“Damn straight, Will. Some things I can handle.”
~~~~~
My GPS guides me to the address that Will gave me for the great-aunt, a Mrs. Consuelo Gonzalez de Torres. The street is lined with dilapidated clapboard houses on the hilly outskirts of Scranton—I’m getting to know this town way better than I ever intended.
Quietly sitting in the van I’ve again borrowed from Daniel, I reread Will’s report on Mrs. de Torres. She’s eighty-five, widowed for thirty years, and has been living in her tan house on this street for nearly fifty. She’s the youngest sister of Teresa’s grandfather, Manuel Gonzalez, who seems to have pulled his own disappearing act around the time Theresa was growing up.
Vanishing must be in the family genes—first her grandfather, Manuel; then her father, Tony, who, according to Joe Taylor, wasn’t around as she grew up; later, her own runaway venture from the group home as Teresa; and now a possible vanishing act as Juliana with her threats of leaving the country if Bobby Taylor doesn’t back off. I worry what that would do to my brother.
Warrior sits next to me, snoozing in the passenger seat. Suddenly his head pops up, and he alerts me with a whining sound. I look out to see an elderly, grey-haired woman locking her front door. Could this be Tía Connie from Juliana’s phone call, the one I overheard in the library at Meadow Farm?
Mrs. de Torres carefully walks down the steps, grasping the banister with one hand and pushing something metal and flat with wheels ahead of her with the other. The metal shopping basket awkwardly clunks down, and when she gets to the bottom, she opens it up. She leans a little on the cart as she pushes it down the street. My guess is that she uses the thing like a walker to help her with her balance.
Telling Warrior to stay, I quietly exit the van to follow Mrs. de Torres at some distance. I hope my nondescript jeans and shirt plus hair stuffed under a baseball cap help me blend into the neighborhood.
The stooped octogenarian pushes her cart into a small bodega, and I enter, too, discreetly keeping an eye on her as she gathers provisions for the day. She chats warmly with various employees she seems to know well as she walks through the mini-mart, choosing bananas, grapes, and lettuce in the produce section, as well as sandwich meat at the deli counter. It doesn’t take long for a small, friendly cluster of people to clog up the narrow aisle around Mrs. de Torres, eager to help her with her groceries.
The smell of fresh-baked bread permeates the air. Sure enough, as the group continues to advise her, Mrs. de Torres spends a little time selecting the very best loaf. I pull out my phone to pretend-read a text, and inconspicuously snap off a few pictures. A girl breaks away from the assembly and dashes through swinging doors to the back of the store, calling out to the elderly woman, “I’ll check for you in the stock room, Mrs. de Torres.”
I hear the girl yelling “Frankie!” in the back, as I tuck my phone again in my pocket and ladle soup into a carryout container. Wait a minute. Is she talking about the same Frankie as Teresa & Frankie on the scrap of paper in the dead bird’s beak? The same as in Juliana warning Bobby Taylor to stay away from Frankie?
I wait impatiently while other people rush up, happy to see Mrs. de Torres. She asks them about family and whatever else is going on in their lives. They all treat her as a beloved friend.
Finally, the swinging doors fly open again and a gawky girl, all arms and legs, dashes through. My guess is she’s twelve or thirteen, probably in seventh or eighth grade.
“Hi, Tía Connie!” she says to the old woman, and they hug. The girl takes Mrs. de Torres’s arm. “Please let me help you.”
Hold it. Is this Frankie? Well, she, not he (as I thought), and Juliana appear to be connected to the same Tía Connie. I quickly pull my phone out of my pocket again to supposedly read another text and cautiously snap off a few more shots of Connie, this time with the girl.
“My darling, I have everything I need, but thank you.” Mrs. de Torres travels to the counter near the front and pays for her groceries while the budding teenager hovers around her Tía. I shuffle along, browsing. “Are you working hard, Francesca?” Mrs. de Torres asks, using, I’d assume, the girl’s formal name.
“Absolutely, Tía Connie, and I love my summer job…” Francesca pushes Mrs. de Torres’s cart out of the store for her while I quickly grab a newspaper and pay for it and my soup.
