The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  Cy imagined his fame from uncovering priceless Nazi plunder. He visualized a dream scene at Sotheby’s—flipping the Raphael, taking a check, and wallowing in glory. There had to be a way, he decided, to finesse the opportunity without jeopardizing his business.

  Leeser could have dwelled on the thought forever. But Cusack knocked at the door and poked his head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Cy. Can you give me five?”

  “Is it important?”

  “I know who’s shorting Bentwing.”

  “Who?” bellowed Cy, suddenly rising from his chair like a white-hot ember.

  “Remember the Qatari sheikh I mentioned?”

  “The one in cahoots with Hafnarbanki,” confirmed Leeser.

  “He’s signaling us to leave the bank alone.”

  “How do you get there?” Cy’s face grew curious.

  “Retaliation. Our bet against Hafnarbanki hurt his portfolio. He’s pissed. So he’s shorting Bentwing to get even.”

  “Send the fucker a peace offering, maybe a pound of bacon.”

  “I think we should take profits,” replied Cusack. “But you already know where I stand.”

  “How’s he know it’s us?” Leeser asked, ignoring the market advice.

  “I pieced together a few comments from my circle of friends. It’s more hunch than anything.”

  “Who?” Cy repeated.

  “What difference does it make?” Jimmy knew his friendship with Geek would never be the same, doubted it would survive. But ratting out Dimitris Georgiou rubbed him the wrong way.

  “Suit yourself,” said Leeser, before changing the subject. “Is Caleb Phelps on for MoMA?”

  “Done deal. I confirmed it Friday.”

  “Good work. Now leave me alone. I have a call to make.”

  Cusack left the room wondering “good work” for what? Was it “good work” for exposing the Bentwing shorts? Or was it “good work” for delivering another guest to the party?

  * * *

  Leeser phoned Siggi forty-five minutes later. “You were right the first time,” he told the Icelander.

  “What do you mean?”

  “High Renaissance is not my thing.”

  “No, but money is,” the art dealer insisted. Suddenly, he was onstage again, cool and confident, the consummate actor. “I’m surprised you would pass on an opportunity.”

  “Not my thing,” Leeser repeated. Right now, everything from Iceland felt toxic.

  “The discount will be substantial. It’s a forced sale.”

  “Not interested.”

  “What’s wrong? You’re the one who wanted to see deals from me.”

  “Not interested,” Leeser said again.

  “You haven’t seen the painting.”

  “Probably better that way,” Cy noted. “I need to stay focused on my business.” His tenor grew cold and distant.

  Siggi knew just what to say. “Have it your way. I won’t show these opportunities going forward.”

  “You have others?” Cy asked, now revealing the first hint of remorse.

  “Good-bye.” Siggi hung up. It was that abrupt. He looked at his cousin. The curtain had dropped. The mild-mannered art dealer was no longer onstage. He blinked once, then again. “I feel sick.”

  Ólafur put his arm on his cousin’s shoulder, a gentle reassuring gesture. “I know just what you need. What’s the name of that wine Leeser sent?”

  “You mean the 2005 Sine Qua Non the Seventeenth Nail in My Cranium? It came in a wooden case with a nail through the center of the lid.”

  “That’s the stuff. Why don’t you pull out a couple of bottles? We need to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what, Ólafur? I’m not in the mood.”

  “A couple of glasses and you’ll be fine, cousin.”

  “You sound giddy.”

  “That’s because,” the banker said, “I’m about to hammer the seventeenth nail from that case into Cyrus Leeser’s cranium.”

  “That’s sick, cousin. That’s really fucking sick.”

  “Relax, Siggi, it’s time for me to pour on the pressure. And you know what von Clausewitz says.”

  “Military history is more your thing than mine.”

  “‘Blood is the price of victory.’”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2

  BENTWING AT $42.81

  Summer left like a three-time loser who just made bail. The morning after Labor Day all of Hedgistan returned from homes in the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard. Most money managers were tanned and focused, reinvigorated from the salty ocean breezes. Their heads were clear, their bodies lean. They were ready to grapple with the troubled markets, down 13 percent since January.

