“It’s a done deal.”
“I hope you’re right. I don’t have four million dollars.”
“Forget it, cousin. The Qataris are rock solid. And you’re fantastic.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Siggi replied, relaxing in the wake of his cousin’s praise. “Cy structured the deal.”
“That’s the thing about finance guys,” said Ólafur. “We’re always telling people what to do. Even at meals.”
“Meals? What are you talking about?”
“Cyrus Leeser just told us how to stuff his balls down his throat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WEDNESDAY, JULY 2
BENTWING AT $59.87
“We need to talk.”
“I hate that expression,” Leeser growled at Siggi. “Can’t you say, ‘I’d like to bounce an idea off you.’ Or ask if I have a minute. Or come up with some other expression than ‘We need to talk.’”
The rant stuck four inches out of Siggi’s back. It was cold and edgy. It was utterly confusing to the art dealer. “I don’t understand.”
“My wife says ‘We need to talk’ when there’s a problem.”
“Has Bianca ever wired you five million dollars?” asked Siggi.
“The Goncharova?” Leeser knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
“You sold it.”
“But I haven’t taken possession.”
“You forced a decision, Cy. It’s perfect for the other bidder’s collection.”
“And I’m up a million bucks on the trade.” Leeser glowed from inside out, savoring the sweet, swift score. “Minus your commission, of course?”
“Yes and no,” Siggi replied. Ordinarily, he never toyed with his customers. This time he could not resist.
“What are you talking about?” Leeser’s good humor vanished at once. Inside, he berated himself for dropping his guard. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. You’re up a million bucks. And there’s no deduction for my commission.”
“Nobody works for free, Siggi.”
“Who said anything about free? I sold the Goncharova net. The other party paid my fee.”
Leeser blinked, processing Siggi’s words. He surveyed his office walls, every square inch graced with urbane musings from gifted artists. And he finally erupted, not in God-speak but in language from the streets: “Shit hot. You know what I’m saying? That’s shit hot.”
“It’s not much money in your world but—”
“It’s a down payment on a new helicopter,” interrupted Leeser, his voice drooling with anticipation. He had his eye on a Bell 430, fully loaded and currently owned by a Swiss industrialist.
“I’m working on something new. Something big.”
“You got my attention.”
“I need to work out a few details before we talk.”
“Tell me when you’re ready,” said Leeser.
“Done. Where do I wire your money?”
“I’ll put Nikki on the line. And by the way, keep your eyes open for a package from me.”
After they hung up Ólafur said, “We’ve got his trust, Siggi. Now it’s time to find out whether there’s any substance.”
SATURDAY, JULY 5
MARKETS CLOSED
On Saturday morning, Jimmy forgot the markets and his schedule for the following week. The unanswered questions about Cy’s hedges never entered his mind. Nor did Shannon, Victor Lee, or any of the usual suspects. Saturday was his day to cook, his turn to feed Emi and Yaz—their baby now four months in the making. His turn to create fantasy breakfasts.
Cusack was serving crispy bacon, which was a risk. Pregnancy had turned Emi’s taste buds fickle. She might love it. Or she might go, “Eww.” But he was okay with risk even in cooking. Cusack believed the weekends required bacon. It had been that way ever since his childhood in Somerville.
He was serving scratch biscuits, none of that pop-and-regret crap from the supermarket freezers. And the pièce de résistance—he was serving caramelized apple omelets complete with sugar and sour cream and splashes of dulce de leche because Emi craved sweets more and more all the time.
“Smells like donuts,” she said, passing him the business page of The New York Times.
“Your breakfast,” said Cusack, pretending to be miffed, “is not on the menu at Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Oh my God, this is good,” Emi garbled with full mouth and biscuit-loaded cheek.
“Nice,” Cusack mumbled, pretending his own mouth was chockablock. He noticed a headline toward the bottom of the Times. “I can’t believe it.”
