Scout’s Honor: Chapter 28

Billy Cutter

Billy Cutter wore an Armani silk suit tailored to accentuate his deep chest and broad back while concealing his soft stomach. His black hair was cut in a flattop, resembling nothing so much as a boar-bristle brush. He hunched forward from the waist, head outthrust, a human battering ram. He’d been pacing DAP’s waiting room all day in the hope of seeing the notoriously reclusive Richard Austen. The first hour he’d skimmed the Wall Street Journal, then he’d tried little mind games, closing his eyes and picturing the lackluster room: straw-colored sisal wall covering, nicked wainscoting, high ceiling, flimsy Danish furniture, and an oil painting depicting a turn-of-the-century restaurant scene.

 “Perhaps another cup of coffee, Mr. Cutter?” asked MJ Watershed as she stepped from the company’s inner offices. It had been four years since Austen had hired her to run DAP for him. “Actually, I should think you have had enough. Rather a spot of tea?” Mrs. Watershed had a fondness for titles, especially her own: Chief of Staff. Notable for her kindness and her English-rose complexion, it was she who had first suggested that Austen consider sharing his great fortune with charity. 

“No. You said you thought he’d see me today. It’s almost four. He owes me.” 

“I shall try again for you, Mr. Cutter. Chin up.” With two sullen teenage sons, she was fazed neither by the young man’s aggression nor his frustration. She’d also seen his three unanswered letters to Austen and thought his claim had at least passing merit. Yet despite her near-omniscient knowledge of all things DAP, her relationship with Austen was based upon the fiction that she was aware only of matters he brought to her attention. While this protocol suited them both, it occasionally left her unable to voice an opinion. She sometimes bridged this gap, however, by placing her husband Nigel in analogous, if imaginary, situations and lamenting his missteps. With one notable exception (from which she decided that Mr. A.’s social life was his own concern), Austen often drew the proper inference and did as she knew best. 

 “I am pleased to report your appointment has arrived,” Mrs. Watershed said, a note of triumph in her voice. Smoothing her hands on her skirt, she was reminded again of a young bull when Billy stood. He straightened his gold cufflinks, picked up his attaché case, and followed her into the inner offices, ignoring the once-elegant surroundings. 

“In here, please,” she said, indicating a door with her own name stenciled in gold leaf across a frosted pane. She crossed to a door against her office’s far wall and, knocking twice, whispered, “Good luck.” 

“Wait a minute,” Billy said. “Wait a goddamn minute. I haven’t waited all day to see some flunky. I’m here to see Mr. Austen.”

“That is Mr. Austen,” said Mrs. Watershed, stifling her grin.

“Then I want to see his father. The guy who makes the decisions.”

“My father is deceased. Sit down, Mr. Cutter.” Austen neither rose from his desk chair nor extended a hand. He wore a crisp blue suit, a white Oxford shirt and a red tie. His brown curly hair was flecked with hints of gray, but his lean build and erect posture suggested youth. The change in Austen’s appearance over the years since he’d founded DAP had more to do with wealth than aging. He now spoke in measured sentences, his gaze direct, his deep voice assured, his boyish desire to please lost or locked away. He had grown unaccustomed to being challenged. “You have five minutes.”

“You’re the guy I talked to on the phone? You bought the Klondike building?” Billy was in shock—he was facing a multimillionaire no older than his bum brother. Before sitting, he looked about the dark paneled office. It had a somber, almost medieval quality, with motes drifting across shafts of May sunlight. The office appeared as if it had been untouched for decades, a capitalist’s lair from the thirties. It would never have occurred to Billy that a guilt-ridden Austen was unable to spend money on himself.

“Yes, sir. How may I help you?” Austen appraised the heavyset young man, reminding himself of how he had justified his earlier decision, the broker’s worthless listing and the unethical firm for which he worked. 

 “You owe me a commission for the Klondike. I sent you the package last fall. I silver-plattered that deal for you, and you bought it out from under me.” 

“Your sales package was a joke; the seller had no equity left in the building and nothing to sell. We bought the loan from a lender you didn’t represent.”

 “You never would have heard about the Klondike if it wasn’t for me. Getting it by foreclosure is the same as buying it. It’s got to be worth at least fifteen million more today than what you paid.”

“It’s empty and returning nothing on our investment.”