A man, probably the owner, calls out through the door, “Frankie, once you’ve helped your Tía on her way, please assist Jody with those boxes in the back.”
I leave, too, as Francesca, I mean, Frankie gives her Tía Connie one more hug and says, “I’ll be home in time for supper.” She runs inside the store. “Coming, Mr. Sanchez,” she hollers to her boss.
In a daze, I head in the same direction as Mrs. de Torres, continuing to shadow her. The whole time I’ve thought Frankie was a guy connected to the Scranton Gang twenty-five years ago. I’ve got to go somewhere quiet and process this discovery, and I’ve got to tell Will. In the meantime, I pretend to window shop whenever the elderly woman stops along the street.
I think about accidentally bumping into Mrs. de Torres, but I’m not sure what that would accomplish. What could I say that wouldn’t trigger a phone call on her part to Juliana? And a call like that would (a) cause my investigation to blow apart before I’m ready; (b) motivate Juliana to grab Frankie and head for the hills; and/or, (c) even worse, really upset my brother.
Before I can do anything, we’re back at Mrs. de Torres’s house. I watch her struggle up the steps to her front door with the groceries and shopping cart and want to rush over to help the old woman. Fortunately, a neighbor steps in to give her a hand.
As I slide into the front seat of the van, Warrior gives me a huge yawn. I think about the gangly Francesca. What are she and Mrs. de Torres to each other? A niece who lives with her great- or great-great-aunt? And exactly how does Juliana fit into this picture, since Mrs. de Torres is her great-aunt, too?
This Frankie, or Francesca, could be the person I overheard Juliana speaking to in soothing tones on the phone in the library at Meadow Farm. As I drive away, I wonder why Juliana is so secretive about this part of her family.
I connect my iPod through the van’s auxiliary jack and listen to a soulful Eric Clapton sing “River of Tears” in a sad, bluesy voice…and I think. And think.
The only thing I know for sure about Mrs. Consuelo Gonzalez de Torres is that she’s the indisputable connection between Teresa’s early years and Juliana’s life today. It’s more than a connection—Mrs. de Torres is just about proof that Juliana and Teresa are one and the same. Not quite, but almost.
Now an even more intriguing question. I absolutely saw a strong resemblance between the girl in the market and my brother’s beautiful girlfriend, Juliana. Could Frankie be Juliana’s daughter instead of just a niece or cousin? But she told my brother she has no children. Still, if the girl is her daughter, then I have to ask, who is the father?
Nah, not that slimy Bobby Taylor…couldn’t be. At least I hope not.
Chapter Eighteen
Has it already been fifteen-plus years since many of us thought we were so smart investing in those dot-com stocks? Then the bubble burst, and so much of that tech start-up paper-wealth amounted to very little in fact. We quickly learned we weren’t so smart and could never know enough to avoid the downside. Fortunately, I’d invested only a little in that sector. These days, for me, a more realistic investment approach has become a part of my overall journey in taking charge of my life.
I stare at my computer wondering where to begin the search to track down Teresa Gonzalez, now Terry Jones, as she set out on the next chapter of her journey during that heady dot-com era—a journey I’m confident encourages her to evolve into Juliana.
I’m distracted though by my discovery that Frankie isn’t a fellow Scranton Gang member from twenty-five years before. Also, that Frankie isn’t a he (the way I assumed), but is a middle-school she living with a great-aunt in Pennsylvania. I call Will t
o update him on this salient fact and wind up leaving a message on his voicemail. Good. I’m happily able to dodge a dressing-down for following his lead into what could have been hazardous territory.
So back to Teresa, now Terry Jones. According to Carmela Suarez, Terry worked somewhere in the city at one of the high-end clubs where dot-com tycoons mixed with celebrities, athletes, and hedge fund managers. And I have one new piece of information since my trip to Orlando—an email from Carmela, who found an old postcard from Terry after she left Disney World for New York. She says Terry referred to her new boss as Adriana in the postcard and said that she loved her job. Carmela says she tried to track down Adriana’s last name, but had no luck.
I spend considerable time online searching through the entries of high-end clubs in Manhattan and eliminate from my list any that opened after 1999. I wonder if the club where Terry worked is even in operation anymore. How many pages of Google will I have to comb through to hit pay dirt?