“Something wrong?” Emi had swallowed her first bite of the omelet. Even without a verb, she sounded more articulate this time.
“Caleb paid Hartford two hundred million for one of their divisions. Cash.”
“He never told me,” Emi observed, loading her fork with more omelet. “I wonder why.”
“He can’t.”
“Can’t what, James?”
“Discuss a deal involving a public company. It’s too easy to run afoul of securities laws.”
Emi placed her fork on the plate and blinked hard. “Any idea how long my father was negotiating?”
“Knowing Caleb, I bet nine months. Maybe longer.”
“That’s what I think,” agreed Emi. “He was probably negotiating with Hartford back in December.”
The couple reached the same conclusion at the same time. “Caleb needed money,” said Cusack, “to close the deal with Hartford. He shut me down but couldn’t breathe a word.”
“That’s a game changer.”
“It still sucks, Em.”
“But you get it.”
“Yes,” Cusack conceded. “I get it.”
“Maybe you can declare a truce,” she offered hopefully.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “And it sure would make Cy Leeser happy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pass the bacon, and I’ll tell you about it. Want some orange juice?”
TUESDAY, JULY 8
BENTWING AT $57.50
Eddy was on the phone again. He was a trader on the team that managed Merrill’s relationship with LeeWell Capital. He knew Leeser from way back, from the time when his client was a stockbroker at Merrill. Because of their history together, Eddy worked with Cy to shepherd his loan requests through Merrill’s chain of command.
The two men were not especially fond of each other. Nor were they especially civil. But the relationship worked. Eddy booked his trades, and Cy booked his loans.
“Your loan balance is over two hundred and sixty million dollars.”
“Is there a problem?” asked Leeser, cool at first.
“That’s a bunch of money.”
“Number one,” Leeser said, opening and closing his right fist, “it’s two hundred and sixty-three million. Don’t call me unless you get your facts straight. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time. Number two, our loan balance is thirty-four percent of total assets. Last I looked you guys lend up to sixty-five percent. Which leads me to number three. What the fuck do you want?”
“Bentwing is down thirteen percent since mid-May,” the trader replied, remaining calm. His job was to please clients, no matter how difficult. “I hope there’s not a problem.”
“I sit on the board. And as an insider,” Leeser paused to let the word register, “I can tell you straight, we’re knocking the cover off the ball. I can disclose every detail about Bentwing, every number, every order, every dollar saved, anything you want to know, even down to our expense cuts in the ladies’ room where we opted for a cheaper brand of air freshener.” Trading sarcasm for cyanide, Leeser added, “Afterward we can jump for joy on each other’s stomachs when we’re summering together in Leavenworth.”
“Aw, come on, Cy. The market’s got us spooked.” In full retreat, the trader added, “I’m just saying,” like the phrase was a peace offering.
“I’m hedged. And by default, so is Merrill Lynch.”
&n
bsp; “We can’t see your hedges. I don’t have anything to show my boss.”
“Show him the commissions I pay. My trades bought his wife’s face-lift, Eddy. My trades paid tuition for his kids.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Morgan Stanley wants my business,” interrupted Leeser. “So does Goldman. But UBS will get it. They do a great job executing my hedges. So, Eddy, are you asking me to pay back your loan?”
“You’re too important a customer. I’m giving you a heads-up.”
“Margin call—yes or no, Eddy?”
“No.”
“Then get off my phone.” Leeser slammed down the receiver, scattering poison pheromones every which direction and leaving the trader with dial tone. “That guy gives infanticide a good name.”
Cusack, with the timing of a two-dollar watch, rapped on the door and caught his boss on the wrong side of a portfolio down 4 percent since the beginning of the year. “Gotta minute?”
