The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  “Ouch,” shrieked Henrietta, screeching to a halt, grabbing her thigh, tears streaming from her eyes.

  Palming the syringe, Rachel asked, “Are you okay?”

  “What was that?”

  “I’m blind as a bat without my glasses, Henrietta.”

  “It felt like you pinched me. And how do you know my name?”

  “I broke my fingernail,” replied Rachel in a soothing voice, not bothering to answer the question. “Come over to the side of the pool.”

  They paddled to the edge, where Henrietta said, “That really hurt. Do I know you?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  “I feel funny.” Henrietta’s tongue already sounded two times too fat for her mouth. Her skin, once translucent from age, clouded to a sallow gray. Her brow beaded with moisture, either from the pool or the adrenal medulla secreting epinephrine in a desperate effort to check plummeting sugars. “How do you know my name?” she asked again, garbling her words.

  “I’m so sorry,” soothed Rachel, concern in her words, demonic gleam in her eyes. “Walter will be disappointed when you miss lunch. But if you ask me, he’s a little young for you.”

  “Listen,” Henrietta struggled to say. Now it sounded like there were two tongues in her mouth, struggling for space, bullying each other for room. “I feel funny.” She pulled out of the water, arms trembling from the effort, but all strength had quit her body. Hedgecock collapsed, just barely hanging on to the pool’s edging.

  “Do you feel your heart racing?”

  “Listen,” Henrietta garbled a second time, head bobbing, eyes twitching.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Listen.”

  “You know, Henrietta, sugar lows make people do the oddest things. I once heard about a guy who ran outside, jumped on the hood of his boss’s car, and peed all over the windshield.”

  Rachel loved this part of her job. She felt like an alley cat toying with a trapped mouse.

  “You won’t pee in the pool, will you?” Subconsciously, Rachel rubbed the puffy scar on her hand. “The Colony Club girls will pull the plug if they ever find out.”

  “Listen,” Henrietta said for the final time. Her head dropped forward and banged hard against the pool’s edge. She slipped down, gray face forward, not reacting as water poured into her lungs.

  For good measure Rachel pushed the old woman into the center of the pool. “Good night, Henrietta,” she whispered, checking that they were still alone in the cavernous room. “I may join Walter for lunch.”

  As she pulled out of the pool, Rachel noticed Henrietta’s purse sitting on a nearby chair. She smiled and rifled through the contents, hoping to find a bottle of CoCo Chanel. “Ah, this is exactly what I need,” she said to no one in particular, surprised that Tasers came in pink.

  Rachel rushed to the changing room. She dressed quickly, donned a raincoat, gargantuan sunglasses, and a floppy hat. She exited the building without inviting so much as a casual glance, savoring how good it felt to work in public. There was less mess to clean.

  Outside in the April drizzle Rachel sighed audibly among the pedestrians, the hard-charging New Yorkers accustomed to grunts and ambient sound effects. The laps in the pool that morning had been a nice perk. The killer buzz, juiced by exercise endorphins, had been more potent than all the opium of Indochina. She checked her cell phone’s clock. It was time to get back to the clinic.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MONDAY, APRIL 21

  “I’ll crush you, Leeser. I’ll punish you in public. I’ll make you beg until the world recognizes what you really are. An insipid little man with an insipid little hedge fund and an insipid little brain that would jump ten IQ points from a lobotomy performed by crowbar.”

  Alone in his Reykjavik office, Ólafur was talking to himself and scanning stock prices. Hafnarbanki was not the problem. The bank was trading at 907 kronur. Not great. But at least the shares had rallied 6.7 percent since his meeting with Chairman Guðjohnsen. The Qataris were already buying, and it was good to show early results.

  The problem was Bentwing. The problem was patience—his. Bentwing had also rallied, and on Friday its shares closed at their high for the year. Buoyed by soaring energy prices, the stock would probably break through $62.31 today. The gain was acceptable only because of the banker’s promise to Guðjohnsen:

  “We’ll take our time shorting Bentwing. We’ll do it right.”

