“I’ll be damned,” said Beaux as he stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window of Greek God Capital’s forty-third-floor conference room that overlooked Central Park. “That is the building from Ghostbusters.” Between his white suit, white facial hair, and brow-line glasses, Beaux bore an uncanny resemblance to Colonel Sanders.
Beaux walked slowly to the far end of the room. “And, well, shoot.” Beaux tapped the glass window. “That there is the Natural History Museum, innit, Crock?”
“If it is, we’ll drop you off later. You belong in it,” said Marshall Crockard, Lulu Energy’s CEO, as he remained seated, leafing through his notes. Marshall had an average build and a smile that made you want to trust him.
The well-heeled secretary who had escorted us in ten minutes earlier poked her head into the room.
“The team will be in shortly. Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink while you wait? Perrier, Smartwater, iced coffee?”
“Tap water’s fine,” said Beaux. Marshall nodded in agreement. Next to Marshall sat Waylon Betts, Lulu’s CFO. By far the largest of the three, Waylon hadn’t said a word since introducing himself to me in the lobby. The hair he lacked on his head was more than made up for by a bushy, white biker-mustache, which gave him a perpetually somber appearance.
My BlackBerry buzzed. In the forty-seven-dollar cab ride uptown, I had managed to come up with the correct password with only one attempt remaining, according to the warning sign. Part of me wanted to see what would’ve happened had I exceeded the number of incorrect attempts. I’d spent the first few minutes of the cab ride Googling things like the current prices of natural gas and WTI oil, but then became preoccupied instructing the cabbie on which route to take uptown in order to avoid the traffic that was unavoidable.
The secretary returned with a pitcher of ice water. Marshall poured a glass and offered it to me before pouring himself a glass.
“Gentlemen,” said a voice, as the door swung open. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Two Greek God Capital guys walked in the room. The speaker was in his mid-forties with a carefully coiffed comb-over, a well tailored navy-blue suit—punctuated with a cardinal-red tie—and shiny, brown loafers. Behind him was a replica, but ten years younger.
Marshall sat to my left, Beaux to my right, and Waylon to his right. On the other side sat the two Greek God Capital guys. Hands were shaken, then in one motion, each person removed a business card and slid it across the table. As we all returned to our seats, the Greek God Capital guys organized the three new business cards in front of them.
“Let’s see,” said the older Greek God Capital guy. “Looks like we have Marshall Crockard, CEO.” Marshall raised a few fingers in acknowledgement. “Waylon Betts, CFO.” Waylon nodded. “And Beaux Bridges, CGO.”
“Present,” said Beaux.
“CGO,” the younger Greek God Capital guys repeated. “Chief….”
“Geologist Officer,” said Beaux. “I do the rocks; these two beside me take care of the rest.”
“Great, great. And you are…” said the younger Greek God Capital guy, once again trailing off as he scanned the three business cards, then returned his gaze to me.
“Bill Keenan from Deutsche Bank.” I reached in my wallet then made a face. “Looks like I forgot to bring my business cards.”
“Work with Jeff in Houston?” asked the older Greek God Capital guy.
“Yeah,” I said. “Back and forth between here and Houston.”
“Haven’t seen him in a while. He still up to no good down there?” The Greek God Capital guys shared a chuckle, then looked at me for confirmation.
“Indeed. Jeff’s up to his usual shenanigans.” Despite my limited flexibility, I had a sudden urge to kick myself in the neck.
Marshall reached into his briefcase and removed a pile of spiral-bound packets, handing each of us a copy.
Both Greek God Capital guys removed pens from their jackets and scribbled down the date and names of each Lulu guy. “I think what makes most sense is for us to provide you with a little background on ourselves. Then, Marshall, happy to have you dive in and tell us about the company,” said the older Greek God Capital guy.
“Works for us,” said Marshall.
“So I’m a managing director in Greek God Capital’s energy-investment group, been here a shade over five years. We run just around $20 billion and invest across the energy-value chain.” I found myself instinctively taking notes like I was in class. I wasn’t sure if it was unprofessional-looking or not, but knowing that I wouldn’t be saying anything for the rest of the meeting if all went to plan, it was one way to show I was engaged. “Before joining Greek God Capital, I was a principal in TTZ’s energy group, up on the forty-fifth floor, same building.”