  The beaches failed to reinvigorate anyone at LeeWell Capital. Bentwing was down 16 percent over five ruthless trading sessions, over one fugly week of the stock falling lower every trade, day in and day out. Employees attempted brave faces. But as 2008 headed into the final stretch, every man and woman suffered private cases of fear. It was bad form to express anxiety in public.

  No one knew what to expect come bonus time. Or what to expect from the head trader. For all his expertise with small-cap stocks, no one suffered choppy markets worse than Victor Lee. And historically, no one harangued other employees with more serpentine venom. No one.

  * * *

  Victor walked past Amanda, already manning the reception desk. “Good morning,” she ventured, jittery he would blow a gasket without provocation.

  “Nice blouse,” he grumbled. “It suits you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, thinking his comment surprisingly civil. Like everyone else at LeeWell Capital, she knew Bentwing was poised to open down. Again.

  At his trading station, Lee wiped crumbs off a black chair. He was wired from two Starbucks ventis, sipping a third, and not eager to sit. He plopped down anyway and inspected his jar of Premarin. The container was one-third full of pills, the 1.25 mg dose. It was sitting next to his hammer, underneath three thirty-inch LCD screens flying over his desk like the Green Monster of Fenway.

  “Estrogen makes for good business,” Victor said aloud.

  Ordinarily, his team of three traders, all guys, ignored his remarks. They had grown accustomed to their boss mumbling and talking to himself. Today, he puzzled them.

  Lee pulled out his calculator and ran the numbers he knew by heart. He multiplied $800 million by .93 percent—the annual cost savings, according to UK and Swedish scientists, from women traders who hold positions longer and pay less in commissions. A few more keystrokes, and he discovered LeeWell Capital could save $37.2 million in trading costs over five years with the right workforce.

  Victor’s brow furrowed, as it always did when he ran the numbers these days. He was no longer trading an $800 million portfolio. With Bentwing down so much, the savings would only total $28.1 million. It wasn’t chicken feed so much as it was depressing. The portfolio now equaled $605 million in assets. Lee grabbed his hammer and called Numb Nuts, the trader who worked for Eddy’s team at Merrill. All the while, Victor stared at his bottle of pills manufactured from the urine of pregnant mares.

  * * *

  Since Cusack joined LeeWell, New Jersey Sheet Metal was the only thing that had gone right. Plan B—renegotiate the package—was looking more certain every day as his only hope come February. Unless he bagged New Jersey and other prospects, however, Cy would never discuss his mortgage.

  Cusack picked up the phone to call Buddy at the New Jersey pension plan. An e-mail arrived from Leeser. The subject read, Caleb Phelps. And in the message, Cy asked, Can we move up our meeting with him? I’d like to get started.

  The request was bizarre. Not just the wording. Leeser had better things to do than chew the fat with Caleb Phelps. “Like hedge our stupid portfolio,” Cusack muttered to himself. There was no way he would ask his father-in law for a favor. “No way.”

  Working on it, Cusack e-mailed back, before calling Graham Durkin to keep the ball roll
ing. All the while, he wondered one thing:

  “Started” on what?

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10

  BENTWING AT $35.83

  Ólafur studied two charts on his computer terminal. He liked one. Bentwing had fallen 30 percent from where it started the year. Sure, alternative energy offered some hope for a world running out of carbon fuel. What did he care? Iceland would always have heat. His country possessed a vast network of subterranean geothermal springs. There were more important issues bedeviling his thoughts—like the kronur in his brokerage account.

  The attack on Bentwing started back in April, when Chairman Guðjohnsen approved the assault. It was slow at first, methodical, a few shorts here and a few shorts there. The campaign had since changed. The markets were souring, investor outlooks growing bleak. Oil prices were plummeting from their July peak. And the strike on LeeWell Capital’s single biggest position was gaining intensity.

  Every time Bentwing’s share price recovered, Hafnarbanki and the Qataris shorted and drove prices down. Ólafur shorted in his personal account. The Qataris enlisted the support of their associates in Greenwich, London, and Moscow. Bentwing’s stock price dropped every day, down, down, down, falling victim to the financial blitzkrieg.

