by Glynn, Alan
‘Eddie Spinola,’ I said, ‘for Mr Van Loon.’
She consulted her diary and then started to shake her head. She seemed to be about to tell me something – maybe that Mr Van Loon was out of the country, or that she had no record of my appointment – but just then, walking slowly from a corridor to the left of the reception desk, Van Loon himself appeared. He looked sombre and as he put a hand out to greet me I noticed that his stoop was more pronounced than I’d remembered.
The receptionist went back to what she’d been doing before I interrupted her.
‘Eddie, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, Carl. Feeling much better.’
We shook hands.
‘Good. Good. Come on in.’
I was struck again by the size of Van Loon’s office, which was long and wide, but decorated very sparely. He went over to his desk and sat behind it. He indicated that I should sit as well.
He sighed, and shook his head for a moment. ‘OK, look Eddie,’ he said, ‘that thing in the Post Friday was not good, not the kind of publicity we want associated with this deal, yeah?’
I nodded, unsure about where this might lead. I’d half hoped that the article might escape his notice.
‘Hank doesn’t know you, and the deal is still under wraps, so there’s nothing to worry about, yet. I just don’t think you should show your face down at Lafayette any more.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Keep a low profile. Trade here. Like I said, we have our own trading room. It’s discreet and private.’ He smiled. ‘No fucking baseball caps.’
I smiled at this, too – but I actually felt quite uncomfortable, and nervous, as if I could very easily throw up.
‘I’ll have someone show you around the floor later.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The other thing I wanted to tell you, and maybe this is a good thing, is that Hank won’t be here tomorrow. He’s been delayed in LA, so we’re not going to have that meeting until … probably until the middle or even the end of … next week.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ I mumbled, finding it hard to look Van Loon in the eye, ‘it’s probably … like you say, it’s probably a good thing, no?’
‘Yeah.’ He picked a pen up from his desk and fiddled with it. ‘I’m going to be away, too – until the weekend at least, so it gives us a little breathing space. We were rushed on Thursday in my opinion, but we can go at our own pace now, hone the figures, put a really air-tight package together.’
I looked up and saw that Van Loon was handing me something. I reached across the desk to take it. What he was handing me was the yellow legal pad that I’d used the previous Thursday to write out the option values on.
‘I want you to expand these projections and do them up on the computer.’ He cleared his throat. ‘By the way, I’ve been looking at them and I’ve got a couple of questions I want to ask you.’
I sat back now and stared at the dense rows of figures and mathematical symbols on the first page of the legal pad. Even though it was all in my own handwriting, I had difficulty making any sense of it and felt that I was looking at some strange form of hieroglyphics. Gradually, however, what was on the page reconfigured itself before my eyes into something vaguely familiar, and I saw that if I could only concentrate on it for an hour or two I’d probably be able to decode it.
But with Carl Van Loon sitting directly opposite me now, and ready to ask questions, a couple of hours wasn’t really an option. This was the first serious indication I’d had that my strategy of minimum dosage was only going to be good for one thing: keeping the headaches at bay. Because none of the other stuff was happening, and I was becoming increasingly aware of what it meant to feel ‘normal’. It meant not being able to influence people and make them anxious to do things for you. It meant not being able to run with your instincts and invariably be right. It meant not being able to recall minute details and make rapid calculations.
‘I can see a couple of inconsistencies here,’ I said, in an attempt to head off Van Loon’s questions. ‘And you’re right, we were rushed.’
I flicked over to the second page and then got up from my chair. Pretending to be focused on the projections, I walked around for a bit and tried to think of what I was going to say next – like an actor who’s forgotten his lines.
‘I wanted to ask you,’ Van Loon said from his desk, ‘why is the life of the … third option there different from the others?’
I looked around at him for a second, mumbled something and then went back to the legal pad. I stared at it intently, but my mind was blank and I knew that nothing was going to suddenly pop into it that would rescue me.
‘The third one?’ I said, stalling for time, flipping the pages over. Then I just flipped all the pages back again and put the pad under my arm. ‘You know what, Carl?’ I said, looking at him directly now, ‘I’m going to have to go over these carefully. Let me do them up on the computer at home like you said and then maybe we can—’
‘The third option, Eddie,’ he said, raising his voice suddenly, ‘what’s the big fucking deal? You’re not going to let me ask you a simple question?’
I was standing about five yards now from the desk of a man who had appeared on dozens of magazine covers – a billionaire, an entrepreneur, an icon – and he was shouting at me. I didn’t know how to respond. I was out of my depth. I was afraid.
And then, luckily, his telephone rang. He picked it up and barked, ‘What?’
I waited a second before turning around and moving away to let him speak. My hands were shaking slightly and the nauseous feeling I’d had earlier came back.
‘Don’t send those ones,’ Van Loon was saying into the phone behind me. ‘Check with Mancuso before you do anything – and listen, about the delivery dates …’
Relieved to be off the hook for a while, I drifted further down this huge room, towards the windows. These were full-length, with a west-facing view that was partially obscured by hanging blinds. I would tell Van Loon when he got off the phone that I had a migraine or something and that I couldn’t focus properly. He’d seen me write the stuff out on Thursday and we’d talked about it in detail, so he could hardly doubt my command of the material. The important thing now, for me, was just to get out of there.
