* * *
A few minutes later, Cy was standing next to Victor Lee and Graham Durkin. Caleb was there, too, but he was speaking with a reporter from the New York Post. Cusack joined them just in time to watch a train wreck take out his biggest prospect.
Graham: “It’s not my business, Cy. But is Bianca okay?”
Cy: “Sure. Why?”
Graham: “You humiliated her.”
Cy: “I complimented her courage and grit.”
Graham: “You implied she got kicked out of college for plagiarism.”
Cy: “You’re kidding, right?”
Victor drew close and whispered into Leeser’s ear, “Maybe Nikki should check on Bianca.”
Lee’s interruption was exactly what Durkin needed. Using the band’s booming rhythm as cover, the billionaire turned Cusack away from the group. “I need to cancel our meeting.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Your boss is tone-deaf, Jimmy.”
Cusack needed to do something, say anything that would salvage tomorrow’s presentation. His biggest prospect was slipping away. When Cy discovered the cancellation, he would be pissed.
“The smartest people in my industry sometimes miss cues,” explained Cusack, measuring his words. “They get too wrapped up in the markets. And tonight Cy blew it big time. But focus is what makes people good at managing money.”
“Your boss can’t focus,” countered Graham, “until he sorts things out with his wife. You can take that to the bank.”
“I’d love to show you our shop, the trading floor, our offices in Greenwich.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Then, turning to shake Caleb’s hand, Durkin said over his shoulder, “Just make sure to get me your father-in-law’s coordinates.”
“You got it, Graham.”
“And I’ll make sure we talk family values with your brother-in-law,” Caleb added.
“You want to grab dinner with us?” Cusack asked, trying to salvage time with Durkin.
“No. I’m taking off,” the billionaire replied. “Pass on my apologies to Emi.”
“Should I get a car for you?” Jimmy asked.
“Got it covered,” Durkin replied. He turned and walked out of MoMA’s atrium.
Caleb turned to Cusack and said, “I don’t know how to thank you, after tonight, after December. This introduction may be the best thing that ever happens to my campaign. Dinner is on me when Emi gets back. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
* * *
The rain ended the same time as MoMA’s festivities. The freshly bathed air was invigorating. It breathed new life into Manhattan’s grime, a fine respite from the mandatory showers at the end of every day. Cool, clean, crisp—it was a perfect night to joyride with a seventy-something guy.
Rachel held the steering wheel with her right hand and fussed auburn hair with her left. She mashed down on the gas pedal, eighty, ninety, one hundred miles per hour, somewhat surprised by the car’s acceleration on the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. She looked at Conrad and laughed, her white teeth glistening and radiant underneath the overhead lights of the bridge.
Conrad looked skeletal. Like he was about to die, face ashen, his knuckles pressed hard against the dashboard. He was a bundle of nerves, every limb in his body rigid from Rachel’s driving. His Mercedes, leather trim and fully loaded, closed like a cruise missile on an eighteen-wheeler.
“Pull over,” he demanded.
“What’s wrong, lover?” she asked, slowing, slowing, slowing in the middle of the George Washington.
“Don’t stop here,” Conrad screamed, cars honking and whizzing past. “I want to drive.”
“Oh, puhlease,” she said, sounding bored, as though she drove high-performance cars every day.
“I hate your driving,” Conrad announced, too scared to measure his words, and unnerved by his wife’s absence. “I need to go home.”
“Bronxville can wait for what I have,” she replied, winking at him, ignoring the road and hurtling to within five inches of a Saab’s bumper before backing off. She weaved the fingers of her right hand through her hair.
“Would you keep your hands on the wheel?” stuttered Barnes.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, pulling off the auburn wig, throwing it toward the Hudson, shaking her blond hair free.
“I’d kill for a speeding ticket,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Where are we going?” asked Barnes.
“To the Meadowlands.”
“What for?”
“So you can check out my jets.”