  Ólafur relished the sweet ruin of LeeWell Capital—hedge fund, upstart, and Greenwich parvenu that dared attack his bank. He had always respected Plato’s take on conflict: “Only the dead have seen the end of war.” Before long, Leeser and his employees would see no more. The Icelandic bank would terminate their war with brutal finality, an experience similar to gutting a fish, and a bit more satisfying.

  Even better, Ólafur had recouped some personal losses. His gains totaled over $2 million from shorting Bentwing Energy. With help from the Qataris, the allied forces would continue their assault.

  “And force Greenwich to leave us the hell alone.”

  There was one problem: the second chart on his LCD display. Hafnarbanki’s shares were trading at 704 kronur, down 40 percent since January. And Chairman Guðjohnsen’s warning still rang in his ears: “If our war goes bad, you’re fired.”

  Ólafur willed himself not to worry. The share price was the temporary setback of battle. The Qataris were buying Hafnarbanki shares. The shares would turn. “Someday, I’ll be commander in chief,” he mused aloud.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

  BENTWING AT $33.26

  Leeser sat inside his office with the door closed. He was squeezing a tennis ball with his left hand, keeping rhythm to his clenching jaws. Nothing good ever happened on a Friday afternoon. Clients called to complain. Trading errors surfaced. Lenders called to deliver hard news about their loans. As Cy spoke on the phone, his office at Two Greenwich Plaza felt less like Mount Olympus and more like a crematorium.

  “I’m trying to imagine you with a brain, Eddy.”

  “Let’s do the math,” replied the Merrill trader, ignoring Leeser’s dig. “You started the year with just over two hundred and fifty million in margin debt. You added thirty million during early August alone. That doesn’t include the previous seven months.”

  “That makes me a good client,” Cy interrupted dismissively. “Now I need more money.”

  “Don’t you get it?” asked Eddy in exasperation.

  “Bentwing’s stock price is a joke, and we both know it.”

  “Irrelevant,” the Merrill trader shot back.

  “If you were worth a shit, you’d help me fight Sheikh Bin What-the-fuck.”

  “It’s official,” Eddy decided. “You don’t get it.”

  “Who else is shorting Bentwing?”

  “Who isn’t?” replied the Merrill trader.

  “Is Hafnarbanki on my ass?”

  “You know the game. Everybody attacks the weak sister, and right now that’s you.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” barked Leeser. “Why’d you call?”

  “Your debt totals three hundred million.”

  “Your point, Eddy?”

  “We have our own issues, Cy. Which means we’re scrutinizing borrowers, including you.”

  Leeser dropped his voice, making the Merrill trader strain to hear. “Fine, I’ll take my commissions elsewhere. Tell your boss to hoard cash and pull his girls out of boarding school.”

  “That game’s over, pal. Nobody’s lending on the Street. The Dow’s off twelve percent, and we’re all scared that’s the tip of the iceberg.”

  “We’re not close to a margin call,” snapped Leeser.

  “It’s a demand loan, Cy.”

  “I’ve been through this drill. Right after my partner died.”

  “So you know how it works. We demand. And you pay.”

  “Is this a margin call? Are you demanding payment? Are you telling me to sell assets? Is that why we’re speaking?” Cy punched out the questions like he was smacking a speed bag. His voice grew louder with every word.

  “Not officially. But one—”

  “Get off my phone. And don’t you ever threaten me with a margin call again,” Leeser screamed. He slammed down the receiver, sending dial tone and a big “fuck you” to the Merrill trader. And throughout LeeWell Capital, in the pool room, across Victor’s trading floor, in the kitchen with the screaming-eagle cappuccino machine, every employee including Cusack heard two words:

  “Margin call.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15

  BENTWING AT $30.71

  Early in the morning an unattended computer at KfW Bankengruppe wired out 300 million euros. It expected 426 million dollars in return, a routine “foreign exchange swap.” The German bank soon discovered, however, that it had flushed the money down a toilet of bankruptcy litigation. Or driven 2,130 Ferraris off a cliff. Or taken a wrecking ball to Petco Park, home of the San Diego Padres.

