“He was one of maybe a dozen pet traders that Gerard had on file back then. Except in the particulars, the basic story was always the same. And with every ‘favor’ they did for Nassouli, they got in deeper and deeper, until they were completely his creatures.” Burrows shook his head a little.
“Not one of them was particularly likeable. You couldn’t really feel sorry for them. It was a simple quid pro quo. They’d made their deals with the devil, and they got what they’d deserved. A few of them seemed actually happy with the arrangement. But for most of them . . . it consumed them. You could see it happen over the course of months and years. It was like a cancer. At first it was a little secret thing, a small, dark corner, a little hunger that had to be fed, and not very often. But they’d get in deeper and the hunger would grow and grow and be more insistent, until the rest of their lives became irrelevant, and only the secret thing remained.
“Last I heard of Larry, he was living in Florida, working in boat sales, without Mrs. Larry. I heard she was still in New York, but somebody else’s problem now.” Burrows paused and took a small sip of water. My legs were stiff and I had a crick in my neck, but still I was reluctant to move. “Moe’s story is a little different,” Burrows continued in his soft rumble.
“Moe was a senior vice president at a prestigious investment bank, one of the last partnerships left on the Street. He had spent his whole career at the place, and he’d done well—by any standard other than Wall Street’s. He’d made good—though not important—money. He’d gotten decent assignments, though not the choicest ones. But Moe had grown troubled. It had occurred to him one day as he sat in a meeting, the oldest by at least five years of everyone in the room, that his career had come quietly to a halt. People who’d been his peers two or three years before had gone on to make partner. Others whom he had recruited from business school were now sitting at the table with him, as equals. When confronted by Moe, in the oblique fashion that such things were discussed at his firm, his boss confirmed his fears. Yes, several of the partners felt that Moe was unready; some felt that he might be forever unready. They all acknowledged that he was superb at following someone else’s lead, but wondered if he himself had a strategic vision. Could he think outside the box?
“Well, Moe started thinking, alright. About all of the years he had put in at the firm, about all the time he’d spent on the road, about how he’d uprooted his family with moves across the world, the havoc he had wreaked on his oldest son . . . pulling him out of high school just as he was entering senior year, how venomous his daughter had been. And, when he had a few drinks in him, and then a few more, he thought about some of the people who had made partner in recent years while he had languished. All that thinking left Moe a troubled man, a bitter man, an angry man. Nassouli was drawn to him like a fly to shit.
“Moe and Nassouli met while Moe was out following someone else’s lead. In this case, it was prospecting for clients among some Latin American companies that ran big U.S. operations—part of his firm’s strategy to build a franchise in the emerging markets. As it turned out, MWB handled a lot of meat-and-potatoes banking for these firms, at home and in the States. Nassouli caught the odor of discontent coming off Moe the first time they met, and a week later he took him to lunch. But Moe was no wet-behind-the-ears trader, and Nassouli saw that right away. His was an older and wiser head, and he would take a different kind of handling. No cramped, sweaty groping in the backseat for Moe, Nassouli understood, no quick feels in the cloakroom. No, Moe would need finesse. Moe would need romance.
“At first, Gerard was all business. ‘Our clients were impressed by your firm’s many capabilities . . .’ and so forth. Of course, he seasoned it with some discreet flattery. ‘They were quite pleased to have had access to so senior an executive as you, someone with such experience and insight into the markets . . .’ Then, he dangled the hope that some actual business might be coming Moe’s way. ‘Yes, they are quite interested in talking further, but it would be important to them that they continue their discussions directly with you.’ It was pure bullshit, of course, but it served Nassouli’s purpose—Moe was hooked.
“Over the next several months, Nassouli arranged for Moe to have many quite promising—but ultimately inconclusive—meetings with MWB’s Latin American clients. I don’t know if it dawned on Moe that these sessions were all strangely similar: a room full of attentive, nodding heads, plenty of smiles, a few easy questions that he could hit out of the park, more nodding heads, but slowly and with great significance this time, like he had just explained quantum mechanics to them, then an expensive meal, more smiles, and then . . . nothing . . . nothing more firm than a promise to meet again. Interspersed with these elaborate teases were invitations to be Gerard’s guest at some very high-end social functions—events that Moe had never been to before, but only heard about the day after, from the partners at his firm who regularly attended. Suddenly B-list Moe was on Gerard’s A list. Cinderella was off to the ball.