“What. What. What,” Cy snapped. “Don’t bother me unless we have an appointment with your father-in-law.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THURSDAY, JULY 24
BENTWING AT $53.56
The movie theater was dark inside. The noise was not deafening so much as it was annoying—the shuffling, the getting situated, and the backing and forthing on cell phones. Who the hell cared? The cleaner closed her eyes, trying in vain to shut out the hubbub from seniors on date night.
Rachel considered her employer’s words from earlier that month. She understood so little about the stock market and her finances. But one thing was for sure. His analysis of her profession was right on target.
“You have a problem, Rachel. Your business doesn’t scale.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s an average job cost?” he asked, sounding much like a Socratic philosophy professor.
“Fifty thousand, give or take.” She grew wary, uncomfortable and acutely aware he was her only client. “Plus expenses. I always get expenses up front.”
“How many jobs a year?”
“Not including you, Kemosabe?”
“That’s right.”
“Four or five,” she answered. She thought these numbers sounded impressive.
“So it takes four years just to save a million bucks,” he said. “I don’t see how you’re ever going to retire in France unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we work together and get it right.”
The guy’s smooth, Rachel decided. Her employer was Mr. Charisma, a regular George Clooney when he tried. She had seen his pain-in-the-ass side, too. But she was giving him the benefit of the doubt ever since Paris.
* * *
With cool air blasting full tilt inside the theater, Rachel snugged her white cotton cardigan over a beige sundress with spaghetti straps. The sweater and cinched belt, she decided, eased the seductive cut of her neckline. Toned it down, because tonight called for a modest look. Rachel even wore flats so other women would think her shoes nothing special.
And forget her.
The 6:45 show in Bronxville attracted the oldies, especially on Thursdays. Rachel staked out a back row in the theater, expecting the surveillance to be peaceful if somewhat mundane. But oh my god, this crowd was a crabby lot. Or hard of hearing. Or something.
A seventy-something woman blasted into her mobile phone. “Herbert, we’re in the back. On the right. Would you hurry? Have you parked the car?” It was like she paused every few words to catch her breath or ratchet up the volume. “I’m hanging up, Herbert.”
Given her decibels, Rachel wondered whether the woman needed a cell phone to be heard outside the building. “I’m hanging up,” she repeated as though Herbert missed what she said the first time.
More seniors doddered past. One man in his seventies—hair migrating from scalp to bushy white unibrow—lumbered past and seated his wife a few rows up, near the aisle. He asked in a voice loud enough for the entire theater to hear, “You want something to eat, Marge?”
“No, Conrad. And neither do you.”
“I’m getting some popcorn,” he insisted, asserting his male independence via the overpriced concessions.
“You just ate.”
“What can I say? The Bronx Zoo makes great hot dogs.”
“Keep your voices down,” somebody shushed from up front. The aging crowd behaved more like the fans of World Wide Wrestling than moviegoers.
Amid the noise Rachel decided Conrad was a gentle old man. She would rather do Herbert’s wife. That old bird was a grouch. She deserved to get “done,” something other than a random act of fate like going to bed one night and not waking up. Herbert’s wife deserved something more creative. Maybe two or three corks stuffed down her throat. But hey, a contract was a contract. Even if it meant trekking out to the suburbs.
Conrad was turning into a royal pain in the ass. For one, the train ride from New York City took thirty minutes. For another, the hit was all wrong, too close to the Colony Club.
Rachel, of all people, a cleaner for chrissakes, feared that erratic patterns and pieces would fit together. That clues would beckon hotshot detectives to come sniffing and asking questions, always lifting their legs in her direction.
She needed “operating leverage,” whatever that was. She still didn’t understand what Kemosabe meant by the expression.
The biggest problem was Mrs. Conrad Barnes. For all her seventy-something aches and pains, Marge could not leave her husband the hell alone. It was like she camped out on his shirttails. She was always there: his shopping expeditions, his errands, and every Thursday when they hiked around the Bronx Zoo together.
You’re getting in the way of my retirement plan, thought Rachel.