  Ólafur wanted to attack Bentwing now. But prudence dictated otherwise. The blitzkrieg, the all-out hell and destruction, would begin once Ólafur recruited Siggi and turned the mild-mannered gallery owner into a spy. It was only a matter of time, weeks, maybe even days, before Hafnarbanki and the Qataris opened fire and bet against Bentwing. Not much longer until they shorted the company’s stock and its price dropped like a rock.

  Over the weekend Ólafur’s best source told him that a new guy, Jimmy Cusack, had joined LeeWell Capital. Ivy educated. Goldman Sachs pedigree. He was starting today.

  Ólafur recalled his first days at Hafnarbanki thirteen years ago—all the promise and expectation. He shook his head and said with only a hint of remorse, “Congratulations, Cusack. Welcome to your life as hákarl.”

  He was referring to fermented shark. The Icelandic cuisine is not so much a delicacy as an ordeal to be endured. Traditionalists prepare hákarl by gutting a shark, burying the headless carcass in sand, and allowing the remains to stew in their own uric juices for twelve weeks. The meat is exhumed, sliced into ribbons, and hung out to dry. Several months later the strips are scraped of their brown crust, cubed, and served to those who dare. Hákarl smells like the ammonia used to clean public bathrooms and tastes about the same.

  This process, Ólafur decided, was the perfect way to cure employees at LeeWell Capital and other hedge funds.

  * * *

  Five hours behind Reykjavik, Jimmy pulled into the Greenwich Plaza parking lot underneath the buildings. He parked his battered blue BMW, 250,000 miles and climbing, between a spanking-new Mercedes on one side and a two-tone Maserati on the other. He retraced his path to the entrance ramp and walked past the taxis outside the Metro North platform to his left.

  The train was easier than driving—and less embarrassing. But Cusack was in sales. He needed the flexibility of a car for impromptu client meetings. He also loved to blast Roy Orbison out the windows. He decided to drive until he found his groove at LeeWell Capital or grew tired of “You Got It.”

  Jimmy could already taste the sweet-and-sour backwash from day-one jitters. LeeWell Capital offered a new beginning. He was the unofficial apprentice of Cy Leeser, an emerging legend inside Hedgistan.

  Sweet: If the markets cooperated, Cusack would solve his money woes by February—the month bonuses were paid. With a little luck, if he tripled LeeWell Capital’s assets under management, he would join the legends. He would lay claim to his rightful seat among the gods of Greenwich.

  Sour: Cusack had no formal contract. Emi’s father knew nothing about his mortgage woes or handshake deal with Leeser. But Caleb was forever preaching, “Get it in writing.” Cusack’s mind was playing tricks, and he suddenly doubted whether Cy would keep his part of the bargain.

  Litton had gone MIA since mailing their certified letter. Alex Krause, however, was a migraine with a mouthpiece. The collections agent from Chase Auto Finance called twice, each time asking the same basic question: “When are you paying us back?”

  As Cusack walked into LeeWell Capital, his first time as an employee, Amanda boomed, “Good morning.”

  “We’re glad to see you,” added Nikki, radiant face with a throaty voice.

  Both women wore light cardigan sweaters in the office, sixty-six degrees and chilly. Nikki had replaced her diamond-chip nose stud with a blue stone, flashier than before and far less elegant, but alluring and mysterious by all measures.

  “Good to see you,” he said, rolling out the twisted smile, shaking each woman’s hand. Cusack had forgotten Nikki was so s
hort, no more than five foot three. Or maybe he hadn’t noticed during the interview haze.

  “Cy’s been telling everybody how great you are,” Nikki said.

  “Are you kidding? I’m thrilled to be here.”

  “Come on back. Cy wants to see you first thing.”

  * * *

  Leeser rose from his chair with the easy confidence of a boxer who’d decked his opponent thirty seconds ago. His long black hair draped over his shoulders. He thrust out his hand, which was blue-collar gnarled and turned up slightly in a welcoming manner. “Welcome aboard, Jimmy.”

  “Glad to be here.”

  “Sit down and relax. You can work your ass off later.”

  Cusack surveyed Cy’s office, again struck by all the art. There was not an inch to spare on the four walls. Paintings occupied every nook, every corner, every flat surface that could hold a hook. Jimmy would have called the style “bric-a-brac” had the artwork not looked so expensive.