“We sold him on the shorter commute,” said the younger guy. I wondered how many times they had done this routine. Over the next thirty minutes, both Greek God Capital guys traced their careers, in impressive detail, back to their days as investment bankers. By the time they were through, I had more or less transcribed each of their résumés onto paper.
Marshall had barely gotten to the second page of his ten-page deck when he was interrupted by the older Greek God Capital guy. “Sounds like you guys have some great ideas for, uh,” he flipped the spiral-bound handout Marshall had distributed, “Lulu Energy Resources,” he continued, before removing his phone from his pocket. “We have a twelve o’clock downstairs, so we’re going to have to push pause on the discussion here. But let’s be in touch.”
Everyone stood. Hands were shaken, once again, after which the two Greek God Capital guys made a swift exit.
“Be in touch, my ass,” said Beaux as the door to the conference room shut, leaving the four of us alone.
“That one guy saw our vision. Could’ve used another fifteen minutes to show ’em nuts and bolts,” said Marshall, trying to buoy the group’s flagging confidence. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we get a follow-up call from them wanting to dig deeper, know more about our plans,” he continued.
I turned around and noticed the two sets of Lulu business cards the Greek God Capital guys hadn’t even bothered to take.
Waylon brushed his mustache with his thumb and index finger, elongating his dour expression. He still hadn’t spoken since we met in the lobby. As Beaux and Marshall checked their phones by the door, I scrambled to pick up their discarded business cards off the table and shove them in my pocket. But when I looked up, Waylon’s eyes met mine. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
* * *
There wasn’t much time to mope. The next meeting at Lakecrest was in twenty minutes. After signing in at the Madison Avenue lobby, we rode the elevator up to Lakecrest’s offices on the thirty-sixth-floor.
“Not a bad photo,” said Beaux as he inspected the black-and-white security picture on the temporary ID badge we had all been issued in the lobby.
The view in the conference room wasn’t as interesting this time, so as we waited, Beaux whipped out his flip phone and played Snake, achieving a new high score. Marshall made some notes on a legal pad while Waylon sat silently.
The meeting lasted just over an hour and progressed in a similar fashion as the prior one. Marshall was able to get through nearly half the ten-page deck this time, and the Lakecrest investors probed more into the details, like what size investment Lulu was looking for and what the company’s “secret sauce” was. But despite both Lakecrest guys pocketing the Lulu business cards at the end of the meeting, there wasn’t any talk of staying in touch.
“Went better’n Zeus,” said Beaux as the elevator descended to the lobby.
“Zeus?” asked Marshall.
“That last place,” replied Beaux.
“Greek God Capital,” said Marshall.
“Zeus, Greek God Capital, same nonsense. That’s the problem with these damn places. These city slickers think they’re immortal.”
“I knew this was a mistake coming here,” said Waylon. It was the first thing he’d said aside from a few grunts of confirmation during the meetings.
“That last guy—the tall one,” said Marshall.
“With the frosted tips?” said Beaux.
“That’s the one. It was like listening to an introduction to horizontal-drilling class from a professor who’d never drilled a hole in his life.”
“Not to mention he kept talking about the poor economics of drilling in the Permian Basin, only ’bout a thousand miles from where we’re looking to develop.”
The collective morale in the elevator was plummeting faster than the elevator itself. My BlackBerry had been vibrating non-stop over the past hour. There was an avalanche of emails for Greg, so I scrolled through to see if any were sent from Houston Jeff. There was one which read: “All good? Keep mood light and confidence high.”
“Where to?” said Beaux as we stepped outside into the scorching June sun.
We had three hours before the final meeting at 5:00 p.m. Deutsche Bank had paid for the team to stay the night at the Pierre Hotel on 61st Street.
“How about some cold drinks at the hotel?” I offered. The guys shrugged their approval, and off we went.
The Pierre is a palatial hotel located on Fifth Avenue just north of Central Park South, teeming with a who’s who of people who think they’re somebody and people who aren’t anybody. A rush of cool air greeted us through the revolving doors.
“I gotta hit the head. Find a table,” Beaux instructed.
“I need a nap. I’ll see you in a bit,” said Waylon, before walking to the elevators.
Marshall and I settled into a booth in the corner of the sprawling lobby bar.
“How long you been with Deutsche Bank?” said Marshall.
“Not long,” I said. “How’d you guys come up with the name Lulu?”
“Beaux had a poodle named Lulu. Passed about a year ago. We wanted a name that meant something to one of us so we went with that.”