As I waited, I glanced around at the office. The top part was dominated by Van Loon’s enormous desk, but the rest of it had the airy and austere feel to it of a waiting-room in an Art Deco railway station. By the time I got to the windows, I had the impression that Van Loon was far behind me, and that if I were to turn around he’d be a figure in the distance – his voice barely audible, droning on about delivery dates. At this end of the room there were some red leather couches and low glass tables with business magazines scattered on them.
As I stood at the windows, peering through the hanging blinds, one of the first things I noticed – in among the familiar cluster of midtown skyscrapers – was a glimmering shard of the Celestial Building over on the West Side. From this perspective, it seemed to be huddled in among a dozen other buildings, but if you looked closely you could see that it was further back than the others, and that it actually stood alone. It seemed incredible to me that I’d been in the Celestial a couple of days before, and had even contemplated buying an apartment in it – and one of the costlier units at that …
Nine and a half million dollars.
‘Eddie!’
I turned around.
Van Loon was off the phone and approaching from the other end of the room.
I braced myself.
‘Something’s come up, Eddie. I have to go. I’m sorry.’ His tone was all friendly now, and when he arrived at where I was standing, he nodded at the yellow legal pad under my arm. ‘Do up that stuff and we’ll talk. As I said I’m away until the weekend, so that should give you enough time.’ He clapped his hands together suddenly. ‘OK, you want to have a look at our trading floor? I’ll call Sam Welles and have him show you around.’
‘I thi
nk I’ll head home and just get stuck into this, if you don’t mind,’ I said, and nudged my arm forward.
‘But it’d only take—’ Van Loon paused and stared at me for a moment. I could see that he was puzzled, and probably felt a mild antagonism towards me, just as he had earlier, but he clearly didn’t understand why this was happening to him and wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Then he said, ‘What’s the matter with you, Eddie? You’re not going soft on me, are you?’
‘No, I—’
‘Because this shit isn’t for the faint-hearted.’
‘I know that, I just—’
‘And I’m out on a limb here, Eddie. No one knows about this. You fuck up on me, you talk about this – my credibility is blown.’
‘I know, I know.’ I indicated again to the pad under my arm, ‘ … I just want to get this right.’
Van Loon held my gaze for a moment and then sighed, as if to say, ‘Well that’s nice to know.’ Then he turned around and started walking back towards his desk. I followed him.
‘Call me when you’re done,’ he said. He had his back to me now, and was standing at the front of the desk, consulting something, a diary or a notebook. ‘And make it no later than Tuesday or Wednesday of next week.’
I hesitated, but then realized I’d just been dismissed. I walked out of the office without saying another word.
On my way home, I stopped off at a Gristede’s and bought a few large packs of potato chips and some beers. Back in the apartment, I sat at my desk, got out the thick folder of stuff Van Loon had sent me the previous week and assembled my notes. I thought if I could come to grips with all of this material, I’d be OK. I’d be as informed and up-to-date as I had been when I’d impressed Van Loon with my proposal for structuring the buy-out deal.
I kicked off with the set of MCL-Parnassus quarterly reports in the folder. I laid them out on my desk, opened the first pack of chips and bottle of beer, and started reading.
It took me about two hours of assiduous page-turning before I could admit to myself that not only was this material stultifyingly boring, it was also largely incomprehensible to me. The problem was simple: I couldn’t remember how to interpret this kind of stuff. I had a look at some of the other documents, and although these were slightly less dense and impenetrable than the quarterly reports, they were no less boring. But I persevered, and made sure that I read everything – or, at least in the sense that my eye passed over every word and every line, didn’t miss anything.
I finished all of the chips and beer and ordered up Chinese at about ten o’clock. Shortly after midnight, I finally caved in and went to bed.
The next morning I made a quick and terrifying calculation. It had taken me eight hours the day before to read what previously I’d read in about forty-five minutes. I then tried to recall some of it, but could only summon up fragments, generalities. Previously I’d been able to remember all of it, back to front, inside out.
The temptation at this stage to take a couple of MDT pills was very strong indeed, but I persevered. If I went back full-thrust on MDT, I would only end up having more blackouts, and where would that leave me? So the pattern remained the same over the next couple of days. I stayed at home and waded through hundreds of pages of material, only leaving the apartment to get stuff like potato chips and cheeseburgers and beer. I watched a good deal of TV, but studiously avoided newscasts and current affairs shows. I kept my phone unplugged. I suppose at some level I created the illusion for myself that I was coming to grips with the material, but as the days passed I had to admit that very little of it was sinking in.
On the Wednesday evening I detected the onset of another headache. I wasn’t sure what had caused it, maybe it was all the beer and junk food I’d been consuming, but when it hadn’t gone away by Thursday morning I decided to up the minimum dosage of MDT to one pill a day. Of course, within about twenty minutes of taking this higher dosage my headache had lifted, and – of course – I started worrying. How long would it be before I had to increase the dosage again? How long would it be before I was chugging down three or even four pills each morning just to keep the headaches at bay?