“After months of courting, when the meetings with the Latins had gotten Moe all hot and bothered, and the mad social whirl had turned his head ever so slightly, it was time to get serious. Nassouli’s pass at Moe took the form of a plea for Moe’s sage advice. Gerard confided that MWB had been trying to build an investment banking business, but that it had become clear to them that they lacked talent at the top. Did Moe know of anyone with the experience, vision, and drive to build such a business? Moe’s first thought was ‘How about me?’ And he said this— discreetly, of course. To which Gerard’s response was to be stunned, even a bit embarrassed. ‘Naturally, we would jump at the chance to get someone of your caliber and accomplishment, but it never occurred to us that you would walk away from a partnership.’ He was quite the actor, that Gerard.
“It was Moe’s turn to be embarrassed. After some stammering and stumbling, and aided by some single-malt lubrication deftly applied by Gerard, Moe revealed that partnership was not a certainty for him. Now Nassouli was even more stunned, and indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘How can this be? To ignore a man of your keen intelligence, skill, insight—it’s shameful!’ Moe—who was quite well oiled by then—at first had no answer to these questions. ‘Something to do with visions and boxes’ was all he could say. But then it all came tumbling out—the damaged pride, the anger and bitterness, the sense of betrayal. It was music to Nassouli’s ears.
“Now that he knew Moe’s problem, Nassouli knew just what sweet nothings to whisper. The firm’s gripe with Moe was lack of vision, that he didn’t paint on a big enough canvas; the firm’s strategy was to build an emerging markets franchise; MWB wanted to build an investment banking business. All well and good, said Gerard, here’s a bold stroke for the partners. And he laid it all out for his good friend Moe: a strategic alliance between Moe’s firm and MWB in the emerging markets, one that would let his firm tap into MWB’s huge network and customer base in those markets—give them an instant presence—and an instant clientele.
“Moe didn’t get it at first, and Gerard had to explain a few times. When it did sink in, Moe was flabbergasted, then leery. Did Nassouli really have the clout to strike this kind of deal? Gerard, reassuring but slightly bemused, explained that as head of New York, he was also head of the Americas for MWB, and one of the top five men in the bank— senior enough to make this happen. And what would MWB get out of this alliance? Again, Gerard had the ready answer: through Moe’s firm, MWB would be able to offer their own clients investment banking services that would not otherwise be part of their repertoire. And all MWB would want would be to share some expenses and have a share in the revenues from the clients they brought to the table. What he didn’t say, of course, was that this would give MWB another big, prestigious, squeaky-clean conduit for washing their clients’ money.
“Then he whispered the sweetest nothing of all. ‘Take this deal to your partners, take it to them as your brainchild, and we here at MWB will make it clear to them that without Moe—for whom we ha
ve the greatest respect, who has won our admiration, trust, and confidence— without Moe, there is no deal.’ Moe must have pictured it happening— the meeting with the managing partners, himself making the presentation, the revenue projections sloping up and up, then the side conversations between Gerard and the senior partner. Moe knew, and Gerard saw the knowledge gleaming in Moe’s grateful eyes, that this deal would be Moe’s ticket to partnership.” Burrows paused and drank a bit and shook his head a little.
“And if Gerard had just left it at that, as he easily could have, Moe would have been guilty of gullibility, stupidity perhaps, and, of course, vanity—but nothing more. He would not have been complicit. But that would not have satisfied Gerard. In the end, Gerard had his satisfaction.