Conrad loved Marge. He cursed his mistake, the big adventure with this cross between a flirt and a nutcase. Barnes had no idea Rachel would snuff his fuse in forty-five minutes.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
BENTWING AT $32.27
Nikki walked into Leeser’s office and placed an overnight package on his desk. The sides of the envelope bowed out half an inch. The contents were not heavy. Nor were they large. They were shaped irregularly—evident from the bend in the package. Something other than paper was inside.
Cusack, sitting in front of his boss, appreciated Nikki’s interruption. Leeser had started the day in an absolute snit. He glanced at the package and thundered, “What do you mean Durkin canceled?”
“He told me last night,” replied Jimmy, calm on the surface and an angry mess inside.
“Because of what happened with Bianca?”
Suck up. Bide my time. Get the video.
“Graham still wants to meet.” Jimmy struggled to hide the white lie. “He had a fire drill back in Providence.”
Leeser’s shoulders relaxed. The storm clouds passed. “Your father-in-law won big.”
“You bet.”
“Did Caleb say anything about Bianca?”
“That she was upset,” Cusack replied.
“Caleb doesn’t blame me, does he?”
“No.”
“She drinks too much. She’s been drinking too much for sixteen years. Last night was just another example.”
“Bianca looked sober,” replied Cusack.
“Let me tell you something, Jimmy. A twelve-step program won’t work for my wife. Bianca needs twenty-four. Now get out of here and schedule a meeting with your father-in-law.”
After Cusack left, Leeser inspected the overnight package on his desk. It came from Hafnarbanki and was marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. The return address showed the name Ólafur Vigfusson.
“Well, Ólafuck,” gloated Leeser, as he opened the envelope. “I’m glad you know when to capitulate.”
* * *
Back in his office, Cusack toiled with the time sink otherwise known as Microsoft Outlook. He answered a few e-mails but deleted most. He never called Caleb, who was in meetings all day. Instead, he considered the videotape and speculated about the risks to his father-in-law:
Will Cy threaten Caleb?
After ten minutes of withering self-flagellation, Cusack phoned his real estate broker for more of the same. “Any nibbles on the condo?”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t closed a sale in three months.”
“I can’t drop the asking price.”
“I doubt it makes any difference,” Robby said.
“Thanks for the encouragement, smiley.”
Jimmy called Sydney next, his ex-assistant from Goldman Sachs and Cusack Capital. “How are you?”
“Been better,” she replied with the kind of voice that says, “You don’t want to know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Jean Bertrand’s running around with his teeth set like a stubborn mule.”
“You almost sound like him,” observed Cusack.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” she confided. “‘Sydney, I need this.’ Or ‘Sydney, I need that.’ And when his door’s closed, he’s always, I mean always, screaming at some woman, ‘Fuck you, darlin
g.’”
“He talks to you like that?”
“No. I’m ‘sugar.’”
“You want me to rough him up?” teased Cusack, trying to lighten her mood.
“Don’t call him,” she said, deadly serious. “He’ll take it out on me.”
“What for?”
“He’s a freak about secrets.”
“Plenty of that going around.”
“Jean Bertrand blames me for everything.”
“I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” said Cusack, twisting in his chair. “But has he lost any clients?”
“Not that I know of. The guy’s a world-class bullshitter. He lies about everything.”
“Bullshitters know how to survive,” Cusack observed philosophically. “Which means you have a job until we figure out what’s next.”
“I gotta go,” she announced, suddenly busy.
“Can I buy you lunch?”
“Just get me out of here.”
* * *
“May I come in?”
Bianca Leeser stood in Jimmy’s office doorway. She wore white cords, a blue oxford with one button open, and a battered Yankees cap. She looked different, but Cusack could not explain why.
“How are you?” He rushed round his desk to hug her hello. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured for Bianca to sit. He grabbed the other guest chair and pulled in close.
“Your wife is adorable.”
“Thank you,” Jimmy replied. “Emi said you had a good talk.”
“It’s amazing what we accomplish in the ladies’ room.”
“I know last night was awkward,” Cusack said, “but whatever happened in college was a long, long time ago.”
“I forgot one footnote,” stated Bianca in a rueful tone.
“You don’t need to explain.”