I took out Vernon’s little notebook again and examined it. I had no desire to go through the same routine as before, but I nevertheless felt that if there was any hope left in this situation it had to lie somewhere in among these numbers. I decided to call a few of the ones that had been crossed out and didn’t have replacements written in above or below them. Maybe I would discover that they belonged to people who were still alive, and weren’t even sick, people who would talk to me, ex-clients. Or maybe – more likely – I would find out that the reason they were ex-clients was because they were dead. But it was worth a try.
I called five numbers. The first three were no longer in service. The fourth number didn’t reply or have an answering machine. The fifth one picked up after two rings.
‘Yep?’
‘Hello. May I speak to Donald Geisler please?’
‘Speaking. What do you want?’
‘I was a friend of Vernon Gant’s. I don’t know if you know but he was killed a while back and I was—’
I stopped.
He’d hung up.
It was a response, though. And clearly the guy wasn’t dead. I waited ten minutes and called again.
‘Yep?’
‘Please don’t hang up. Please.’
There was a pause, during which Donald Geisler didn’t hang up. Or say anything.
‘I’m looking for some help,’ I said, ‘some information maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Where did you get this number?’
‘It was … among Vernon’s things.’
‘Shit!’
‘But there’s noth—’
‘Are you a cop? Is this an investigation of some kind?’
‘No. Vernon was an old friend of mine.’
‘I don’t like this.’
‘In fact, he was my ex-brother-in-law.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘Look, this is about—’
‘Don’t say it on the phone.’
I stopped again. He knew.
‘OK, I won’t. But is there any way that I could talk to you? I need your help. I mean, you obviously know—’
‘You need my help? I don’t think so.’
‘Yes, because—’
‘Look, I’m going to hang up now. So don’t phone me back. In fact, don’t ever try to contact me again, and—’
‘Mr Geisler, I might be dying.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘And I need—’
‘Leave me alone, all right?’
He hung up.
My heart was thumping.
If Donald Geisler didn’t want to talk to me, there wasn’t much I could do about it. He mightn’t have been able to help in any case, but it was still frustrating to make such brief contact with someone who obviously knew what MDT was.
Not in the mood any more to go on with this, I put the black notebook away. Then, in an effort to distract myself, I returned to my desk and picked up a document that I’d printed out earlier from a financial website.
I opened it and started reading.
The document was a highly technical article about anti-trust legislation and by page three my attention had already drifted. After a while I stopped reading, put the article down and lit up a cigarette. Then I just sat there for ages, smoking, staring into space.
Later, in the afternoon, I made a trip to the bank. Gennady was coming the next morning for the second payment on the loan and I wanted to be ready for him. I withdrew over $100,000 in cash, my intention being to pay off the whole loan straightaway – the repayments, the vig, everything. That way I could get him off my back. If Gennady had taken the five MDT pills – and that was the only plausible explanation for the fact that they were missing – I certainly didn’t want him coming around to my apartment every Friday morning.
As I wa
s waiting for them to get the cash ready, my balding and overweight bank manager, Howard Lewis, invited me into his office for a little chat. This walking heart-attack seemed to be concerned that after my initial flurry of activity with Klondike and Lafayette – resulting, admittedly, in some fairly substantial deposits – things had been, ‘ … well, quiet.’
I looked across the desk at him in disbelief.
‘ … and then there are these rather large cash withdrawals, Mr Spinola.’
‘What about them?’ I said, my tone adding, as if it’s any of your fucking business.
‘Nothing in themselves, Mr Spinola, of course, but … well, in the light of that piece in last Friday’s Post about—’
‘What about—?’
‘Look, it’s all very … irregular. I mean, these days you can’t be too—’
‘In the light of my time at Lafayette, Mr Lewis,’ I said, barely able to contain my irritation, ‘I am currently in negotiations for a position as a senior trader at Van Loon & Associates.’
He looked back at me, breathing out slowly through his nose, as if what I’d said confirmed his worst fears about me.
His phone rang, and he scooped it up, a muscle on his face quivering slightly by way of apology. As he dealt with the call, I glanced around. Until that point, I’d been feeling quite indignant, but this cooled somewhat when I saw my reflection in the back panel of a silver photo-frame on Lewis’s desk. It was a partially distorted image, but nothing could conceal how scruffy I looked. I hadn’t shaved that morning and I was wearing old jeans and a T-shirt – implausible for a senior trader at Van Loon & Associates, even on a day off.
Howard Lewis finished his call, pressed another button on his phone, listened for a moment and then looked at me with a blank expression on his face.
‘Your withdrawal is ready, Mr Spinola.’
Gennady arrived at nine-thirty the following morning. I’d just woken up about twenty minutes before he arrived and I was still feeling groggy. I’d intended to be up earlier, but from about seven on I’d kept waking and then falling back to sleep again, slipping in and out of dreams. When I finally managed to get out of bed, the first thing I did was take my MDT pill. Then I removed the bowl from the shelf above the computer. After that, I put on a pot of coffee and just stood around in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, waiting.