Finally, after three cups of coffee and a break with Warrior outside—bingo. A reference to an Adriana Cusco, the manager of Club Nucleus in Manhattan.
A different Google link leads me to an interesting profile on the club. Like many businesses servicing the new tech moguls of that era, Club Nucleus teetered on the brink of going under with the arrival of the dot-com bust—too many former tycoons could no longer afford the dues and services. Fortunately, one of its members, the CEO of a real company with genuine profits, came to the rescue and guided the club back to sound financial footing. The place has thrived ever since.
Switching to the club’s website, I find a phone number to call for information on joining—how unusual. Rather than the typical hush-hush process of many exclusive clubs where you wait to be invited to join, here’s one that reaches out for new members. Is it because the initiation and dues are so expensive that only a small number of people can afford to apply?
Instead of phoning the club directly, I call someone I know from the dinner party circuit out here who has the perfect profile to perhaps be a Club Nucleus member. Win Watson, an outrageously rich senior partner at investment bank Goldsmith Capital, is, I discover, actually a founding member of the club.
“Ronnie, my squash game just got cancelled,” Win tells me. “You up for a spur-of-the-moment lunch at Club Nucleus? I’ll even give you a tour.”
Hmmm. Have to skip my Aikido class to make it, but yeah. “What time?” I say.
“How’s 12:30?”
I check my watch. Just enough time to get ready and drive into the city. “See you then, Win! Thanks.”
~~~~~
Club Nucleus comprises the first five floors of a sleek tower next to the High Line, an aerial greenway on the lower West Side that’s my most recent favorite place in the city. The club’s building is one of numerous architectural wonders that have popped up alongside this fabulous city park built on unused elevated railroad tracks. Its location near the also-trendy meat packing district almost makes me want to join Club Nucleus.
Turning off my phone and walking through the frosted glass doors of the building’s entrance, I spot Win easily. He sprawls on a khaki-colored leather chair, texting on his phone, of all things. I raise my eyebrows. A lot of other members are also on phones, fingers flying. Oh well, different rules apply here.
Win looks up mid-text and motions me to give him a second. As I walk over, he quickly finishes and slides the phone into his pocket. “Ronnie, this works out perfectly!” He jumps up, wearing an elegant olive-colored bespoke suit, and engulfs me in a bear hug. “Marilyn sends her regards. Tried to get her to join us, but she’s at a Met board meeting.”
“Please send her my greetings in return.” I can’t help but glance around at the spectacular art hanging on the walls of the club’s spacious entry.
We both turn to the clicking sound of tall heels coming down a floating stairway near one wall. There, we first see a pair of beautiful red-soled Louboutins descending the steps. Then, a black-haired woman with the perfect choppy haircut comes into full view. Exquisitely dressed in Armani, she looks like someone in charge and walks over to us in those amazing shoes, and I wonder if this club with this boss is where Juliana got her first yearning of these amazing black heels.
“Adriana!” Win calls out. “Come and meet my friend, Veronica Rutherfurd Lake.” He turns to me. “Ronnie, I’d like you to meet the founding general partner and manager of Club Nucleus, Adriana Cusco.” Her smile is spectacular, and we shake hands warmly.
Sitting in the dining room with Win and Adriana a few minutes later, I can’t help but notice how many people around us are texting on their phones even right at their tables. A number of them are bold-face names who pop up regularly in Vanity Fair. At my club you’d get the evil eye from fellow members for breaking the no-phones-on-in-the-club rule, but the etiquette here appears to be different.
Win notices me noticing and grins. “Now tell the truth, Ronnie. This has got to beat the Colony Club.”
“Well, it’s very different from the Colony Club, but…” I emphasize, “…it’s lovely here.”
“Adriana, Ronnie’s been a member of the Colony Club for years,” he crows and turns to me. “Don’t be shy, Ronnie. Now how many generations of Rutherfurds have been members? And isn’t daughter, Brooke, a member, too.”
“Well, yes. But, Win, we’re not here to talk about the Colony Club.” I sip my iced tea and smile at Adriana. “I’d like to learn more about Club Nucleus.”
