The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  * * *

  Cusack waited until Batgirl and the UBS guys were gone. He had worked his buzz hard all night, and now the Geek wanted to talk business. “Why so serious?”

  “Remember what I said, Jimmy?”

  “I remember you putting seventy-five K in your pocket.”

  Geek signaled for another round. “I can help.”

  “You’re hard enough to understand when I’m sober,” said Cusack, doubting that clarity during intoxication was his superpower. “What are you saying?”

  “I ran the numbers, and your life sucks. Is that clear enough for you?”

  “Are we playing buzz kill?”

  “You’ve got a three-million mortgage, right?” Geek’s eyes grew intense.

  “Since when are my finances your business?”

  “That’s one fifty in interest, minimum.”

  “I pay once a year,” admitted Cusack, not sure why he answered.

  “You pay eleven thousand for your mother’s car and twenty-one thousand in tuition for your nieces and nephews.”

  “How do you know? Every time I turn around, somebody’s doing a background check on me. First Cy, then Daryle Fucking Lamonica, and now you. Maybe Batgirl wants to probe further.” Cusack realized Geek had not touched his drink.

  “You finished?”

  “You’re giving me a hangover,” said Cusack.

  “How long have we been friends?”

  “If this is a money intervention, we probably could have done without the three bottles of cabaret back at Foxwoods.” Cusack was growing angrier by the moment.

  “That’s cabernet.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Your expenses,” continued Geek, “are at least one hundred and eighty thousand. That doesn’t include food or travel or the cost of being a dad. It doesn’t include insurance or lights or the money you spend on your mother’s renovations in Somerville.”

  “Did you hack my bank account?” snapped Cusack. “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I bet you’re netting one fifty after tax, which means three things. One, your cash flow is negative. Two, you can’t cover expenses without a bonus.”

  “What’s the third?”

  “You’re fucked, Jimmy. You’re running out of time, because this market is the pits. You won’t see a bonus. You won’t make your mortgage payment. And you won’t sell your house, because you need cash to close.”

  “Okay, you win. I feel like shit.”

  “I can help,” Geek repeated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Find out how LeeWell Capital hedges,” he explained, “and tell me.” Now Geek was uncomfortable. His right knee pumped like a piston under the table, a tic that traced back to Wharton.

  “You want me to spy on my company?” asked Cusack, growing sober.

  “I want you to stay on your feet. Your boss pissed off the wrong people. And your firm looks like Cusack Capital part two.”

  “Cy picked a fight with somebody?”

  “Seen Bentwing’s stock price recently?”

  Cusack paused for a long time, growing more alert every second. When he finally spoke, his words hailed from the enlightened mix of philosophical musings, grapes, and José Cuervo. “I guess everybody has a price. You, me, everybody.”

  The diminutive hedge fund maven blinked through his Coke-bottle lenses. He had been so powerful in the casino, but now he was tense—waiting for Cusack to play his hand. He stared at his drink with no interest.

  Cusack’s eyes narrowed, a look just shy of assault and battery. “Who paid you for a lap dance?”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “We can two-and-twenty all we want, Geek, but it’s money that pulls the strings.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I got a Ph.D. in getting fucked,” Cusack continued. “Your lead investor get to you?”

  “Forget the sheikh. You need a friend.”

  “Listen, pal, you’re the one who needs a friend. Some pushover that coughs up info so you can torch Bentwing and make money on the way down.” Cusack’s head was spinning. It took some time, but he finally grasped Geek’s words. “Who’s your sheikh? We never picked a fight in the Middle East.”

  Geek said nothing.

  “Who?” demanded Cusack. And in that instant, under leggy shadows from topless dancers working their poles, he understood.

  Geek stopped blinking. He reverted to his poker-face mode, the one that sparked legends about his exploits in Monte Carlo. Even the piston knee was under control.

  “Your big investor is the Qatari sheikh buying Hafnarbanki,” Cusack called out, his stomach sour from booze and betrayal. “The sheikh thinks you can use our friendship to crush Bentwing.”

