Manipulate your way
To what you want,
Little Prince,
But be wary of smiles.
Business Poker, Obie, and Anthony Starting at Age 5
Tony's POV
When Dad was out of town I didn't get to go to S.I. very much, but now and then Obie would let me and my nanny come to work with him. Obie is my godfather. His name is actually Obadiah, but when I was one I couldn't warp my mouth around that many letters, so I called him Obie instead.
Dad told Obie I was too active and too chatty to sit quietly through business meetings. When he had a meeting in the middle of our workday he'd leave me and my nanny in R&D or at the gun range.
Obie had a different view than Dad. Obie said, "He's going to need to know all sides of the business, and if he's old enough to learn the tech side, he's old enough to learn about wheeling and dealing." I think maybe Obie was just jealous 'cause Dad was teaching me tech and Mom was teaching me piano, and that meant the only thing left for Obie was to teach me how to make business deals.
On one of the days I went to work with Obie he said to me, "Tony, you know all those movies where people sit around playing poker, sizing each other up, looking for tells and mentally counting the cards left in the deck? That's what being a businessman is. It's like you're a spy."
I responded, "Like James Bond?"
Obie nodded. "You observe them, watch their hand gestures, their facial tics, try to determine when they are happy, sad, angry or frustrated, or when they're faking those emotions. You listen to their tone of voice, for that often says more than their words."
"Like how Mom's voice gets all polite when she's talking with Mrs. Havernackle, but after the party Mom's nose gets all scrunched up, like she smells something bad, when she's talking about her."
"Yes, exactly like that. You also have to investigate what cards they hold in their hand, as in how much money do they have access to? How do they spend it? How much are they willing or able to invest?"
"What's invest mean?" I'd heard both Obie and Dad say it, but I didn't really get it.
"Inventing is expensive, Tony." Dad tended to call me Antn'y 'cause he was a Bronx boy, but Obie used Tony, like Mom and my nannies. "Smart people get paid a lot of money. New machines have to be designed to make the new products. New factories have to be built or old ones have to be outfitted with new machines. And sometimes you think you have a great idea, but someone else beats you to the market or makes a slightly better version. So we spread out the cost by selling the idea of the product to investors. They invest money to help pay for all those things, and then when the product starts selling, they get a percent of the proceeds."
"Did you get investors when I made the circuit board?"
"Howard was the sole investor. He wanted your first product to be fully Stark funded."
"Do I get proceeds from it?"
"I'd say your proceeds came in the form of that decked out lab you have at home and the constant replenishing of its supplies."
Obie had told me to look for signs of a person's mood by their voice or gestures. Obie's tone sounded like he thought my salary was too high.
Then he said, "You must know your own hand too, what you're willing to allocate into the game."
"Allocate?"
He didn't answer. He asked back, "What do you think it means?"
"Is the game still poker?"
"Metaphorically, yes."
Obie used lots of big words. I know lots of words, but it could still get frustrating having to puzzle out so many of them. I decided to pretend he hadn't said the big m word. So if I only thought about the other part, allocate, then you needed to know if your cards had a good chance of winning so you could decide how much money to spend. "It means you have to figure out how much money S.I. should spend on an idea."
"Exactly. Then you need to maneuver things so all of the players get some of the pot, but that you still come out on top."
I was curious, "Why do we need all of them to make money too? In poker, aren't you trying to get the whole pot?"
"We depend on them, whether it be for the raw materials we use in our products or as outlets to sell our goods. They need money to do those things. It's my job to figure out how much money they need to get out of the deal to make them feel content rather than ill-used, but not so much that they feel too confident. We want them right in that Goldilocks zone, where they feel compensated enough to feel they owe us quality workmanship, but not so much that they have the confidence to walk away from the contract table, in an attempt to get even more."
I nodded in understanding.
Then Obie said, "And all the while, you have to have the best poker face in the game. Let none of them see the true you. Let them see who you need them to see."
"Like this?" I sat up straight, folded my arms on the desk and tried to make my face look flat, like I wasn't giving any emotion away.
"Not quite. In poker you're trying to not give anything away. In business you want to give them the emotion that will make them do what you want. Your Mom doesn't like Mrs. Havernackle, but Mrs. Havernackle has a beautiful home with a huge yard lined with well-kept flowerbeds. Your Mom wants to hold a charity event at her home. So she fakes liking her, and does it well enough to make Mrs. Havernackle believe that Maria does like her. You don't have to like people to use them. But they're more likely to let you use them if they think you like them."