“It happened the night before the alliance deal was to be signed. It had been a heady few months for Moe. The meeting with the partners had surpassed even his imaginings, and a few days later he’d been buttonholed by his boss, who confirmed what Moe had felt in his gut at the meeting: that he’d changed quite a few minds, that he’d made people sit up and take notice, that he’d be getting some very good news in a few months’ time, when new partners were to be named. Moe called his friend Gerard to tell him about it, even before he’d called his wife. After that there had been a whirlwind of meetings, working sessions, a due diligence exercise that Moe—at Gerard’s insistence—had run personally for his firm, and endless lunches and dinners. The next day was the signing, press briefings, interviews, and then off with the missus for a week at a spa. When he got back, the partnership announcements would be made. He had just one more dinner with his good friend Gerard, who had made it all happen.
“Dinner was in Nassouli’s private conference room, adjoining his office. When the waiter had finished serving, it was just the two of them. Well, just the two of them and the state-of-the-art voice-recording system that Gerard had had installed in the room and that was operating flawlessly that night. Gerard got down to business quickly. They had two things to celebrate, he told Moe, not only the signing tomorrow, but also the first piece of business that MWB would bring to Moe’s firm under the agreement. Gerard explained that this was a privately held firm in Colombia, a very old client of MWB, and that their chief executive was very influential with a large group of other MWB clients. They were looking for a capital infusion to finance new plants, new equipment, the development of new distribution channels. They were looking for someone to make an equity investment in their company, and were very excited by the idea of doing business with the venture capital arm of Moe’s firm. Moe was surprised—and pleased. All of their plans had assumed a period of months to ramp up. He was also, naturally, full of questions: who are they, what business are they in, who are the principals?
“Gerard was smiling as he answered, you could hear it in his voice. And why not—it was the culmination of over a year’s worth of patient gardening. ‘Do you want the names we will give your partners, or the real names?’ was his reply. Moe was confused. Gerard said it again, slowly, with no smile in his voice this time, as if Moe were a stupid child. Moe was still confused, but perhaps a little offended by Gerard’s tone. Gerard cut him off. His voice was like a slap. ‘Oh yes, you need things explained two or three times, don’t you?’ On the tape you could hear Moe gasp. But before he could say anything else, Gerard spelled it out for him. The names they’d give to Moe’s firm would be that of a well-known Colombian coffee distributor and its nominal owner. The real principals—the actual owners of the coffee company—were an even better known cocaine cartel and its notoriously violent jefe.
“Moe laughed. His friend was making a joke—a bad joke. There’s a long silence on the tape then, during which I picture Gerard gazing at Moe in a certain way that he had, as if at a turd that had turned up in his wineglass. Moe realized it was no joke. He sputtered, and stumbled for a while. ‘This is ridiculous. You can’t be serious. My firm will never be a party to this.’ Gerard let him babble a bit, then cut him off. ‘I assure you, the documentation on this company is ironclad. It will survive any due diligence, and the return on the investment will be very appealing. Your partners will not know. Unless, of course, you care to tell them. Perhaps you should tell them, Moe. As I think about it, I’m certain that you should. Would you like to do it tonight? Please, use my phone.’ There’s not much on the tape after that. Some sniffling and the sounds of Gerard finishing his meal, that’s all.
“Of course, Moe didn’t tell his partners that night, or ever. How could he? Two years after the deal had signed, he dropped dead of a massive coronary. The partnership agreements left his wife quite well off, from what I understand.” Burrows paused and massaged his temples with his fingertips.
“Gerard took his time with Moe, played him very carefully. There were others who he played for even longer. But it wasn’t all subtlety and craftsmanship with him. No, Gerard could be heavy-handed . . . brutal when he wanted.” He paused again and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. “The last one is a short story.
“Nassouli went out with a lot of women . . . you know that. He seemed to have an endless string of them, would-be models, would-be actresses, some of them just girls, really, teenagers living away from home for the first time. He showed them all a fine time, at least at first. He was a charming person, very funny; he’d traveled all over the world. He would introduce them to people and places they’d read about in magazines, spend a lot of money on them . . . teach them all sorts of things. It’s not a new story . . . it’s a very old one, in fact. But if you were eighteen, and fresh from a South Florida trailer park, it was pretty intoxicating stuff.
