Chapter 8
Marco
One Year Later
“Americano for Marco,” calls out the barista from the end of the counter as she places my drink on the dark countertop.
Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled into two French braids and the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose pops against the stream of sun pouring through the front window.
I stand from my seat and thank her as I take the white insulated cup back to the corner booth I’ve been working from this morning.
She gives me a smile from behind the counter as I settle into my seat.
I’ve seen her most every morning for the past few years, since I’ve made this particular coffee shop my “spot.” It’s always been a coy game of eye-fucking, but it’s never led anywhere.
She’s young, probably in her twenties, and I know I can show her a thing or two.
But I can’t think about that today. I give her a nod and get back to the paperwork before me.
I have pages of numbers for the independent newspapers of New York, the ones I have acquired and the ones I have yet to get my hands on.
The evidence is clear. My hand in their dealings improves sales, which is what I’m set out to prove at this morning’s meeting.
I’m meeting with The NY News Daily, yet again, in hopes today will be the day they finally sell.
I have been at them for nearly a year now, but they haven’t folded yet.
I think they enjoy this game of cat and mouse, or they would have given me a firm “no” by now, instead of continuously agreeing to meetings.
Each meeting, I have increased my offer, but to no avail. I’m frustrated, but I like a challenge.
I go over the newest sales and numbers in front of me as I sip on my Americano, making sure every detail is correct and I’m prepared to cover each one.
I check my watch and see that it’s nearing 10 a.m., the time of the meeting.
We have agreed to meet at my lawyer’s office this time, which seems promising given they’ll be handling all the proceedings if we move forward.
“So serious today,” says a voice.
I look up and see the barista wiping down a nearby table, her ample cleavage peeking out from under her green apron.
“Big meeting today,” I say, gesturing to the pile of papers on my table.
“You nervous?”
“Hardly.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gets nervous,” she says thoughtfully.
She’s right. Not usually, at least.
“I know what I’m doing.” I shrug with confidence.
“Well, if all goes well, maybe we can celebrate.” She leans against the table and looks at me with a smile that seems like a challenge as she tosses the dish towel over her shoulder.
“Oh? What did you have in mind?” I ask, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms with piqued interest.
She looks around before walking over to my table and leaning close.
“I’d rather show you than tell you,” she says, her voice narrow. She’s so close, I can smell the cherry vanilla lip-gloss on her pink, pouty lips.
She pulls away and walks back behind the counter, leaving me wanting more. I shake my head as if to focus, gathering my papers and stacking them neatly before placing them in my briefcase. Focus, Marco, I remind myself as I stand from my seat.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” I call out with a smirk before pushing through the entrance door of the coffee shop.
On the sidewalk, I hail a cab and take the short ride to my lawyer’s office. I want to be there early, before anyone from the newspaper arrives. I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor and find my lawyer already setting up in the conference room.
“Elliott.” I nod as I enter the room.
“Mr. Vallejo. Big day,” he says, arranging his own papers on the large wooden table.
“You say that every time.” I laugh.
“You have to get them eventually.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s today.”
“Maybe,” I agree, taking a seat and clicking open my briefcase.
Soon, I can hear footsteps approaching down the hall before Elliot’s assistant pops her head in.
“Your 10 o’clock is here,” she says nervously.
Looks like they decided to be here early too. Good thing I’m ready for them.
“Bring them in,” nods Elliott.
I see George Walsh enter first, the owner of The NY Daily News.
He’s an older man with graying hair and a patch of baldness on top of his head, and probably losing more hair by the day because of me.
The thought makes me smile. He gives me a single nod of acknowledgment before rounding the table to sit down across from me.
Following him is his business partner, and his lawyer.
“Mr. Walsh. Thank you for meeting with me today,” I say, just as I do at every one of these meetings.
“I’m curious as to what you have to share with me this time,” he says, and I sense the slight snarkiness in his voice.
But he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t interested. He keeps coming back for more.
“I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening,” I say.
Elliott’s assistant passes out the papers from this morning that I had sent over for her to make copies, making sure everyone has the same packet to look from.
“What’s this?” asks Mr. Walsh, his brow furrowed as he picks it up.
“Numbers,” I reply with a confident smile. “Numbers from the past few months from each independent newspaper in New York.”
“And what do you want me to do with these?” he harumphs.
“I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that numbers are up for The New York Voice. In fact, sales have almost tripled in the past few weeks. And it doesn’t stop there. The online traffic has been flooding with new readers signing up for subscriptions.”
“And your point being?” asks Mr. Walsh, as if it isn’t clear.
“My point being that they’re outselling you.”