"So Mom's an actress?"
"Yes, when the situation calls for it."
"And you and Dad are too?"
"All the best businessmen are skilled actors. You know those fancy parties your parents attend?"
I rolled my eyes, "They're always going to those. They're boring! And sometimes they make me put on a tux and go too."
"Watch the show next time. Your parents are skilled at drawing out details from the party guest, and then use those details to S.I.'s benefit."
For a moment I pictured Mom drawing a picture in her sketch book and Dad drawing a diagram, then I figured out that he meant withdrawing, as in removing facts from the people. "Their conversations are about boring things. Why would that help S.I.?"
"Ask your Mom sometime. Maybe you can help her spy next time. The people we're meeting with today may be the same people you'll be holding meetings with decades from now. Now is the perfect time for you to spy on them, to learn their tells. But remember, spies blend in. Make sure the others can't tell you're spying on them."
Business poker was a game Obie and I played whenever I went to work with him. Before going to the meetings, Obie would show me how to spy through the available financial reports from the opposing company and we'd scan through S.I.s financials to figure out what we should allocate. Then we'd try to figure out how to stack the decks so Obie could manipulate the other team into playing the cards he wanted them to play. That requires acting too.
Maybe I'll ask Mom if I can take acting classes.
At the meeting…
My feet swung back and forth as I sat. They were itching to get up and run around. I tried to listen to the meeting for awhile, but it was so boring! But then I remembered that I was trying to spy on them. For a moment, I sat up straight in the chair and tried to act like I was a businessman, like Obie. But then it occurred to me that as a spy I was supposed to be blending in, and blending in for me was looking like I was bored out of my mind, swinging my feet.
So I went back to being me, but this time I was scanning each person and trying to figure out what they were feeling.
There was a lady with scrunched brows jotting down notes. I decided she was trying to add up all of Obie's suggestions and see if they were to her company's liking.
The guy next to her with the red stripped tie tugged at his tie once, and then his hand rested down, but it kept twitching like he wanted to adjust it again each time Obie mentioned Houston. They were debating where a new factory was going to be built. By the red-tie guy's twitching I surmised (that means guessed) that he wanted the factory to be in Denver but was too afraid of losing the deal to speak up about it.
But he'd have to speak up if he wanted any chance of getting the contract. Or maybe the lady would. She'd stopped writing and her face got all determined like she thought she'd found a way to make things work for her side.
The attorney didn't really have any tells. He'd chime in now and then with a legal detail, such as tax or zoning laws in one city or the other, but he probably didn't care how the deal went because he got paid the same amount no matter what.
A guy in a blue suit got a little gleam in his eye and a twitch of a smile whenever Obie mentioned the cost of hiring contractors to build in Houston. But the guy got tightlipped when Obie stated the cost S.I. was willing to pay. Obie said to expect that. He said that S.I. was actually willing to go higher, but that you had to let the other team haggle, so your first offer had to be low.
I'd asked, "Why would you want them to haggle?"
"It makes them feel like they've won the game. People like to win." Then Obie had looked over at Nanny Cynthia, who had been reading a book whose cover had a muscular guy with no shirt on kissing a woman in a white puffy blouse called Fire and Ice and said, "Maybe you should take him to a street market in New York so he can practice haggling?"
"Can you?! Please!" I asked. That sounded exciting!
Nanny Cynthia glowered at Obie, then looked apologetically at me, "The street markets are too crowded, Tony. We can't go there. But maybe we can setup a fake stand in the house and you can haggle with me or your Mom."
I was rarely allowed to go anywhere with lots of people and when we did go someplace crowded my nannies would get mad at me if I let go of their hand. Other kids didn't have to do that. I saw them. They didn't stray too far from their adult, but they didn't have to hold hands every second they were out and about. Can't a guy get a little bit of freedom?
Nanny Cynthia had followed through. We made a little shopping stand with a sheet draped over a table and we used Mom's piano bench as the sales table. I knew the chef planned on making homemade strawberry ice cream. So we took the cream, the sugar, the strawberries, the mixing bowl, the salt and the vanilla and set them up for sale in our little stand.
The chef wasn't willing to play with us, but definitely wanted his ingredients back. Jarvis was willing to play.
"I'll take 2 quarts of cream for $1.25."
