Rachel’s extra rolls were gone, all forty pounds of cellulite and blubber. But the burns from childhood still seared. The puffy white blemish haunted her every minute of the day. Rachel rubbed the damaged flesh, her mood souring with each stroke of the index finger.
There was only one way to cheer up—she knew from experience and two-hundred-dollar-per-hour sessions with her shrink. He was always saying, “Compartmentalize. Find something that gives you pleasure.”
“Like my night job,” Rachel mumbled, alone in a consultation room of the Park Avenue clinic. She pulled out a cell phone and dialed the number she knew by heart.
“Conrad Barnes,” she said, referring to the seventy-plus target from Bronxville, “is proving tougher than I thought, Kemosabe.”
“Not my problem.”
“Bad mood?” she purred, more mocking than sexual. “Maybe you need a vacation.”
“No.”
“I can’t shake Conrad’s wife,” she reported. “They’re inseparable.”
“I don’t need details, just results.”
His abruptness surprised her. Their relationship had almost been cordial since her trip to Paris. The thought reminded her of what she wanted most, not so much retirement as the opportunity to shop for clothes and build the carefree life she had never known as a kid.
“You have things under control, right? It’s nothing personal, Kemosabe.”
“I keep telling you. In my business, everything is personal.”
* * *
Cusack stared at the Daryle Lamonica signature. For the second time that morning, he stood and surveyed the Amtrak cabin. Recognized no one. The occupants were just suits heading up to Providence or on to Boston. They were guys carrying briefcases chock-full of sales propaganda and other lies. Nobody appeared capable of impersonating the storied quarterback from Oakland.
He reread the short note. The block letters were rigid and penned in black ink. He had not seen such crisp handwriting since second grade. The message was short, absent any emotion, and to the point.
It read: Get out while you can. Beware the Greek, and whatever you do, watch your back. There will be no further warnings. Daryle Lamonica.
Cusack forgot all about Graham Durkin and the big sales pitch for LeeWell Capital. Instead, he read the letter over and over. He dissected every word, comma, and space. He tried to envision when and where someone slipped it inside his pitch book. His trip to the food car had been the only opportunity.
After a while, Cusack packed up his computer and began walking the train. He checked for faces, anyone he might know, not sure where to look or what he would find. He opened three bathroom doors in as many minutes, which prompted one suspicious conductor to ask, “What are you doing?”
Looking for the “Mad Bomber.”
“Returning to my seat,” he replied, squeezing past the conductor in the narrow aisle and heading back to the first-class cabin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PROVIDENCE …
“Glad to see you, Jimmy.”
Graham Durkin extended his right hand. He stood Ranger straight at six foot two, buff for a guy in his fifties. His dark eyebrows were thick but trim, his head shaved like guys thirty years younger. Durkin’s brown eyes radiated an appealing mix of energy and curiosity. In person he exuded warm intensity, the kind of guy who reads Peanuts and can still finish crossword puzzles in the Sunday Times.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” Cusack forgot Daryle Lamonica and focused on Durkin, who could move the dial at LeeWell Capital.
“Do you have other meetings today?” Graham gestured Jimmy to sit, and took control of the meeting with practiced ease. Through the years, the entrepreneur had grown accustomed to being in charge.
“We have clients in Providence,” replied Cusack, measuring his words. “But I came to see you.”
“Oh.”
“I have no expectations,” Jimmy continued, “either positive or negative.” It was important to put Durkin at ease. Pressure spooked prospects the way bad reviews emptied restaurants before restaurants emptied wallets. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“You brought pitch books?” Durkin glanced at Cusack’s briefcase. “You finance types kill too many trees. Goldman is the worst.”
“I remember,” Jimmy agreed, smiling wide and revving up the charm. “I spent two years at the gulag.”
Cusack pulled out two presentations, one for himself and one for Durkin. He inspected the covers one last time. All the hours, the research, and the PowerPoint gymnastics—they had come down to this moment. And it was a moment, regrettably, where Jimmy missed the billionaire’s cues as he handed over a work of art.
Durkin eyed the presentation like it was fresh dog shit in the middle of a busy sidewalk. He grabbed the booklet anyway and said, “Let me have yours.”
“It has my notes.”
“You don’t need them.”
Daryle Lamonica’s warning was still buried inside Cusack’s copy. Jimmy fished it out and jammed the letter inside his jacket pocket. He handed over the presentation book, unsure what to expect.
With the flourish of a Barnum & Bailey ringmaster, Durkin dropped both presentations into his trash can. “Let’s just talk.” He leaned back in his swivel chair, hands behind his head as though to punctuate the unspoken message: less show and more substance.
For an instant Cusack lost his voice. His head cocked to the side. And then he recovered. “We can talk. We can do that.” Jimmy instinctively liked the billionaire’s casual indifference to convention.
“Charts get in the way,” said Durkin. “You know what I mean?”
The two men built a quick rapport over the next two hours, in part because they fed each other’s good-natured irreverence. Cusack grew increasingly comfortable but reminded himself not to drop his guard. Too much was at stake.
“What do you think about hedge fund fees, Jimmy? All this two-and-twenty nonsense?”