* * *
Once the movie began, Rachel considered sneaking out of the small theater. A few doors down, on the other side of the wine store, there was a bistro that advertised a mean skirt steak. All the chomping and chewing inside the theater, the slurping of Coke until air gurgled through straws, made her hungry. Somebody was taking forever to rip off a wrapper.
Too risky to leave, Rachel decided. She was on the job, watching Conrad and learning his habits. And, unfortunately, she was watching a stupid movie with crusty old cranks who grazed like cows.
Tonight was about perfection and flawless execution, not errors. She could not afford to leave clues. Or succumb to steak frites and a French red, only to be recognized later from good times at the bistro. Tonight was about surveillance.
Without thinking, Rachel rubbed the puffy blemish on her hand. It was always that way whenever her thoughts drifted to food. She remembered that night with the chocolate layer cake. Her daddy screamed, “I’ll beat the wax out your ears.”
“Damn him,” Rachel muttered.
The theater, she decided, would not work for an insulin hit. There were too many people around, not just Marge the ubiquitous, but every moviegoer within a five-mile radius. And there was too much candy, enough to fish Conrad Barnes out of a diabetic coma a hundred times over. No wonder these people got all grouchy and loud. They were probably suffering from sugar highs.
After the movie, Rachel abandoned Marge and Conrad; enough stalking for one night. She walked through the parking lot across the street from the theater. She headed down into the tunnel leading to the southbound side of Bronxville’s train station. She wandered along the platform until she found a concrete bench, then plugged in her earbuds and listened to Josephine Baker, the American-born singer who moved to Paris in the 1920s and became “La Baker” to all of France.
The music was sultry but Rachel hardly drifted on the humid summer night. With exacting precision, she mentally probed the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Barnes. What they did. Where they went. Whom they knew. Their patterns were her blocks, the pieces she assembled for a successful hit. Rachel found herself returning to one place, a venue that stretched her lips from ear to ear, which was how her daddy said, “Smile.” Conr
ad Barnes was a regular at the Bronx Zoo, an endless stream of intoxicating possibilities.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MONDAY, AUGUST 4
BENTWING AT $49.25
Most Monday mornings, sixteen employees packed inside LeeWell’s conference room and jockeyed for eleven of the twelve available chairs. One seat was sacred. Nobody ever sat in Cy’s throne, which had achieved a hallowed status equal to several Vatican relics. He made the decisions. He paid the bonuses. He decided who was exceptional and who was expendable.
During these company-wide meetings, employees buzzed from caffeine transfusions and the innate optimism that follows two days off. Leeser encouraged his entire team, from accounting to reception, to trade ideas about the markets or the office. Whatever was on their minds. Discussions were frank with no holds barred.
Today was different. On Friday Bentwing closed under fifty dollars for the first time since January. The doors were shut, and there were only eight people in the conference room. Those eight said nothing and avoided eye contact, all except Victor. He looked ready to strangle someone. Cy sent e-mails that morning asking other employees not to attend.
Cusack, Victor, and his three junior traders gathered round the table. Nikki sat at the far end, poised to take notes on her steno pad. Shannon stood, arms folded, with his back against the wall. Nobody said a word. All eyes fixed on Cyrus Leeser.
“Since the beginning of the year,” Leeser said, “we have lost over one hundred million dollars.” He parsed his words and spoke with a slow, methodical cadence that slapped the blues onto every face in the room.
Silence in response. A hush hung over the conference room. It was heavier than L.A. smog and produced roughly the same results. Heads ached. Hearts pounded. Throats turned dry.
Leeser appeared calm, but his coal-black eyes burned with the fire no one had seen in a long time. His clothes were rumpled, the wrinkles totally out of character. And Cusack thought there was the faintest hint of grass stains on his shirtsleeves.
“Victor,” Cy continued. “Get us started.”
“The shorts are all over Bentwing.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” snapped Leeser. “Who the fuck is attacking us?”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 13
