Victor recoiled and squirmed in his seat to the right of the throne. His hands fussed across the table, uncomfortable without his sixteen-ounce Estwing hammer. “If I had to guess, it’s an institution in the Middle East or Europe. Maybe a combination.”
“I don’t pay you to guess,” bellowed Cy. “Find out. You got that, Victor? You find out, and you get back to me.”
“I’m on it.” The head trader sounded calm, but his eyes blinked over and over behind horn-rimmed glasses. His junior traders scanned the room for a place to hide.
“What about Hafnarbanki?” pressed Leeser. “We’re giving back our gains. Why?”
“A royal family in Qatar is buying stock,” Cusack volunteered. He had seen the press releases. He had scrutinized every position in LeeWell’s portfolio. Intensive research was the only way to compensate for the nagging question he could not answer: How does LeeWell hedge?
“The family owns more than five percent of Hafnarbanki,” added Victor, still nursing his ego.
“That’s fucking goofy,” snorted Leeser.
“Maybe not,” countered Cusack.
All eyes in the room turned to the head of sales. Even Shannon, who had not displayed much interest, focused on him. Cy raised his eyebrows and voiced what they were all thinking:
“What do you mean?”
Before Jimmy could respond, Victor recouped his hogshead of testosterone. “You think Hafnarbanki is a buy, Cusack?”
Nikki glanced up from her pad. Shannon frowned, which was how he handled all situations. Leeser’s reaction was the worst. He waited and watched. He said nothing.
“No,” Jimmy replied to Victor. “I’d go all cash. I’d sell everything in the portfolio and take our profits on Hafnarbanki. I’d get safe in this market.”
Cy’s eyes widened.
“All cash,” Victor scoffed. A vein in his forehead throbbed angry and indigo blue. “We’re not a goddamn money market fund.”
“Focus,” growled Leeser, exercising his authority. “What’s the interest in Hafnarbanki?”
“Follow the money,” Jimmy explained. “If the Qataris buy stock, the chairman is the single biggest winner. He owns more shares than any other investor.”
“You think he talked the royal family into buying?” asked Victor.
“How many times do we flush before this fucking bank goes away?” Leeser was growing agitated.
“I bet Hafnarbanki’s management made a sweetheart loan with no downside to the Qataris,” said Cusack. “Bankers have all kinds of tools. Low interest rates. No personal guarantees. They can structure almost anything.”
“But why make it easy on the Qataris?” argued Cy.
“With my net worth tied up in one stock,” Jimmy answered, “I’d figure out how to prop up the price.”
“Me, too,” agreed Leeser. Then he added, “You think they know we’re short?”
His question betrayed the classic paranoia of short sellers. Betting against companies creates the opportunity for finite gains—and unlimited losses. If investors short stock at ten dollars and the price goes to zero, the gain is ten dollars. If the same ten-dollar stock rallies to one hundred dollars, short sellers lose ninety dollars per share. And the stock price can always climb farther.
“They know somebody is short,” said Cusack. “But why us, Cy? We don’t know who’s shorting Bentwing, right?”
“But when I find out,” Victor threatened, rebounding from Cy’s earlier rebuke, “I’ll fucking drill the Bentwing shorts.”
Does Victor know something I don’t?
“How will you drill them?” asked Leeser. He leaned forward with elbows on the table, chin resting on his thumb and knuckles pressed against his nose. He disappeared into a nether world of concentration as the whole room watched and waited.
“We back up the truck,” Lee answered, “and buy, buy, buy until the price skyrockets. Until we crush any dickhead who bet against Bentwing. It’s time LeeWell shows some balls.” And then he added gratuitously, “Which may be a problem for Cusack over here.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Jimmy, taking the bait.
“I’m the guy who makes money. You must be the other guy, Cusack.”
“Knock it off.” Leeser leaned back in the throne and wrapped his hands behind his head.