“Sometimes the letter K, as in ka-ching, is the only difference between money and monkey business. Unless, of course, you know what you’re doing.”
“Does LeeWell Capital know what it’s doing?”
“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be here.” Cusack paused at the comment, pensive and introspective. “But I’d put a big chunk of your money into bonds before you invest the first dollar with me.”
“You said the same thing over the phone. Is this some kind of antipitch?”
“Self-defense.”
“What’s that mean?” the billionaire asked.
“If you invest primarily in safe securities, then you won’t pull your money from me the first sign of trouble. It’s not easy finding new clients.” Cusack wished he had given Caleb the same advice long before last December.
“I thought LeeWell Capital never loses money.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” replied Cusack.
“It sounds like you don’t care whether I invest with your firm.”
Cusack knew investors associate indifference with prosperity. And so far, he deserved an Oscar for best man. He had feigned success and acted the part of a god from Greenwich. He never revealed his inner distress, never betrayed the tension growing louder and louder like bagpipers approaching from the distance. Fear—wanting something too bad—was the quickest way to scare off money.
It was time to send the billionaire a new message. Cusack leaned forward and riveted into Durkin’s eyes.
“Don’t get me wrong, Graham. I want you as a client. But let’s start the right way, so we work together a long, long time.” There it was. Cusack asked for the order. It was Durkin’s turn to move.
“You hungry, Jimmy?”
“Starved. Didn’t eat a bite on the train.”
“Good,” Durkin said. “Let’s grab a burger. You can tell me more over lunch.”
“Great.”
“There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?” Cusack asked.
“Is t
here a problem with your firm?”
“Say what?” Cusack shook his head, puzzled.
“Do yourself a favor, Jimmy, and never play poker with me.”
* * *
Cusack and Durkin scarfed cheeseburgers at the Capital Grille. Graham called them “too high,” because there was no way to trap all the sirloin, bacon, Havarti, and jalapeño-onion marmalade inside. Not that it mattered. The two men used fries to mop up whatever dripped out the sides.
“My burger,” said Durkin between mouthfuls, “could make guys like you forget sushi.”
“And I suppose you think I’m a Yankees fan, too,” protested Cusack.
During lunch the two men forgot all about LeeWell Capital. They spent more time discussing ProShares Short Dow30. It was a blah and benumbing name for a public fund with perhaps the greatest ticker symbol of all time.
Trading as DOG, its shares tumbled when the Dow advanced. They climbed when the Dow fell. And these days DOG was off to the races, the stock price increasing more and more every day.
That discussion took place thirty minutes ago. Durkin was returning to his office, as Cusack walked toward the train station. Cloudy and damp, a soggy breeze rolled off the harbor as the gray summer skies misted across downtown Providence. The city’s sturdy brick buildings, many from the 1700s, defied the ravages of time. The structures extolled craftsmanship from days gone by. But the historic views were lost on Cusack as he dissected the conversation from lunch and wondered what his boss would think.
No need to wait for an answer. The phone rang. Cy was on the line.
“What happened, Jimmy?”
“Do you want the good news or the bad?”
“Go with the bad.”
“Graham won’t invest,” reported Cusack, “until he learns more about our hedges. He used the word ‘transparency.’”
“Tell him to buy some fucking Saran Wrap. What’s the good?”
“He wants to meet in Greenwich, Cy.”
“So what.”
“He’s nibbling,” explained Cusack.
“He should. You showed him our returns, right?”
“Here’s the deal,” explained Cusack. “There’s a revolving door into Graham’s office. Morgan’s been through it, Goldman, everybody. The guy needs a thirty-four-inch bat to defend himself. But he’s coming to see us. That’s good, right?”
“Okay,” Leeser replied, softening. “Why don’t you invite him to my deal at MoMA?”
“No offense, Cy. But I’d rather he visit our office, where we can focus on business.”
“Do both. Get him to stay in the city on Thursday, and we’ll meet with him the next day.”
“Good idea.”
“Are your in-laws coming to MoMA?”
“Working it, Cy.”
“You’re starting to piss me off. You said—”
“I said,” Cusack interrupted, “that I’ll deliver Caleb during September. We’re on plan.”
“Make sure we are,” Leeser snapped, and clicked off the phone.
Something was wrong. For the last four hours, Cusack had labored to stay cool and avoid the cardinal sin of sales—wanting something too much and showing it. And here, his boss was obsessed with Caleb Phelps.
Cusack could have dwelled on the thought. But his cell phone rang again.
What now?
* * *
“This is your lucky day.” Most of the time a Boston accent returned Cusack to the days when three brothers pigged out on “Hoodsies,” the small cups of half vanilla, half chocolate ice cream that come with flat wooden spoons. Only now the voice evoked images of Shannon and the embarrassing confrontation in Leeser’s office. There was also the warning from Daryle Lamonica: Beware the Greek.
“What’s up, Geek?”
“You’re in Providence?”
“How’d you know?”
“Called your office, Jimmy. I have an offer you can’t refuse.”
“The Red Sox aren’t in town until next weekend.”