"I'm sorry, sir." I replied, "But the current rate for cream is $1.00 per quart."
"That price is far too high. I'll give you $1.35 for the both of them."
"Sir, the dairy farmer insists on earning 70c per quart. At your price, I'm losing 5c. The absolute lowest I can drop to is 90c per quart."
Jarvis pulled change out of his pocket and acted as though he was counting it. "Will you take $1.74? It is the best I can manage."
"That will have to do then." I took the money and stuck it in the toy register, then handed over the cream.
A minute later, Jarvis returned wearing a hat and a scarf and using a deeper voice than his usual. "I'm in need of a box of strawberries."
Jarvis came back several times, and each time he changed something about what he was wearing and asked for a different item in a different voice.
We were able to come to an agreeable price on everything except the sugar. He actually turned down the sugar! I had gone high on the price because I thought it was essential to making ice cream and that he'd have to pay a high price to get the needed ingredient, but he said in a little old lady's voice, "Then will just have to do without, won't we."
I tried to call him back and offer a special on sugar but he replied, "I shan't do business with a businessman that tries to finagle every cent from an old lady's pocket then proves he's over charged by dropping the price so low. Good day, sir."
The ice cream was still good, but not as sweet as usual. Luckily, the strawberries were ripe and provided some sweetness.
Obie had been doing some haggling while I had drifted into memories. Mr. Blue Suit had lost the gleam, but didn't seem frustrated or upset, so I guessed Obie had hit that Goldilocks zone where the guy's company got enough for the porridge to not be too hot or too cold.
Mr. Red Tie and Ms. Notes were flustered, but they were never going to get the contract anyway. Obie just had him there to challenge Mr. Blue-Suit's offer. Well, I suppose Red Tie did have a slight chance, but Obie said that Houston had better access to ports and mountains in the middle of the country didn't make for good delivery cost of products, so Red Tie's deal would have to be really good for them to get the contract.
When he told me the plan I questioned it because he'd already told me that we were supposed to balance things out so everyone was content. He said that was for everyone we did business with, but that we couldn't say yes to everything and everyone. We had to do what was right for S.I. and that meant making good business decisions.
Going to work with Dad was a lot more fun than going to work with Obie, but I'd had fun haggling with Jarvis, so I guess I could see how Obie could enjoy his job. But I rather be inventing in R&D.
Iron Man 1
Tony's POV
Sitting there, paralyzed by a design my company had invented, I recalled Obie's words, "Only let them see the face you want them to see." And, "You don't have to like people to use them. But they're more likely to let you use them if they think you like them."
God, what an idiot I'd been. Obie was the one that taught me that lesson, repeated it to me over and over since I was 5. And I'd never thought to consider that my godfather was using those tactics against me.
I felt like vomiting.
Obie twisted and pulled the ARC reactor from my chest. "Thanks. Too bad you had to pull Pepper into this. I liked her. Goodbye, Tony."
The metal shards, once held back by the magnet in the ARC reactor, began to slice their way through the edge of my heart, a physical manifestation of the emotional heartbreak of discovering my godfather had hired someone to kill me, had just left me for dead, and was on his way to kill the only women I truly cared about. And I was still paralyzed, unable to act.
I fought against the paralysis, and once my muscles overpowered the paralytic I forced my limbs to carry me to my lab. The metal shards continued to cut deeper into my lungs and heart, laboring my body to circulate oxygen to the point that I collapsed mere feet from the old ARC reactor.
DUM-E's POV
I watched Dad stumble and fall. Saw the gaping hole in his chest. Looked up and found the metal piece Dad normally put there, and knocked it to the floor where Dad could reach it.
"Good boy."
I beeped both happy and worried beeps. Then Dad inserted the piece and was up and gone.
An hour later…
Tony's POV
I struggled to breathe. Everything there hadn't been time to focus on earlier was hitting me now. I'd nearly been murdered by my godfather. I'd fought him and ordered his electrocution. Pepper had nearly been killed. I'd been a prisoner in that cave because my godfather had paid for my death.
All I wanted to do was get drunk and pretend this night had never happened, but I had to stay sober enough to make a new ARC reactor. The one currently in my chest was barely functional and the one Obie had stolen had been destroyed.
Focusing on work, was the next best thing to alcohol to distract me from my turmoil. Who's kidding who. I'm a functional alcoholic, like my Dad. I called out to my third born A.I., "Butterfingers, bring me the scotch."