  “Let’s discuss your mortgage,” Leeser said.

  “Right to business,” Cusack replied agreeably, hoping to disguise his angst.

  “Our real estate attorney can close this morning. All we need are transfer instructions, and we’ll wire three point one million where you tell us. No problem, right?”

  Cusack wanted to scream. He wanted to drain his lungs with one monster sigh of relief. Instead, he confirmed in his most nonchalant voice, “No problem from my side. What about the title work?”

  “Done.”

  “Terms same as we discussed?” asked Cusack, leaning back in the leather chair.

  “Interest only at five and three quarters. Done.”

  “That’s great, Cy.”

  “There’s just one catch.”

  “Okay?” Cusack avoided the temptation to say, “There always is.”

  “If you leave LeeWell Capital for any reason, whether you’re fired or you take a job with a competitor, I want my money. Your mortgage is payable in thirty days.”

  “Is that negotiable?”

  “Not one comma, Jimmy. The loan documents are standard.”

  “Where do I sign?”

  “Shannon will drive you.”

  Twenty minutes later Shannon parked Leeser’s glacier-white Bentley on Greenwich Avenue outside the lawyer’s office. The big man said a total of three words during the short drive: “Hi” and “Let’s go.”

  Cusack pulled out his cell, phoned Smitty, and asked the lawyer, “Can you get my payoff figure?”

  “Through when?” the attorney stammered, surprised by the question.

  “Ten minutes from now.”

  “That’s awesome, dude.”

  “Thanks,” replied Cusack, thinking Smitty should strike “dude” from his vocabulary. “Text me the payoff number.”

  Smitty sensed something else, something in the way Cusack hesitated over the phone. “Anything else?”

  “Call Robby and tell him to overnight a listing agreement.”

  “That’s crazy. Why sell your condo when the pressure’s off?”

  “I’ll never be this vulnerable again, Smitty.”

  Last night Emi had agreed to put the condo on the market. She supported the idea of raising their family in the suburbs. Cusack liked cutting their debt. The first payment on his new mortgage from LeeWell Capital was not due until February. But interest was still accruing at 5.75 percent on $3.1 million. That was $14,854 ticking away every month like a time bomb.

  “But the market—”

  “Just do it,” Jimmy interrupted. It was time to move on and leave the condo mistake behind.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DAY ONE AT LEEWELL …

  The first time Jimmy saw Victor Lee, the head trader had his jaws wrapped around one-third of a cheeseburger fully loaded with mushrooms, bacon, and some kind of brown-red barbecue sauce. There were probably pickles and lettuce, maybe even some diced onions. Cusack was not sure because Victor never dribbled the trace elements—not even a drop of the blood-soaked grease that would have soiled the chins of lesser men.

  Lee had a broad mouth, his double-wide face big enough to swallow half the cheeseburger in one bite. He opted for fries instead, wedging them between cheeseburger and cheek and grunting over the phone mid-swallow. From the distance, Victor’s guttural sounds could have been mistaken for walrus sex had he been somewhere else than Greenwich Plaza.

  The head trader took one look at Cy and one look at the new guy. Victor garbled something into the phone that was either “gotta go” or “get stuffed.” It was impossible to tell with him scarfing down the five-inch-high cheeseburger.

  “Victor Lee,” he announced, ripping off his ultralight headset, tossing it against a wall of three thirty-inch LCDs, and thrusting out his hand.

  He blinked several times through horn-rimmed glasses. His spiky, jet-black crew cut stood straight up. For a guy in his thirties, he looked like a throwback to the 1950s.

  “Meet Jimmy Cusack,” said Leeser. “He’s the new face of sales.”

  Cusack shook Victor’s hand. “I’ve heard great things about you.”

  “Over there,” Leeser continued, “that’s Bill. And Adam. And that’s David. They all trade with Victor.”

  Cusack shook hands with each of them.

  “You any good?” asked Lee, no smile, no humor.

  One of the junior traders rolled his eyes. The others watched Jimmy. They had seen Victor in action before.

  “We don’t want anybody who sucks, Cusack.”