I know I’m telling him what he already knows. It’s been all over the news, the press, and any owner of a newspaper pays close attention to their rivals’ numbers. Yet, it feels so good to rub it in his face.
“And it doesn’t stop there. Every independent newspaper that I’ve bought out over the past year has seen a major turnaround in numbers. The New York Voice is just my newest conquest, and your biggest rival.
“You used to be the number-one independent paper in the city, but since I’ve taken the reins, that’s no longer the case.”
“It’s just been a lucky few months,” says Mr. Walsh.
“Luck has nothing to do with it, and I think you know that. Restructuring. Fresh web layouts. New columns. That’s why. And I can do the same for your paper.”
George remains silent as his eyes drift over the papers before him, but I know his focus is not on the numbers. It’s on the fact that his business is failing, and I’m the reason why, and the numbers before him aren’t telling him anything new. They’re just salt in the wound.
“Look, I know you started your paper as a way to bring a new voice to New York City. I admire your passion. I feel the same in my own business.”
“I doubt that,” says Mr. Walsh, as a frown tugs at his mouth. “You have no real passion aside from profit. You’re a shark. Everyone knows it.”
“Money is my passion, Mr. Walsh,” I say. “And I know it’s something you’re running out of.”
I see his face falter slightly before I continue.
“I also know how hard you’ve tried at everything to see your newspaper take off, including bringing in that author to write short stories, but even she can’t help you now.
The ride has been bumpy, with more lows than highs.
Trust me, I know. I’ve followed the numbers over the years.
After all this time, don’t you want to see it succeed? ” I ask.
“Of course I do,” he snaps.
“Then let me buy you out.”
Our lawyers sit in silence, watching us play a proverbial game of tennis across the conference table, with my serves too swift for Mr. Walsh to return.
They’ve been in this long game right alongside us, and I’m sure they’re ready to move on as much as I am, no matter how much they’re getting paid by the hour.
“I know what you do to papers…” says Mr. Walsh, furrowing his brow.
“And what’s that?” I ask with slight amusement.
“You destroy them by digitizing them. You take something that’s nostalgic and turn it into something people can no longer get their hands on.”
“I’m just getting with the times, Mr. Walsh. Maybe it’s time you do too.”
“And what about your means of restructuring? Don’t you feel the slightest bit of remorse by the layoffs and downsizing?”
“It’s just business. It’s nothing personal.”
“Well, I don’t run things like that. I actually care about my employees.” He lifts his chin.
I shrug. “And maybe that’s why I’m where I am, and you’re where you are.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment.
“I’m willing to double my last offer,” I say casually, as if a multimillion-dollar deal isn’t on the table. It’s way more than what it’s worth, but if I could get my hands on it, I’d turn it and make a generous profit.
Mr. Walsh’s lawyer whispers something in his ear, along with his partner’s ear. I think maybe this is it. They’ve finally broken their resolve and will give me what I want. But the look that washes over George’s face confirms that he’s still the same stubborn man he has been for the past year.
“We need more time to consider your offer,” says his lawyer.
I try to hide the frustration that is bubbling under my skin and give him a terse nod before looking to Mr. Walsh.
“Take all the time you need,” I say in forced politeness before delivering a little bit of poison. “But I just hope you’ll still have a paper to buy by the time you’ve decided.”
He shoots me a look that underlies with worry before standing from his seat, his partner and lawyer following suit. Elliott’s assistant sees them out and I watch calmly from my seat. Once I’m sure they’ve left, I slam my hands on the table, making papers float to the floor.
“Damn it. What is with this guy?” I ask.
“He’s too prideful. That paper is his baby. It’s hard to let go of something like that,” says Elliott with a shrug.
“Yes, but at what point does that pride turn into stupidity?”
“I think he’s nearing that point. His newspaper is failing. He can’t be blind to that. You so kindly pointed it out in your packets here.” Elliott smirks.
“Of course his business is failing. I made sure of that when I began buying out his competitors. That’s always been my strategy. I just thought he would break by this point. I’m tired of this back-and-forth bullshit. It’s been a year.”
“Soon. I’m sure of it,” says Elliot assuredly.
I wish I could believe him, but I’m starting to lose hope.
Maybe it’s time to give up and move onto another venture.
I can have any other paper in New York, so I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this one.
I should just let it go, but my pride won’t let me.
I realize that maybe Mr. Walsh and I are more similar than we think.
I gather my things and thank Elliott before saying my goodbyes, knowing I’m sure I will see him soon for another one of these meetings. I sigh in frustration as I ride the elevator down to the first floor. It looks like there will be no celebration with the pretty little barista tonight.