“It makes no difference who’s shorting,” urged Victor. “I say we attack by adding to our position in Bentwing.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Leeser.
Cusack avoided the temptation to roll his eyes. He suppressed his crooked smile, which resembled a smirk and might enflame tensions in the war room. “Buying more shares of Bentwing takes cash. How much do we have?”
“Forty million and one pizza lunch less than you promised,” taunted Victor. “New Jersey Sheet Metal fucking missed the June closing.”
Lee was referring to a common industry practice. Most hedge funds, including LeeWell Capital, accepted new money at the end of every quarter. This custom simplified the accounting.
“We missed June by one signature,” explained Jimmy. “The guy was on vacation. We’ll get the money.”
“You’re paid to close,” the trader growled, “not to find excuses.”
“New Jersey is rock solid,” Cusack observed, calm on the outside, not taking the head trader’s bait this time. “They’ll fund our September closing.”
“Knock it off, Victor,” interrupted Cy. Then he turned and said, “Victor’s right, Jimmy. We don’t run from fights here.”
Cusack’s ears grew red but he said nothing.
“When you get back to your desk,” Cy instructed Victor, “buy Bentwing in size. Put the word out. I’ll worry how we fund.” Then he addressed Jimmy: “What about your other prospects?”
“Plenty of people in the pipeline. But half of them are at the beach.”
“Buy some fucking sunscreen.”
Now Cusack’s entire face reddened, but not from ultraviolet rays. “Got it.”
“We all know what to do,” Cy concluded. “Get to work.”
The eight filed from the conference room into the corridor, where Leeser was waiting for Cusack. “Would you stop by my office, Jimmy?”
“Sure, Cy. When?”
“After your nap, your meds, whatever else you do all morning.”
“I’ll be right over.”
* * *
Cusack sat ramrod straight. Leeser’s leather guest chair felt cramped and uncomfortable today. It reminded him of a medieval pillory—his arms locked, his head on display.
Cy came out swinging. “You a short-timer?”
“What are you talking about?” The question flummoxed Cusack.
“We lose one hundred million. And you’re ready to go all cash.”
“You asked my opinion. Oil prices have cracked, and they’re taking down alternative energy with them. That means Bentwing and thirty percent of our portfolio.”
“We’ve never had a down year, remember?” argued Cy.
“Yesterday’s news. I have no idea how we hedge. All I see is money disappearing down a rat hole.”
“Leave the investing to me,” Leeser barked, “and do your job.”
“Nobody around here ever bagged a forty-million client before.”
“Tell me when the money arrives, Jimmy.”
“I have no idea what we’re selling.” Cusack regretted his outburst at once.
“Damn that Nikki,” snapped Leeser, squinting and feigning anger. “You never got my memo on trade secrets?”
In the eye of Leeser’s sarcasm, Cusack decided to stand down. “Sorry.”
“I told you day one,” pressed Leeser, “you need to apprentice before I demonstrate how we hedge. The problem here is loyalty. Yours. I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“‘Loyalty.’ What are you talking about?”
“Caleb Phelps. How many times have I asked for an introduction?”
“We don’t speak. I keep telling you our relationship is complicated.�
��
“Then let me help,” offered Leeser, suddenly magnetic from an epiphany. “My daughters aren’t close to getting married. But I hope their future husbands make good. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Let me brag about you to Caleb. Trust me. Every father wants to hear good things about his son-in-law.” Leeser picked up the baby picture of his twins as though to punctuate his comment.
“Caleb just bought a major division from Hartford. It put some things into perspective.”
“Okay?”
“I need to mend fences. But Caleb is closing the deal over the next few weeks. And afterward Anne and he go to Bermuda. They go the last two weeks of August every year.”
“Anne?”
“My mother-in-law.”
“Of course. Let’s shoot for something in September. Maybe he can come to the event at the Museum of Modern Art.”
“What event?”
“MoMA is honoring me.” Leeser flashed a bright smile.
“Wow, that’s exciting.”