  Lee’s clipped accent betrayed long years on the crowded streets of Hong Kong. He stood five foot six and 165 pounds, not an ounce of fat. He looked like a preppy fire hydrant, open at the throat and blasting testosterone rather than water.

  “I do okay,” Cusack replied.

  From experience he knew the one technique for taming blowhards: rope-a-dope. Take the punches while they talk themselves into exhaustion. Then land a few smart-mouth combos. He had seen his share of “Victor Lees” at Goldman Sachs and other shops around the street. Jimmy counterpunched with the best.

  “You have any idea what we do here, Cusack?”

  “Make money.”

  “Hey, Cy,” Victor said, grinning for the first time. “I like this guy.”

  The head trader turned back to Cusack. “What else, newbie?”

  Jimmy hesitated and glanced at his boss. Leeser never said a word. He watched his employees with less expression than a cantaloupe.

  “I haven’t seen the portfolio,” Cusack started, “but I know that LeeWell concentrates its bets on a handful of companies. That you buy huge blocks of stock without running up the price. That Cy sits on the board of Bentwing Energy, where he’s not afraid to rattle the cages.”

  “You don’t have a fucking clue,” Victor snapped. “That’s the right answer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nobody knows what we do,” announced Lee, pausing for the silence to punctuate his words. “We don’t tell anybody anything. Otherwise, every dickhead in Greenwich would follow our lead.”

  Cusack took the shot and waited.

  “Nobody makes money,” Lee continued, “if we’re all hosing our mothers for each other’s trades.”

  “You available for client calls?” Jimmy asked, speaking without any trace of sarcasm. “You’re perfect for the college endowments. Harvard, Yale, Princeton—we’ll make a road trip out of it. Stop by a few pension plans, maybe a family office or two along the way.”

  “Victor’s no HR department,” Cy interceded, stifling a smile while slapping his trader on the back. “But he has a Ph.D. from MIT and knows how to trade. That’s why I want him on our team.”

  “I look forward to working with you.” Cusack flashed a thumbs-up sign to the three junior traders, who returned the signal.

  “Can you guys join Jimmy and me for a drink after work?” asked Cy.

  Before Victor could reply, his phone interrupted the group. The incoming number displayed on his console, and he said
, “I need to take this.” He donned his headset and asked, “What do you have?”

  As Victor Lee listened, he fiddled with the claw of a sixteen-ounce Estwing hammer. Tools were out of place in most office environments. It was anything goes with traders, though. They were always fiddling with something—bats, hackie sacks, you name it. Anything to release the nervous energy.

  Coiled and alert, Victor scanned one LCD display to the next. He searched charts, flashing tickers, and scrolling news as though evaluating his caller’s market advice. Finally, he announced, “Don’t waste my time, pal,” and clicked off.

  Cy flashed a wan smile.

  Lee gripped the hammer claw, pointed the handle at Jimmy, and said, “Just remember, Cusack. There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who make money.”

  “And?”

  “Oxygen thieves.”

  * * *

  Cy and Jimmy continued their tour of LeeWell Capital. The offices—a lavish, largely accidental hash of technology, hedge fund chic, and frat-house Shangri-la—included an eight-by-ten cool room for computer racks and a roomy billiards lounge complete with drop-down lights over a massive table. Cue sticks lined one wall. A fifty-two-inch flat-screen television was tuned to Fox Business on the other.

  “Nice pool table,” Cusack observed.

  “Snooker,” Leeser corrected, selecting a pool stick from the wall. “The table’s bigger, and the balls are smaller.”

  LeeWell’s kitchen housed an open-flame range for grilling steaks, Le Cache wine cabinet racked with 160 bottles, and another fifty-two-inch flat-screen television. This one was tuned to CNBC. A huge copper-and-brass cappuccino maker engulfed an entire kitchen island. The machine contained two gauges, one digital display, and at least three spigots. On top, a spread-winged eagle scanned the horizon for stray coffee beans.

  “Shipped it direct from Italy,” Cy announced with the pride of acquisition in his voice. “I insist on good coffee.” He was still carrying the pool stick from the billiards lounge.