I was told a story today, of a pretty well established journalist whose credentials are above reproach.
This is a guy who has been in the game for 25 years, and has covered wars, and every type of ugly event that the past few decades have been able to serve up.
This journalist has been doing some digging into the naked short selling issue, in what started off as a highly skeptical treatment, and over time, as developed into a real expose. He is based in New York, and is known and revered by many there – “the real thing,” in a world where there are many pretenders to the throne.
This guy has been asking questions about a network of hedge funds that seem to have an uncanny sway on the market. We’ll just leave it at that. Some are well known, some are relatively obscure, some define the genre, some wield deci-billion dollar clout.
This gentleman went to his local watering hole, as was his habit, to slake his thirst, wash off some of the road dust, grab a bite. It had been a long day, and he was disturbed by the pattern he was seeing develop as he did more research into his latest interest. He had a book under his arm that had one of the hedge fund fellows in it, discussed by the author in some length, which was his evening’s light reading.
When he sat down at his usual spot at the bar, and ordered his drink and his sandwich, three men in Armani suits, slicked back hair, Ferragamo shoes, came in and sat down alongside him, and initiated a conversation. This is unusual in the sense that his neighborhood is not at all upscale, and the bar in question is, shall we say, humble in its appointments. The fellow next to him pointed to the book and said something to the effect of, “I know one of the guys they talk about in that book – what a prick, he’s a real SOB, etc. Has so much money and power, he probably has people killed.” The conversation continued about how this gentleman had worked with, or done some work for, the hedge fund guy in question – that was the story, anyway.
Then the trip down the rabbit hole started. The fellow at the bar told our journalist friend about a story involving the hedge fund guy’s power, ruthlessness, and vicious temper. In this story, the hedge fund guy and his wife had been at an upscale NY department store, and the wife had gone in to try on some dresses in a changing area. Apparently there was a man in one of the adjacent stalls, who peeked over and was caught in some lewd situation, watching the wife undress – presumably caught by the wife, who was horrified.
Anyway, the powerful guy was furious, and had one of his entourage find out who the peeper was (how is unclear), and then, had him killed.
That was the story. It was probably a fiction - the point was to let the journalist know that there are dangerous, powerful guys out there who could "do anything," not to tell an accurate story - their point was clearly let this journalist know that bad things can happen to people that cross the gentleman in question.
There was more banter between the three men about what a crazy town it is, and how dangerous some of the psychos out there were, how one minute you were here, the next you were gone.
At this point the three gentlemen had enjoyed enough of the simple establishment’s charms, and stood up, putting on their overcoats. Our journalist friend asked the fellow who had worked for the hedge fund guy what his name was.
The man replied, “Just call me John - John from Saks on 5th Avenue.”
And the three men left.
I am not making this up.
This journalist is not a gentleman who is given over to an active imagination, nor flights of fancy, nor who scares easily. He isn’t stupid. He has made a career out of being observant, accurate, and correct. The message was very clear, he said, which seemed to him like something out of a movie. He’s covered mob stories, and every kind of corruption and larceny, drug wars, white slavery, you name it, and he said he has never had anything even remotely like the bar incident happen to him before.
He put it in writing, and has it with his attorney, and a few other folks, just in case, along with all the case information he has accumulated.
Just as I have my CV and data and such with several attorneys and trusted friends, just in case.
Because for all the assurances by journalists whose brushes with danger involve hangovers or hangnails, there is a faction of the world that apparently doesn’t play by the king’s rules, and those folks are apparently alive and well and affiliated with some of the truly large money on Wall Street. Go figure. I’ll remind the next flippant reporter or author who glibly says that any sense of danger is all in my head, that if they were me, they would be betting their kids’ lives on it – and I’d ask them how comfortable they would feel making that bet with their kids. Talk is cheap, and the name of the man in the bar is known to every one of these fellows – and he doesn’t tell tall tales, or make things up.
It is an odd world. This is a true story. Some folks are getting very agitated. And they are apparently getting sloppy, or so worried that they are contemplating crossing important lines. And the data is all now in the record, safe, where the outcome would be the same regardless of what action was taken – pretty good insurance, some might think. But one never can be completely sure.
So there is the thought for the day, and an insight into the life of a journalist who is really digging around and stirring up dust. I happen to know there are others, but this is the only story like this I have ever heard.
And Easter is on its way. Just another day in the life of the bunny.
Here is an email he sent when asked to document the outline of the story:
"Friday night, I finish work late and stop in at a nearby dive bar to have a beer, finish a book I've been reading. Three well-dressed guys, Armani-like clothes, lots of hair gel, walk in and sit next to me. "What are you reading?" says one of them. A book about Wall Street, I say. Oh yeah, says Armani, anything about XXXXXXXXXXXXX in there? I say, yeah, he's mentioned. Armani laughs and says he used to work for the guy, and "he's a real prick, thinks he's got so much money he can do anything he wants; hell, he's probably killed people for all I know." Then he tells a bizarre and totally convoluted story about how some guy from Saks 5th Avenue murdered a customer because the customer went into the ladies changing room and tried to watch the guy's wife get undressed and "you know, the guy's pervert, there some things you don't do, some things you keep your nose out of, I would have killed the guy too."
Then they say they have to go. I ask for his name, he says it’s John.
John who?, I ask.
John from Saks, he says, give me a call, Saks on 5th Ave.
And they're out the door."