“Anybody can get an award, Jimmy. Just donate a few million.”
“It sounds so simple.”
* * *
Alone in his office, Leeser reflected on Cusack’s words about Hafnarbanki’s chairman: “I’d figure out how to prop up the price.”
The kid only got it half right, Leeser mused. He should have said, “I’d figure out how to prop up the price and fuck my enemies.” But who would know LeeWell shorted Hafnarbanki?
“Everybody,” Leeser cursed. His allies from the two other hedge funds, Tall and Napoleon, were always running their damn mouths. “Damn them.”
His mood black, Leeser phoned Eddy at Merrill Lynch and shifted to the bigger issue. “We’re buying more Bentwing Energy.”
“It’s off twenty-five percent from the high. Are you sure?”
“Business is booming, Eddy. The stock’s on sale.”
“Is the window open?” asked the Merrill trader, referring to regulations that govern when board members can buy stock in their companies.
“Everything’s fine. No problems with anybody. And that includes the SEC.”
“How are you paying for the stock, Cy?”
“We’re borrowing the money from you.”
“Shit,” Eddy exhaled. “Didn’t you hear me the last time? We’re getting tight on loans.”
“Get it done. And one other thing.”
“But Cy…”
“But nothing. Find out who’s shorting my stock.”
* * *
Cusack drummed the top of his desk and considered Leeser’s words: “Since the beginning of the year, we have lost over one hundred million dollars.” Unless the portfolio rebounded 23 percent, there would be no bonus. There would be a collection letter instead, this one from LeeWell Capital.
Leeser was growing more erratic by the day. He had long protected his technique to manage risk with paranoia worthy of Joseph Stalin. The Russian dictator once said, “I trust no one, not even myself.”
Cy apparently shared the sentiment. He was buying more Bentwing. But instead of explaining his rationale, he repeated the same words over and over: “We don’t lose money at LeeWell Capital.”
My mother has blind faith. I don’t.
Eyeing the number $78.79, Cusack fantasized about how good it would feel to resign. How good it would feel to march into Leeser’s office and say, “I quit, motherfucker.” The daydream was delicious, especially the motherfucker part, but it lasted all of twenty seconds. The word “mortgage” kept wedging into his thoughts.
Cusack Googled, “I hate my job,” hoping for a catharsis from the forty-three million hits. He reviewed seven of them. Most proved to be self-help posts from tripe-mongers. “Be a better worker” pushed him over the edge. He stopped surfing ten minutes into the session, annoyed by the bloggers and a job market with few alternatives.
Cusack phoned Emi. When all else failed, he could grouse to the spouse. He reached her voice mail, which was just as well. He had no business transferring his stress to her.
“I was thinking about you, sweetie. Say hi to Yaz for me.”
Cusack left the message but never put down the phone. He became a salesman. He smiled and dialed prospects, convinced that a little more focus would fix his mess.
* * *
After Leeser finished with Merrill Lynch, he called his partner. He expected another tough exchange, but now was no time to hide. “I’m meeting Caleb Phelps.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Dammit, Cy. You’re a human rain delay.”
“Phelps is buying a company,” Leeser explained.
“So what?” his partner objected.
“He’s buried in closing details.”
“And what happens after you meet him next month, Cy? Do we wait another four months? I’m losing my patience.”
“And I’m living happily ever after. I keep telling you, we’re on plan. Cusack is helping in ways we never dreamed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 6
BENTWING AT $50.75
Long after the markets closed, Cusack gazed out his office window at the train station below. The forecast called for wet weather. But nothing this sloppy. When the Metro North trains arrived and opened their doors, the Greenwich-bound commuters bolted for cabs and double-parked SUVs stacked two and three deep. The downpour pasted hair to heads. It wrecked shoes. The rain gusted great sheets of dry-cleaning bills—a backlog of soggy suits and saturated skirts growing among those who ran for it.