“He would date a girl for three or four months, sometimes less, and then break it off—but always in an amicable way. ‘Remember, I am your friend. If there’s anything I can do to help you, in your career or in any way at all, please let me.’ It was amazing, the number of girls who stayed friendly with him, and how many would show up at his parties. Amazing, too, the number of these women who—one way or another— wound up dating Gerard’s clients, or colleagues, or other associates. Gerard called them ‘party favors,’ though he didn’t let too many people hear him say that. After all, some of these girls ended up married to the men they’d met at Gerard’s parties, and these men didn’t think of their wives as party favors. They thought of them as trophies.
“He had another kind of party favor, too. When I knew him, Gerard frequented nearly every high-end strip club in Manhattan. And just as he collected models, he collected strippers, too—only for shorter times and in larger numbers. With those girls, the relationship was more straightforward. These party favors were handed out very freely, to people in Gerard’s file—like Larry, for instance—if they got edgy and needed a little pacifying, or to clients who wanted an evening’s entertainment, or to those Gerard was still cultivating, whose tastes were . . . a little grittier. But nothing from Gerard came free, and these party favors were no exception.
“You see, whenever he provided the party favors, Gerard would also provide the party space—one of MWB’s corporate apartments, conveniently located, tastefully furnished, fully stocked, with maid and concierge service. And unbeknownst to the guests, fully wired for video in every room. So every favor done in the place was recorded, start to finish, in all its graphic details, for posterity. Gerard had an extensive collection of these videos, and each one was leverage, a chit, a marker that he held over the tape’s featured players. And sometimes over people who weren’t even there.
“He’d hold private screenings of these things sometimes, for a select few. They were incredible. Very clear pictures, even the audio was flawless. And every permutation you could imagine. . . . But I said this was a short story, didn’t I?
“Well, Gerard had an associate who had run afoul of him . . . how is not important. This fellow, let’s call him Curly Joe, had decided he was not going to do business with Gerard anymore. There was no threat of going to the authorities, never a question of that. Curly was s
ufficiently compromised himself to make that impractical, and besides, everyone was clear that that kind of decision would be . . . very unhealthy. But nonetheless, Gerard had a point to make.
“Curly Joe had been married for several years to a beautiful young woman, a former model, who he’d met at one of Nassouli’s parties. She was a little wild back then, a little too fond of champagne, a little too eager for a few lines in the powder room. But when they’d met she’d been ready to settle down, and so too had Curly. They’d married, and had a baby less than a year later. Curly was by no means a saint, far from it, but he did love his wife, Mr. March. Everyone who knew him knew that about him.
“Well, Curly was determined to go his own way, and after much tension, Gerard seemed resigned to it. In fact, Gerard even invited him out—a combination reconciliation and farewell. It was a pleasant enough evening, they’d made the rounds of all their old haunts, and finally ended up at Nassouli’s for a nightcap.”
Burrows’s voice was soft and rock steady, but his eyes were red and swollen-looking.
“He gave Curly some brandy and suggested, for old times’ sake, a private screening. Curly balked—those things made him a little ill—but Gerard insisted. Besides, he said, he had a good one from the old days, one Curly hadn’t seen before.” Burrows stopped. He breathed deeply.
“I think you see where this is going, Mr. March.” He was matter-of-fact now. “Suffice it to say, it was Curly’s wife on the tape, the mother of his child. She was with two other women, two of Gerard’s stripper friends, and a man. The man was someone Curly knew, another associate of Nassouli’s, a particularly brutal person. Curly didn’t watch much of it, but from what he saw they were drinking, and freebasing cocaine as well. There didn’t seem to be any coercion involved. Though intoxicated, Curly’s wife—actually his fiancée at the time, according to the time stamp on the video—was energetic and quite vocal, and she seemed to be the center of attention for the man and the other two women.” Burrows paused and cleared his throat. “Gerard had a point to make—about having made Curly what he was, and that Curly should have no illusions about that, should have no illusions about himself or any of the things in his life that Gerard had given him. He made his point.”
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