  * * *

  Ordinarily, Cusack was a happy drunk. A guy reliable for good times and discretion when buddies drank too much and said more than they should. Only now, he was not happy. And he was trying hard not to be drunk.

  Neither man was sure how much time passed. The two sat in silence, their thoughts drowned by the boom and bass of clothes coming off. Geek finally said, “Make sure you back the right team.”

  Almost on cue the two UBS guys returned, Batgirl in tow along with three other women. None of the strippers wore tops. One of the traders said, “Guys, come on back to the VIP room with us.”

  “I’m leaving,” announced Cusack.

  Geek blinked.

  “Don’t be a party pooper,” Batgirl pleaded. On her command, all four women swarmed Cusack. One sat on his lap. Two others wrapped themselves around his head, sandwiching his face between their breasts. He was lost somewhere in the waves of silicon and nipples, the naked flesh and areolae of all sizes and colors, the pierced parts and tattoos.

  “We’re like the Canadian Mounties,” one of the strippers announced. “We always get our man.”

  In the shadows the tail sat alone and watched the spectacle, his small camera rolling. It was not the kind of device likely to be noticed, given the DDs and other man-made distractions of a strip bar. At first the man’s face was a mask, stoic, sunglasses even in the dark, no expression and no drink to draw attention from a club full of working girls.

  When the four strippers tore at Cusack’s shirt, Shannon, a.k.a. Brandon Anderson, smiled from ear to ear. “Gotcha, Cusack. Why are you spending so much time with Dimitris Georgiou?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  MONDAY, AUGUST 25

  BENTWING AT $51.16

  Leeser sat alone in his office with the door closed, shut since he arrived at 7:45 A.M. His ear was glued to the phone. His black eyes glowed like the charcoal on a grill. He tapped an email to Nikki: Tell Victor to run strategy without me. I won’t be at the meeting.

  All his life he had fantasized about an opportunity this size. Monster trade or inside information—a random twist of fate could change anything. This conversation, however, was no dream. He was negotiating immortality in real time.

  At first Cy had thought Siggi was calling to thank him. In keeping with a tradition dating back to the epic battles of Zeus, the hedge fund kingpin had shipped a case of 2005 Sine Qua Non the 17th Nail in My Cranium to Iceland. All the Olympian gods celebrated their triumphs with drink. In ancient paintings, the winged goddess Nike carried a cup just for those occasions. And as far as Cy was concerned, a million-dollar payday called for a few belts.

  “Seventeenth Nail is a classic, Siggi. Impossible to get.”

  “Thank you. My girlfriend and I will raise a glass in your honor.”

  “I owe you the thanks,” said Leeser. “You can send me trades all day long.”

  “Too bad,” sighed the art dealer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have something. But it’s not a quick flip.”

  “Tell me anyway,” urged Cy.

  “This situation is long term. It’s the kind of opportunity every collector craves, but few see.”

  Despite his mounting curiosity, Leeser played it cool. He had h
eard thousands of sales pitches through the years. “Long term” sounded like a big down payment with uncertain returns. “I’m not sure about my appetite for tying up money.”

  “Maybe you’re right. The High Renaissance isn’t your thing anyway.” The art dealer, an old veteran in the cat-and-mouse game of taste, knew the power of an antipitch. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Across the other side of Siggi’s desk, Ólafur’s jaw dropped. All his coaching and their hard work—the careful plans were about to unravel.

  “Are you nuts?” the banker mouthed in silence.

  Siggi read Ólafur’s angst. He extended his hand, palm down, and dropped it like a slow-motion anchor.

  “Let me judge what I like,” Leeser growled. “What do you have?”

  “What do you know about Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man?” That simple question changed the tenor of their phone call.

  “Raphael Sanzio?”

  “No, Cy, I mean the Raphael. Raphael of Urbino.”

  “I know the Nazis snatched one of his paintings. It’s still missing?”

  “It was.”