Storms were a way of life in Greenwich. They toppled trees and downed power lines, sometimes blacking out electricity for days. They littered limbs and leaves across the perfect lawns and sometimes crashed heavy branches against the perfect homes. The garbage and debris served as Post-it notes from heaven, each one with the same revelation: There were complicated, sometimes feverish lives behind the stone walls guarding properties. There were messy affairs and messy substance addictions and messy teenage behavior, the occasional murder or intervention that could take place in any American community. The difference was that Greenwich had more square footage than most and more hired hands to clean up the mess.
It would have been easy for Cusack to dwell on the inclement weather. But his thoughts inevitably returned to Cy Leeser. The boss’s interest in Caleb Phelps was bizarre. Jimmy wondered whether the fascination was linked to the family’s real estate interests. His father-in-law owned most of the waterfront property surrounding the New England Aquarium.
What’s the connection between Bentwing and real estate?
In that moment, Cusack returned to December 2007. To Caleb’s ambush and the FedEx package containing eight notarized redemptions. To the forty-five-day letter from Litton Loan Servicing. To the eureka moment when Cusack read about his father-in-law’s deal with Hartford. Jimmy picked up the phone and dialed the sixty-first floor of the Empire State Building.
“Sydney here.” Ordinarily, she put the fizz in a can of Coke. Not today. She mouthed the words, all flat and languid and full of an aftertaste that sounded like trouble.
“It’s Jimmy. What’s wrong?”
“Oh my god, does it show?” Sydney turned up the cheer and reverted to the human dynamo. Her instant change was like a personality refund. “I’m miffed about staying late.”
“I don’t buy it, Syd.” It was 6:34 P.M. She never left before seven when they worked together. “Something’s eating you, and we both know it.”
“Work is kind of tense these days.”
Cusack’s heart skipped a beat. His thoughts jumped the rails to Jean Bertrand Bouvier. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure. Jean is edgy these days. He snaps at everybody. None of that pralines-and-cream glop from before.”
“Client problems?” asked Cusack.
“Maybe. He met with some woman the other day behind closed doors. Everybody in the office could hear them sc
reaming. But she didn’t act like a client.”
“Banker?”
“Blonde,” Sydney replied. “That’s all I know. He scheduled the appointment, and our shop hasn’t been the same since.”
“Did you ask him what’s wrong?”
“You betcha.” Sydney could charm charging cattle. “I asked if he took a beat-down in there.”
“And?”
“Jean said, ‘I got tattoos on the roof of my mouth.’”
“What does that mean?” Cusack scratched his head, wondering what language Southerners spoke.
“The hell if I know.”
“That’s weird.”
“You’re telling me, Jimmy.”
“Has he lost any clients?”
“No,” Sydney replied.
Cusack felt the tension in his neck ease.
Then lowering her voice even more, she said, “I have to go. Jean’s coming back.”
“Do you want to—”
She was gone before Cusack could finish. And his phone started to ring.
* * *
Geek called first. “My Bayesian networks say if you’re drinking at the Ginger Man tonight, there’s a ninety percent probability it’s with me.”
“Not tonight.”
“We can ride out the storm over a few beers,” Geek pressed.
“I want to see Emi before she falls asleep.”
“How is she?”
“Glowing and growing.” The crooked smile swept over Cusack’s face. He could hardly wait to be a dad, no matter how daunting the prospect.
“Is Emi still working at the Bronx Zoo?”
“Stops in October,” said Cusack.
“Wish we could do that, Jimmy. The markets always blow up in October.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Rumors are flying around Greenwich.” Geek was a hit-and-run thinker. Not reckless—but after examining issues and firing off conclusions, he often changed the subject without notice.
“About what?”
“Your boss.” Geek waited before adding, “And his wife.”
“There are no secrets over the long run,” answered Cusack, somewhere between philosophical and claustrophobic inside the gated community of Hedgistan. “It’s a regular Peyton Place around here.”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 14