She nods as I take another bite of my blood-orange salad. “Ah, Ronnie, I have so much to tell you about our special club.”
“If this amazing salad is any indication of the quality of the club cuisine—”
“It is. Our chef, Danny Irvine, trained with the best in France, and came to us after five years at the Battery Park Grill.” Adriana tears a piece from her bread. “Need I say more?” She dips the piece in olive oil.
“I love the design of the place, from when you first enter the club to sitting here in this dining room.” I put down my fork and gaze again at the walls. “It’s the perfect backdrop for all these incredible paintings. That one over there of the flickering white candle—that’s got to be a Gerhard Richter.”
“Good eye, Ronnie.” Win laughs.
I wink at him. “If I remember correctly, it’s one of his photo paintings, similar to the one hanging in your screening room at home, Win.” I drink my iced tea. “Remember? You gave me a wonderful tutorial on the artist not long after you bought it.” He clicks my glass and laughs some more.
“And that’s exactly the point, Ronnie,” Adriana says. “Many of our members have multiple homes, and Club Nucleus strives to be similar to the one you prefer most, whether it references the paintings on the walls or your favorite tea or cocktail. And our members seem to feel we succeed. Plus they get to see all their friends, many of whom are at the pinnacle of their professions.”
The three of us glance around the dining room, and Adriana continues, “It’s a discerning crowd, and we offer many services.”
“How about privacy and security?” I ask. “Why don’t I see paparazzi camped outside this club? And why aren’t there others, like, say, Occupy Wall Street-types, threatening to break down those frosted front doors—”
“That reminds me,” Win interrupts. “Adriana, thanks for the name and number of the security firm.”
“Glad to have helped,” she tells him. “A number of our members have been happy with Elite Ops Protection.”
“Hold it. Stop,” I say. “Win, what are you talking about? A security firm? And who is Elite Ops Protection? Are you having problems at your office?”
“Goldberg Capital’s got that covered,” he answers me. “I’m having a risk profile drawn up for the house.”
“In Willowbrook? You can’t be.” Despite a hike in robberies recently in my own neck of the woods, I’m genuinely taken aback. “You must be kidding.”
“No, Ronnie,” he answers. “It’ll only be a m
atter of time before the ninety-nine-percent crowd discovers how many of us Goldberg partners have bought places in Willowbrook.”
“But we’re in the country, Winn, living on farms.” An arm reaches in to remove my empty salad plate. “Thank you,” I say to the attractive young man who clears the table. “Win, we’re not robber barons. These people don’t care about us.”
“Not so with us at Goldberg Capital, Ronnie. The ninety-nine-percenters and the old Occupy Wall Street folks hate us—a lot.” His phone vibrates and he pulls it out. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies. Got a guy flying in for a meeting.” Adriana and I watch him quickly answer his text.
Win looks up. “Ronnie, you know how the press has vilified Goldberg Capital.” He catches my incredulous look. “I’m not saying that some of it hasn’t been justified, but we’re not as bad as they make us out to be,” he says.
The corners of my mouth twitch, with me trying to suppress a grin. Even I’ve seen the headlines about Department of Justice fines handed out to Goldberg et al. A slap on the wrist, according to the Times.
“Whatever.” Win chuckles and goes on. “If these people decide to visit the New Jersey countryside looking for us at home, then I need to protect my family.”
“Win, that’s astonishing.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe they’d travel more than fifty miles to bother you and other Goldberg partners in our area.”
Chapter Nineteen
Win dashes out because of a sudden emergency at the office, leaving me at the table with Adriana. The nice young man who cleared our table moments before now pours coffee and then disappears.
“Adriana, our waiter looks as if he could be a graduate student at NYU or Columbia.” We’re not that far from New York University, in fact, so I might be on target. I lighten my coffee by adding milk. I hope this isn’t cream. Oh well.
“Good guess. Timothy’s working on his MBA at Columbia.” Adriana adds sugar to her own coffee, which surprises me. My reaction must show on my face, because she comments, “One of my, I like to think, few vices…sugar in my coffee. Anyway, Timothy is like many of our young wait staff. Here for a number of years, getting an elite education, building a professional network while serving our members. The arrangement works well for everyone.”
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