“It’s better than Sox-Yankees.”
“That’s a pretty high bar,” Jimmy replied. “You’ll lose all credibility if this isn’t good.”
“We’re hitting the casino tonight.”
It was as though the C-word, “casino,” burst a balloon. “I can’t,” slipped from Cusack’s lips before he checked the rest of the sentence. He almost said, “I can’t afford that shit.”
“I won’t take no for an answer,” replied Geek. “You, me, and a couple of traders from UBS. Foxwoods is comping the suites.”
“I thought Monte Carlo was your thing. Since when do you slum the casinos of Connecticut?”
“They know me at the blackjack tables,” Geek explained.
“I’m due back in New York.” Cusack felt his interest roller-coaster. Geek was sure to put on a show. His prowess at the gaming tables was legendary inside Hedgistan, fun to watch. Cusack, however, could not gamble. It would be like going to a high school dance on crutches. And he sure as hell had no interest in explaining what happened.
“The casino is on your way home,” persisted Geek.
“I’m painting the condo this weekend.”
“Bad case of cryptorchidism.”
“What’s that?”
“In plain English,” Geek began, “it means no balls.”
“Bite me,” Cusack laughed. “I promised Emi.”
“Tell her it’s a night out with the guys. A few steaks. Some time at the blackjack tables. You’ll be home by midday tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Believe me, Emi understands man’s innate need to roam. It’s who we are.”
“You don’t understand.”
“That’s right,” Geek snapped. “You’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Let me call you back in five. Emi’s on the other line.”
“‘No’ is not in my lexicon, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, right.”
* * *
“James, guess what we’re doing.” Emi’s voice bubbled with excitement.
“You got the wrong number, lady. This is Boris.”
“Quit horsing around.” In that whisper of a second, Emi changed the topic. “How’d it go today with Durkin?”
“Not great. I think the technical answer is ‘work in progress,’” Cusack replied. “So what are we doing?”
“Flying to Bermuda.”
We can’t afford it.
“Three days, all expenses paid, James. You hop a flight and meet me in Hamilton tonight.”
“Staying with your parents?”
“They rented a villa,” Emi confirmed. “It has plenty of room.”
Cusack wrestled with the idea. The seconds ticked away. No one said anything, like a husband and wife trying to remember who spoke the last sentence and used the last period.
I’d choose Abu Ghraib over Bermuda with Caleb.
“Are you there?” Emi assumed she had lost the connection.
“I’m thinking.”
“James,” she said, and paused for the gravity of silence, “you need to reconcile with my father.”
“I know. I know. But three days with Norman Bates is more than I can handle.”
“Knock it off.”
“All it takes are a few Bloody Marys, Em. Then it’s ‘Petri Dish Capital’ this. And ‘Petri Dish Capital’ that.”
“Dad drinks dark and stormies in Bermuda.”
“You get the point.”
“What about Cy? It’d be a great time to tell Daddy about MoMA.”
“I understand why Caleb pulled his stunt last December,” Jimmy replied. “But I don’t like it. And reconciling with him has nothing to do with my job.”
“Your feud is hurting my relationship with Dad.”
“I know, Em. I know. Part of the problem is that Geek just invited me to a guys’ night at Foxwoods, and I’d love to go.”
“So meet us Saturday and come back Monday night.”
“I’m not comfortable taking time
away from the office,” said Cusack. “I’ve only been on the job four months. And I won’t fly to Bermuda for one day on Caleb’s dime.”
“You think Foxwoods is a better offer?”
Uh-oh.
“It’s not like that, Em.”
Their conversation had turned into an afternoon with War and Peace. Every sentence was a challenge. After an extended pause, she finally said, “I’ll make you a deal.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You go to Foxwoods, and I’ll go to Bermuda. Under one condition.”
“I’m all ears,” he repeated.
“You spend time with my father when I tell you. Where I tell you. No questions asked. Otherwise, you deal with Mom and me.”
“You’d make that trade?”
“I don’t want to ref squabbles all weekend.”
Cusack swallowed hard and agreed. “Done.”
“You owe me, Bubba.”
* * *
“Is this Jimmy?”
“Speaking.” The phone rang as he finished with Emi.
“It’s Bianca Leeser,” she announced with intonation that could have translated, “I’m here. I’m happy. And so are you.”
“What a nice surprise.”
“I’m double-checking our guest list for MoMA,” she said. “Cy will buy tickets for your prospects.”
“There are a few folks with New Jersey Sheet Metal, and Graham Durkin, the guy I met today.”
“Get me the names, and I’ll take care of the cost. That goes for your father-in-law, too.”
“Cy mentioned him?”
“I look forward to meeting Caleb.” On a scale ranging from light to coquettish, the timbre of her voice registered a notch below inviting.
“You got it, Bianca.”
Cusack thought they were finished. He was about to hang up, when Bianca said, “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“That night at L’Escale. I was a mess and—”
“You helped more than you’ll ever know, Bianca.”
“I bet you missed your anniversary date because of me.”
“It’s okay,” he replied, letting her off the hook.
“You are some kind of hug, Jimmy Cusack.”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 18
