered
questions on the subject of Matsuo Noda. What had happened to my
country that could make it so vulnerable to the financial shenanigans of
a single white-haired foreign banker? Was this what people meant when
they talked about the tides of history? Was the free ride over?
Back when I was a kid, I'd accepted as an article of faith that
America was the greatest, that we were destined to lead the world
forever. Was that hubris? Now I had this sinking feeling we were about
to begin learning a little modesty. Maybe Amy didn't know it yet, but
her America was going to end up being a lot different from mine. All of a
sudden folks all over the world were about to be richer than we were. It
was going to take some painful adjustment.
That's when I finally decided. Yes, by God, I would track this one.
And when I figured out what Noda had up his sleeve. I'd blow the
whistle. Somebody needed to stand guard over this country, and if not
me, who?
Matt Walton vs. Matsuo Noda.
As it turned out, the evening still wasn't over. Things continued to
go off track, beginning with when I walked in my front door. I guess by
now everybody's pretty blase about urban crime, but it's still always a
shock when it happens to you. I also think it's getting worse. I can
remember five years ago when Joanna and I never bothered even to latch
the street windows. These days they have bars—a small precaution
following an evening on the town during which everything we owned
with an electric cord attached walked out into the bracing Manhattan
night. That was my first experience with the hollow feeling in your gut
when you realize your sanctum has been plundered. It's not the lost
toys, it's the violation that gnaws at your karma.
This time, though, it appeared to be minor. No forcible entry.
Somebody had actually picked the front-door lock, a fact I only
established to my satisfaction after every other possibility had been
considered and dismissed. Truthfully, I probably wouldn't have noticed
anything at all that night if not for a wayward train of thought on the
way home.
I'd been meditating on a particular sword in my collection, a katana,
which was totally without distinction except for a little oral history.
Reportedly the blade once tasted blood in a rather arcane episode. Noda
probably would have approved. The story was, the samurai who'd
commissioned it decided he liked it so much he didn't want the
swordsmith telling anybody how he'd forged it. So after he'd thanked
the guy graciously, deep bows and all the rest, he picked up the sword,
bowed one more time, and then hauled back and sliced him in half,
clean as a whistle. The kesa stroke, left collarbone straight through the
right hip. It's said a samurai could do things such as that in the old days.
My meeting with Noda had made me want to look it over, to refresh
my memory concerning that Japanese capacity for the unexpected. So
after I let myself in through the front foyer, I tossed my raincoat over a
banister, headed down to the kitchen to pour myself a nightcap, and
proceeded upstairs to the "office."
I clicked on the light and then . . .
Jesus! The place had been trashed. Drawers open, files
tipped over, piles of paper askew. After the first numbing shock, that
perception-delay your senses impose before you can actually accept
what you're seeing, I quickly started taking inventory. Okay, what did
they get this time?
Well, the computer and printer were both intact, cordless phone
was there still, the little nine-inch Sony in the corner was untouched. . .
. Hey, could it be they hadn't actually lifted anything?
 Then I remembered why I'd come upstairs. Off to the side, under
the back stair, was a big walk-in closet I called my sword room, always
kept under lock and key. I glanced over at the door.
Hold on. It was hanging open slightly. I strolled over and checked it
more closely. The mechanism had been jimmied, professionally, but
with enough force that the metal frame around the door was askew. Not
a blatant entry, but a determined one.
My heart skipped a beat. That's why they didn't bother with TVs.
These guys knew where the real action was, the lightweight, very
expensive loot. I opened the door, took a deep breath, and felt for the
light.
You could have heard my sigh of relief all the way out in the street.
From the looks of it, nothing was missing here either.
Be sure now. I quickly glanced down the racks, mentally cataloging
the pieces. Everything had a place, and all the places were still full.
Strange. This stuff was worth thousands. Burglars break in to steal. So
what happened? Maybe something scared them off. My sheepdog
Benjamin, the fearless terror of the streets? He was now snoring at the
foot of the stairs, but who knows . . .
Walton, you lucky stiff, this could have been a major hit. I cursed at
the thought of having to have the door and lock repaired, made a mental
note to remember to call the locksmith over by Sheridan Square in the
morning, and pushed the damaged door closed.
What a hell of a night. I pulled the Sotheby's catalogue out of my
pocket, recalling the auction that had inaugurated this fateful evening,
and turned to chuck it in the file cabinet where I kept all the records for
my hobby: prices, news clippings, correspondence, the rest.
The cabinet, one of those cheap tin jobs you buy at discount office-
supply places, was slightly askew. What's this? I yanked open the top
drawer and saw chaos.
Uh, oh. I went down the row, checking. Tell you one thing, my
intruders had been thorough. Every drawer was a mess, just like the
office. Then I got to the bottom, the one with backup data on the
collection. Appraisals, provenance of the pieces, that kind of thing.
It was empty.
But of course! Any pro would know that half the value of a
collection such as this would be in all the documentation. Which meant
my methodical thieves were no dummies; they'd started with the
paperwork, the valuations and authenticity info . . . which meant they
weren't through. I must have interrupted their . . .
 My God! They could still be here.
I edged for the phone and punched 911, the police emergency
number. Next I went back and pulled down a sword, just for protection,
and swept the empty house. It was all nice and tidy.
Finally New York's men in blue showed, an overweight Irishman
and his Puerto Rican partner, both with mustaches. I actually knew
them, having once received a ticket for walking Ben off the leash. We
went through the formalities, lots of questions with no answers worth
writing down, and then they offered to send around a fingerprint squad
in the morning. Sure, why not. And you'd better get new locks for this
place, Mr. . . . Walton. Right. We all thanked each other and I saw them
out.
Then I headed back down to the kitchen. What was this all about?
Stealing files? Papers? Those documents, lovingly and painstakingly
assembled, were what made the swords somehow uniquely a part of my
life. Something that actually wasn't going to decide to take a hike the
next week. The stuff had no value to anybody except Matt Walton.
Or so I thought.