  * * *

  On August 26, 1939, the German army invaded Poland. Within months the Gestapo unearthed a cache of paintings in the small Polish town of Sieniawa. Among the paintings were three masterpieces: Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine, Rembrandt’s Landscape with Good Samaritan, and Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man.

  The paintings belonged to the Czartoryski Museum, located in Krakow. But Prince Agustyn, who ran his family’s museum, had relocated them for safekeeping as war erupted across Europe. His efforts were to no avail. The Nazis unearthed all three as 1939 came to a close.

  The German army shipped the treasures to Dresden, which touched off a fierce struggle within the Third Reich. Everyone, it seemed, coveted the masterpieces. Leonardo da Vinci. Rembrandt. Raphael.

  Hermann Göring controlled the paintings. But there were constant challenges. Adolf Hitler’s personal dealer, Hans Posse, demanded all three for the Führermuseum. Posse, it seemed, was speaking for Hitler. Yet somehow, the masterpieces found their way back to Krakow in 1940. It was there that Hans Frank, the Nazi governor of Poland, displayed them.

  The paintings, under Göring’s command, traveled to Berlin in 1941. They backtracked east, however, as Allied bombs fell closer. Eventually, Hans Frank regained possession. He maintained control until his arrest in May 1945.

  Military forces found the works by Leonardo and Rembrandt. But they never located Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man. Hans Frank guarded the location until his death, when he was hanged for crimes against humanity.

  Through the years, there have been few clues to the whereabouts. Frank destroyed documents and the Nazi paper trail. His subordinates, like Wilhelm de Palézieux, the “art protector,” never talked. Frank’s art restorer, Ernest Kneisel, once claimed to have seen the Raphael in Palisieux’s possession. But in 1965, Kneisel changed his story, saying in effect, “I was mistaken.”

  * * *

  “It was.”

  “What do you mean?” Leeser asked Siggi.

  “Ernest Kneisel restored art for the Nazis. He was the last person known to see Portrait of a Young Man.” Siggi paused before adding, “Until now.”

  “Have you seen the painting?” Cy’s back grew clammy, which had become his leading indicator for a good trade.

  “Maybe.” Siggi yawned, playing coy and hooking Leeser. “Our banks maintain discreet relationships with clients. Especially customers from Eastern Europe.”

  “You’re killing me,” Leeser confessed, unable to restrain his curiosity.

  “Times are tough. Not just in Iceland, but all through Europe. Art surfaces when people need money.”

  “What did you see, Siggi?”

  “A treasure lost to the world since 1945. A treasure that could stay lost in the vaults of an Icelandic bank for generations to come.”

  “What’s this have to do with me?” Leeser asked, growing wary, street smarts taking control.

  “The painting requires a special kind of buyer.”

  “No shit,” Cy scoffed, “somebody will claim ownership the minute it surfaces.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “The title is clear. Years ago, the current owner settled with the Czartoryski Museum in private.”

  “Keep going,” pressed Leeser.

  “Now he needs, shall we say, to diversify his assets.”

  “Why not auction it through Sotheby’s?”

  “The owner insists on absolute discretion. And as we both know,” the art dealer added, “confidentiality gets lost inside big sprawling corporations. The Nazi links are awkward in my client’s world.”

  “They’re no cakewalk in mine.”

  “You’re missing the point, Cy. Recover a painting lost to the world. Fix a Nazi sin that’s generations old. And you live forever in the annals of art. Who’s that hedge fund manager you always mention?”

  “Stevie Cohen?”

  “Suddenly, Stevie Cohen wants to be you.” Ólafur watched with wide eyes, riveted as his cousin manipulated Leeser.

  “How much is the painting worth?” asked Leeser.

  “High eight figures under ordinary conditions. Maybe more.”

  “That’s strong.” Cy hated to admit $80 or $90 million would tax his resources. It felt like he was always playing catch-up. “And now?”

  “Hard to say. The price is negotiable.”

  “How do I know the painting’s real?”

  “I have experts, Cy. Plus, there’s paperwork signed by Hermann Göring and Hans Frank.”