  Lehman Brothers, the other side of KfW’s trade, failed that day. Most citizens of Hedgistan, bright faced and talcum fresh in their late twenties and early thirties, had never seen such a powerful institution fail. Nor had they ever seen the resulting loss of confidence in the capital markets. The world was on edge. No one, god or wannabe, trusted anyone or anything. Not even their beloved technology.

  * * *

  Victor gripped the handle of his sixteen-ounce Estwing hammer. He stared at the three thirty-inch LCD displays. He would need more Premarin soon. He put down the hammer and rubbed his chest. It hurt like a bastard.

  Nothing, it seemed, had helped Victor’s trading. Early mornings and late nights—long hours made no difference to trading desks around the world. Securities were indifferent to work ethic or pharmaceuticals. The markets would do what they would do. There was no good news anywhere.

  Victor’s eyes gleamed red and moist behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s a shit show,” he had whined to Cy that afternoon. His voice lacked the usual confidence, none of the cocky, testosterone-infused bravado.

  “Hang in there,” replied Leeser, resolute and with no hint of the Friday afternoon blowup with Merrill Lynch.

  With fifteen minutes to go in the trading session, Lee grabbed the sixteen-ounce hammer with his left hand, then his right. He repeated the motion over and over again. He was watching history. A few more minutes and the Dow would close under 11,000, a drop of 4 percent–plus in one miserable day.

  The phone rang. It was Numb Nuts, Eddy’s sidekick at Merrill. “You guys have a new boss,” said Victor. He was referring to Bank of America’s surprise acquisition of Merrill Lynch, announced that morning. “How’s it affect us?”

  “You heard about Eddy’s call with Cy on Friday?”

  “Yeah. A page right out of the seagull school of relationship management.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You squawk, shit all over the place, and fly out.”

  “We’re serious, Victor.”

  “You’re serious about losing a client.”

  “Not sure we care,” Numb Nuts countered. “It’s B of A. Their people are crawling all over
our shop, examining our books, loans, anything.”

  “Are you nuts?” Victor asked. “Whatever happened to the long-term perspective?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Numb Nuts said, not so much hesitant as distant. “Your account is dropping like a rock.”

  Victor blinked through his horn-rimmed lenses. He rubbed his forehead with both hands. He hated debt. He hated to lose. At this rate, his beach rental in the Hamptons would go the way of Lehman Brothers.

  “Don’t do anything you regret.” Face flushing red, Lee swigged from a big can of Diet Coke and added, “I gotta go.”

  On the LCD screen, LeeWell’s stocks continued to fall. Victor averted his eyes, his focus drifting to the sixteen-ounce Estwing hammer. He looked back at the portfolio. And in one brief, insanely glorious second of absolute clarity, the trader realized what he must do.

  Victor grabbed the hammer and pummeled the middle screen, full of cratering stocks, with all his might. The screen exploded on contact, shards of metal and plastic and all the internal electric organs sailing through the air and showering the junior traders. In a frenzy, he beat the left screen. He bludgeoned the right. Over and over he clubbed the displays, fury etched across his features. His glasses sheltered his eyes from the circuit shrapnel exploding everywhere.

  Nikki, Cusack, Shannon, and Cy—they all heard the explosions, the shattering circuits. They raced to Victor’s trading station. They stared, wide eyed and slack jawed, as Victor looked at each and every face. At all the bewildered expressions. At his three junior traders, who watched him lose it.

  In that one instant he buried his face in his stubby little hands and sobbed with big wheezing gasps, “I’m so ashamed.” The head trader, Cusack realized, was succumbing to the pressure like everybody else.

  * * *

  A hammer was not the only weapon of choice. Nor were LCD screens the only targets.

  “I’ve solved the problem with Conrad Barnes,” said Rachel.

  “I don’t need the details.”

  The employer’s brusque reply annoyed Rachel. It was time for her to take control. “Conrad and his wife go to the Bronx Zoo every Thursday.”