“What’s the cheapest finder’s fee you’ve ever heard of? One percent? Right? Pay me that, and we’ll call it even.” Seeing Austen’s hesitation, Billy urged with a broker’s smile, “Come on, that’s a day’s interest for a hitter like you.”

“Even if we wanted to pay you anything, it would take weeks getting approval from Paris because—”

“You can drop that French crap. Everybody knows it’s you. I checked the records in Delaware—you’re DAP’s sole shareholder.”

Austen closed his eyes, fighting the impulse to laugh aloud. So much for his brilliant subterfuge. If this kid knew, the whole world did. He pressed the intercom, glanced at Billy’s thin resume. “Here it is. I’ll have Mrs. Watershed cut you a check for twenty-five thousand. You can go get your MBA at Harvard.”

“No, here it is, Mr. Austen,” Billy mimicked. “For the first thing, I hated school. Second, I’m supporting my parents so I have to work, and finally, twenty-five thousand isn’t right and you know it.”

“Your father an invalid?” 

“My father’s a bum. He’s a waiter,” said Billy.

“A waiter?”

“Yeah. He’s waiting for some pie-in-the-sky settlement from my grandfather’s estate. He’s a loser. He’s been nothing but a sponge his entire life.” Billy shook away his anguish, wondering if his father would ever stop plaguing him. 

“He didn’t put you through school?” 

“Hell, no. I’ve been supporting myself since high school. I went to Brown on a wrestling scholarship. Listen, Mr. Austen—you know, I feel weird calling you mister. I have a brother your age—another waiter.”

“You can call me sir, if you like.” Austen smiled.

“Screw it. Here’s the deal. I figure you owe me a couple hundred thousand. Pay me ten thou a month for twenty months. I’ll work for you full time, night and day, looking for more deals like the Klondike. Then pay me twenty percent of everything I bring in. I’ll work my ass off. Scout’s honor.”

Austen laughed out loud, shaking his head. “For a kid with no job and mouths to feed, you’ve got balls. Don’t BS me, were you really a scout?” 

“Eagle.”

“Really?” asked Austen, incredulous. With his fashionable suit and tasseled loafers, the cocky broker looked incapable of Scouting his way across Central Park. Then he decided the kid was too clever to lie about something so easily checked. He uncrossed his arms, gazed out the window, musing. “Don’t meet many in our world. Scouts. I really loved it. All right, come back Monday morning. I’ll think about it over the weekend. On your way out, ask Mrs. Watershed for an employee questionnaire.”

Billy was outside DAP’s offices at eight-twenty a.m. Ten minutes later, a smiling Mrs. Watershed escorted him back to see Mr. A. 

“What time does he usually get in?” 

Billy was puzzled by her laugh, but would soon learn that Austen lived in the offices and, morning five-mile run aside, seldom ventured out for anything other than building inspections and high-level meetings. Everyone—from bankers to tradesmen—came to Austen. 

“Read it.” He handed Billy a sheet of paper. The windows were open, ushering in cool air and traffic noise from five floors below. 

“What about my profit share?” asked Billy.

“That salary is twice what any MBA your age makes.” 

Billy glanced down at the faded carpet, searching to hook a few thousand more. “If I take the cash, how about five percent?”

“How about zero? You’d be starting out on Hearthstone. I suppose you know all about that deal, too?” asked Austen.

“The big warehouse you bought over on the Hudson, right? You’re converting it into apartments? That had to be the buy of the year.”

“Three big warehouses. Loft co-ops. The project’s due to start construction in a couple weeks. If you take the job, you’ll be in a job trailer until the last unit’s sold, and you’re going to bust your ass studying construction nights and weekends so my contractors can’t completely bullshit you.” Austen had decided Billy might serve him well as his on-site whip; if the kid were this obnoxious with a potential employer, he’d have no qualms about screaming at every new construction change order. 

“That’s great. But what about finding new deals? Getting a piece of the action?” 

 “You work for me a year, Mr. Cutter. Learn teamwork, loyalty, and the chain of command. Then we’ll talk. If you hump it—if you’re half as good as you think you are—you won’t be sorry you camped in my lobby.” He stood and extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir.” Street smart, Billy grasped that Austen was through negotiating. “I’d like to start right now.”

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