Page 34 of Analysing Her Assets

“Hey, Junior, come give us a hand.” Doron’s deep blue eyes were a narrow crease on his tanned face.

“Doron! What are you doing?”

“I want these to leave so they can go to Europe tomorrow. Come on!”

This wasn’t necessary. The morning shift would take care of that, but Gideon knew better than to argue with the old timer. He blessed his decision to change before coming here. The other four men all had protecting gloves. He didn’t, and his hands were soon red and chafed, but he carried on until Doron gave the order to stop.

His muscles complaining, he followed Doron to the second story management offices. They looked exactly like they did when Gideon was a child and he would come to visit his father and grandparents. Simple terrazzo floor, the harsh overhead neon lights revealed the time spots on the old-fashioned tiles. The smell from the factory permeated here, not in a bad way, and seeped into the old metal shelves, which bulged with thick spiral binders. The notable difference was new monitors on every desk.

Doron led the way to the small kitchen. He prepared grainy black Turkish coffee, adding one sugar to each without conferring with Gideon, and fished petit beurre biscuits from a glass jar.

“I heard from your mother that you’re up for a managerial job. Well done!” Doron said.

“Does my father know we’re meeting?”

“No.”

Paulina was right. There was a true breach between his father and his oldest friend.

“Congrats on the new computers, about time, too.”

“The new CFO insisted on computerization, but the new systems cost twice as much as first predicted,” Doron grumbled, “and integration is a bitch. I don’t like him.”

“Why? Overspending on upgrading the software could happen to anyone. And part of it is because you and Abba waited for far too long.”

Gideon had countless arguments with his father about it. In private, since his father had always insisted on presenting a united family front. It stung that after resisting so strongly, his father had accepted this unknown young man’s opinion.

Doron dipped a biscuit in his coffee and talked while he ate it.

“Young Doron likes betting on the dollar and euro. We used to hedge so we have zero sensitivity–just doing simple forwards covering sales overseas against extra shekel expenses. But he spends half the day talking to dealing rooms getting into complex option structures. It’s not what we do! We’re a factory, not financial gamblers.”

“Has he been successful?” Gideon asked.

Doron took a long, noisy mouthful of his coffee.

“I think so. Here is the thing. I might have bitched about it one too many times, and now I don’t see the company’s hedges in real time.”

“You’re management. You should,” Gideon said. “Go to Miriam.” He named the veteran accountant who did all the bookkeeping for Berdiplast.

“She doesn’t have access, either.”

It was poor management, but one that Berdiplast had maintained for years. Old Doron had no one to blame for it but himself. For years, he and Yehoshua were the only ones with access to everything, keeping things close to their chests.

“He works with your firm, with Peaks.” He stared at Doron, pretending that this was news to him. “There’s a guy there who helps him with everything. Your father, at first, was reluctant about Peaks, but now he’s all for it.”

“Who helps Young Doron in Peaks?” He asked. It rankled that he was so out of the loop. Doron moved around papers on his desk and fished out a business card with The Peaks logo on it.

“Here, I found it. Danny Golan. Do you know him?”

Gideon took his own mouthful of sweet coffee, using it to conceal his annoyance, before nodding. It was the CFO’s purview to hedge, and perhaps take a calculated risk, from time to time. Aside from his aversion to Danny, this shouldn’t be an issue.

“I’ve been fighting with your father a lot lately about the hedges. And he doesn’t want to confer anymore...” Gideon met the blue eyes and ached for the older man. Doron was losing a lifelong friend and hurting over it.

“I’m sorry. But you’re still the COO, you can throw your weight around.”

“Not for long. I turn sixty-seven next year, and then I’m out. Retired by law.”

“Who’s going to replace you?”

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