“He’s a character. Wish there were guys like that at the office,” I said, suddenly realizing I didn’t really know anyone at the office.
“Beaux is one of the best petroleum engineers in the country. Thirty years drilling wells—Bakken, Powder River, Woodford, Arkoma, Barnett, Utica, Marcellus, Eagle Ford, Niobrara—you name the basin, this guy knows every rock and formation, and more importantly how to produce at the lowest cost. But Beaux is Boone County, Arkansas, through and through. Me and Rich are small-town guys too. How ’bout yourself? Where you from?”
Marshall yanked slightly at the knee of his suit pants, then crossed his right leg over his left, revealing black Nike gym socks. Before I began exploring investment banking as a career during business school, wearing black Nike gym socks wouldn’t have even fazed me, since that’s exactly what filled my top drawer at home. But during the recruiting process, I’d undergone a gradual transformation. I noticed how bankers judged those students who had rubber-soled shoes, wore reversible belts, or didn’t have collar stays. Looking the part was as crucial, if not more so, than playing it. The only way to be taken seriously was to adapt and conform. But ultimately, without guys like Marshall, Waylon, and Beaux, investors wouldn’t have companies to invest in, and bankers wouldn’t have companies to advise. They represented what most people wanted but few people had the guts to do: give up a safe career at an established company and create something from scratch.
I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to show Marshall I was more the athletic-sock-with-dress-shoes guy than a younger version of the private equity guys. By gaining credibility, maybe I could help the Lulu guys more. But explaining to Marshall that, while Beaux was inspecting the Ghostbusters building from Greek God Capital’s conference room, I could see my childhood home on the Upper East Side wasn’t going to help my cause.
“Here in New York. What town are you from?” I said.
“Wheeling, West Virginia,” Marshall said. I smiled as a surge of energy raced through me.
Beaux arrived at the booth just as a waitress came to take our order.
“Jack and Coke, please,” I said.
“Now you’re talking my language,” said Beaux. “Make it two, and mine a double.”
“Iced tea,” said Marshall.
“What’d I miss?” said Beaux.
“Just telling our banker about Nail City,” said Marshall.
“You ever go to Nailers games?” I asked. Marshall readjusted in his seat, and for the first time since we met, I felt I had someone’s attention.
“Brother’s got season tickets. I get to a dozen or so every year. How you know about them?”
“Who’s the Nailers?” asked Beaux.
“Minor-league hockey team,” I said. “Play in the ECHL. I skated with them a few years back in pre-season.” It was only a partial lie. I’d been invited to pre-season camp with the Wheeling Nailers but decided to play in Europe instead.
“Dang, I knew you looked like a hockey player,” exclaimed Beaux. “With that slicked back hair. Missing any teeth?”
“Not anymore,” I said smiling. “You guys come up here often? To New York?”
“Try to avoid it, but it’s part of the deal when you’re looking to get funding,” said Marshall.
“Too much noise and hullabaloo,” said Beaux. He paused as a leggy brunette in white jeans strutted by. “But the city does have some scenery worth checking out.”
“Problem is, most of these investors want to tell you how much they know about these basins and horizontal drilling instead of listening to the guys who actually lived their whole lives there and are drilling Monday to Sunday,” said Marshall.
My BlackBerry buzzed. A new email from Houston Jeff: “Carlview Partners just cancelled final meeting. All done.”
“How long we got till this last meeting?” asked Beaux. “Feelin’ good, Crock. Third time’s a charm.”
“We got a little time,” I improvised as the waitress returned with our drinks. I could see a resurgence in energy. It was a numbers game, finding someone to give these guys a shot. If I could buy some time, I thought, maybe Houston Jeff could come up with something.
“How big an investment you guys looking for? That Lakecrest guy said they usually do about hundred-million-dollar checks for these ventures, right?”
“One hundred million is a hobby,” said Marshall. “We’ve heard that before. That was his way of saying he wasn’t interested. Need two-hundred-million minimum to secure the right leases, equipment, crew, and the rest.”
“What time’s our flight outta here tomorrow, Crock?” asked Beaux.
“Four-fifty a.m. Earliest they got,” said Marshall.
“Perfect. Can go right from the bar to the airport,” replied Beaux, slapping his palm on the table.
“He’ll be sound asleep before ten o’clock,” Marshall said to me.