  “Göring!”

  “I had his signature verified by three separate experts,” the art dealer replied.

  “Let’s say I get comfortable—”

  “We can work something out,” Siggi interrupted, anticipating the money discussion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The owner wants some cash up front.”

  “He’ll take a note for a portion of the purchase price?” interrupted Leeser, unable to stifle his excitement.

  “With the right security arrangements.”

  “What kind of security?” asked Leeser, his expression growing wary.

  “Pledge your stock in LeeWell Capital. Assign a percentage of future earnings until the note is paid. These are things you need to arrange with him, not me.”

  “It’s too easy,” Cy objected. “Something’s wrong with this picture.”

  “Easy,” Siggi cautioned. “You’re dealing with a thorough man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before my owner takes security in your business, his team will inspect your operations, your profitability, and how you manage risk. They’re not turning over Portrait of a Young Man without decent security.”

  “We’ve never lost money.”

  “Tell the owner. And remember this. You won’t become a legend until his people know everything about your hedge fund.”

  “Not happening.” Instinctively, Leeser recoiled at the thought of sharing trade secrets.

  “You’ll need to explain your techniques to my owner.”

  “Not happening,” echoed Cy.

  “No problem,” Siggi replied. “I can always find someone with more money.”

  “Let me think about it,” Cy reversed, feeling the needle.

  “You know where to reach me. But there’s one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t wait forever.”

  * * *

  Siggi placed the receiver on its cradle and sighed.

  “What did Leeser say?” demanded Ólafur.

  “He’ll get back to me.”

  “When?”

  “You heard me,” growled Siggi, no longer cool and in command. “I told him, ‘I can’t wait forever.’”

  “What’s the problem?” Ólafur asked, noting the change in his cousin’s temperament.

  “Cy might call
our bluff,” the art dealer snapped. “That’s the problem.”

  Siggi had been so smooth on the phone. Now the calm veneer was gone, his agitation mounting by the minute. Ólafur started to speak.

  “What if he wants to meet in Reykjavik?” Siggi interrupted, growing sarcastic. “Maybe we show him Portrait of a Young Man in an art history book.”

  “Agree to meet,” Ólafur soothed. “The ‘owner’ is our fiction, who does what we say. He can develop cold feet at the last minute.”

  “It won’t be the first case of seller’s remorse,” acknowledged Siggi, understanding the concept but not buying into it. “Your game is stupid, cousin. Cy backs out. Or we back out. I don’t see what it gets you.”

  “Knowledge,” countered Ólafur. “The next call is critical. If Leeser concentrates on price, then his investment secrets are real.”

  “Why?”

  “I know this guy, Siggi. I’ve read everything about him in print. Cyrus Leeser will swap formulas for immortality in a heartbeat—especially if he thinks there are tens of millions to be made in the process.”

  “And if the secrets aren’t real?”

  “He’d never risk exposure,” explained the banker. “Trading desks are like war.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s all about deception,” Ólafur said. “He won’t expose his flank.”

  “Well, I wish you’d stick to your securities, cousin, and leave me and my art business out of your war.”

  “Your art business is our advantage. Leeser is patrolling foreign soil.”

  * * *

  Cy surveyed the walls of his office. For a moment, his gaze settled on a line drawing by Picasso. The piece, no more than meandering scribbles courtesy of a sardine and sangria lunch, was inexpensive as Picassos go. But the hedge fund titan liked what he saw.

  The Picasso equaled success. The drawing validated Leeser’s decision to leave Merrill Lynch and take a chance that landed him as lord and master of 19,000 square feet and a five-acre estate on Roundhill Road. There was glory in risk.

  The spoils of the market—Picasso or Bentley—accompanied uncertainty. “So long as you win,” Leeser reminded himself. “Poor losers are poor because they lose.”

  Now, Leeser had a similar decision to make. A similar chance to take. Because stick figures from a master like Picasso would not bring immortality to the founder of a hedge fund with less than one billion under management. It took at least ten billion, maybe even twenty, to live forever.