My BlackBerry buzzed again. Another email from Houston Jeff: “Get to DB’s Midtown office, 345 Park Ave. Set up a video conference meeting with Derry Capital at 4:00 p.m. Probably a throwaway meeting but need to go anyway.” I ran a quick Google search to figure out who the hell Derry Capital was.
Waylon appeared.
“Quickest nap I ever seen,” said Beaux.
“Maid was cleaning the room,” said Waylon.
“Still got bed head,” said Beaux as he stood and rubbed Waylon’s bald head. Waylon responded with a gentle, backhanded swat to Beaux’s gut.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “Last meeting just got moved up an hour so we should head over.”
The guys didn’t probe when I informed them the meeting would be over video conference rather than face-to-face. And they didn’t seem to realize the final meeting was with a different firm than previously scheduled. All they knew was they had another opportunity to explain their vision to a potential investor, and that’s what they did.
Whether it was because Derry Capital was based in Houston, or good fortune, or some combination, the meeting went far differently than the previous two. Instead of extolling their own backgrounds, Derry let Marshall run the show while Beaux jumped in to talk operations and Waylon piped up to talk numbers. Once the Lulu guys finished their presentation, Derry asked pointed questions.
Q: “How many horizontal wells did you spud while with QRT?”
A: “Seven hundred and seventy-six in the Marcellus/Upper Devonian, and 1,347 in the Huron/Berea regions.”
Q: “Why the Marcellus shale?”
A: “Thirty-two percent CAGR in production since 2008 with 23.3 Tcfe 3P reserves.”
Q: “Why should we invest with you guys?”
A: “Eighty-plus years of combined relevant experience. Marshall grew up in the region we’re targeting and has personal relationships with leasing agents and local officials which will keep costs to a minimum.”
The meeting extended fifteen minutes past the hour of originally allotted time. As the four of us exited DB’s Midtown building, the sun’s heat had subsided and was replaced by a cool summer breeze that swept down Park Avenue. Marshall, Waylon, and Beaux all removed their jackets and loosened their ties.
“Want to grab some dinner with us?” asked Marshall.
“S’posed to be a real good BBQ place few blocks west of us,” added Beaux.
I’d almost become numb to the incessant vibrating of the BlackBerry. And as much as I wanted to join them, I was still on my first day and felt I was losing ground on securing a full-time offer each moment I wasn’t at my desk.
“Think I need to head back to the office, guys. I appreciate the invite,” I said.
“We’ll be down in Houston in a couple weeks. Probably will stop by the DB office. Hope to see you there,” said Marshall.
We parted ways, and I hailed a cab.
“Sixty Wall Street,” I said.
When I arrived back at the office around 6:00 p.m., my desk was just as I’d left it. I went largely ignored the rest of the night, aside from a few furtive glances from the other interns, whose faces confirmed that word had spread about my whereabouts.
While my fellow interns were busy (or at least appeared busy) cranking away on their computers with lowered heads and hunched shoulders, I had missed the group orientation and was still unable to log in. I spent an hour tracking down the correct number to call, then another hour on the phone with the help desk as they informed and misinformed me on how to get my computer and email operational. Around 9:00 p.m., as I got familiar with the various drives and programs we’d been told to explore on our computers, Greg Kim stopped by my desk on his way to the bathroom.
“How’d it go?” he asked, more because my cube was on his way to the bathroom than out of any real interest.
“Great, I think.” I exhaled slowly. “Thanks for giving me the opportunity.” Part of me wondered if there was a particular reason he’d asked me to go, or whether I was just the first name on the intern list he had been handed. I never found out.
“You missed a bunch in orientation, so find another intern either tonight or tomorrow and ask them to catch you up to speed.” My enthusiasm turned to dread as I suspected few, if any, of my fellow interns would be thrilled at the idea of helping “catch me up to speed.”
Greg started walking away, then spun around and doubled back. “Also, Rhonda is out for the day, but when you have a minute, drop your receipts off at her desk and she’ll walk you through how to get reimbursed.” He tapped the top of my cube with his palm, then disappeared into the bathroom.
I didn’t need to dig into my pants pocket to realize I’d forgotten to take my receipts, though I did remember signing them all: the forty-seven-dollar cab ride uptown, the fifty-four-dollar drinks bill at the Pierre, and the thirty-five-dollar cab ride back to the office. I opened my wallet, hoping through some magic the receipts might materialize. They didn’t, though the five-dollar Starbucks gift card Zhe had given me that morning helped ease the pain.
I’d been an investment banker for one day, and I was already poorer.