“No. But I’ve been wearing a scarlet letter all my life. In some ways, I’m glad Cy outed me. Takes a load off.”
“I hope things are okay.” Cusack immediately regretted the comment, too much of an opening.
“They’re not.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Jimmy said.
“Dorothy Parker said, ‘Union is spelled with five letters. It’s not a four-letter word.’ You know what I say?”
“No?”
“She lacks urgency. I should have left my husband years ago.”
* * *
“What a nice surprise,” greeted Leeser, as Bianca and Cusack walked into his office.
The words belied his tone. He sounded like a priest administering last rites. The phone rang before they could respond and preempted, perhaps, a confrontation between husband and wife.
“This is my conference call,” announced Leeser, turning his back.
Cusack, feeling the air grow lousy with tension, asked Bianca in a low voice, “Would you like to wait in my office until he finishes?”
“You still have the names of all our contacts in Reykjavik?” Leeser growled into the receiver.
“No thanks,” Bianca whispered to Cusack, as her eyes darted from one painting to the next. She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and said, “I’ll be fine.”
Leeser continued to bark on the phone. “You’ve got to finish that piece from the International Institute for Financial Transparency. Today, dammit.”
The ranting and raving hardly bothered Bianca, who grew industrious despite all the commotion. She scribbled notes here and adjusted tallies there. She appeared thoughtful and, to Cusack’s eye, the most curious thing. Peaceful. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking inventory.”
* * *
On the way out of Leeser’s office, Cusack bumped into Shannon. Literally. The big man came to visit Cy, and the head of sales could not wedge through the door at the same time as the head of security.
Shannon looked past Cusack and spotted Bianca, pad in hand. He frowned and turned to Cusack. “How long will they be?”
“I’d give them some space,” Cusack suggested. He paused and added, “Hey, do you have a minute?”
“I do now. What do you want?”
“To discuss a few things.”
“Yeah, whatever, Cusack. Let’s get this over with.”
Suck up. Bide my time. Get the video.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” Jimmy said when the two were inside his office. “I don’t know if there’s any way to clear the air, Shannon. But I’d like to try.” He extended his right hand in truce.
“Why?” The big man scowled at Cusack’s hand and made no effort to shake it.
Jimmy retracted his hand, not comprehending the depth of venom. “So let’s cut to the chase then. I can’t afford for that videotape to go public.”
“Think I care?”
“Maybe not. But I have a favor to ask.”
“You don’t listen, man,” the big man said, surprised by Cusack’s persistence.
“Just keep it under lock and key, okay?”
“Not my problem,” Shannon scoffed. “Nikki keeps the Mac.”
“I don’t know what you think about me. Or why. But LeeWell Capital is a small shop, and it would really help if we got along.”
“Then stay away from your Geek friend,” the big man instructed. “I’ve got a job to do, rich boy.” He stood to leave and added, “One other thing.”
“Yeah.”
“You may be a plumber’s son, Cusack, but I don’t owe you shit.”
“My family is off-limits, pal,” muttered Cusack as Shannon walked out of the room.
* * *
Bianca tucked the inventory count into her purse. Scanning Cy’s desk, she found the overnight package from Reykjavik marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.” Her husband’s back turned, Bianca reached into the envelope and pulled out a four-inch nail and handwritten note.
The note read:
Dear Mr. Leeser,
You may recognize this nail from your crate of Seventeenth Nail in My Cranium. What a generous gift to Siggi. I commend your choice of wine, which I had the good fortune to share. Seventeenth Nail is an excellent vintage, the taste dramatic if I say so myself. It gives me great pleasure to return this nail with the profound and personal hope you shove it up your ass.
Sideways if possible.
Too bad about Bentwing. Shorting and betting against companies—like war if you will allow me to paraphrase von Clausewitz—is an “act of violence, which in its application knows no bounds.”
Yours sincerely,
Ólafur Vigfusson
Bianca examined the note, read it over several times, and checked the return address from Iceland. It sounded bad, and the preternatural curiosity of a novelist consumed her. When Leeser finished his phone call, Bianca put her business on hold and asked, “Who is Ólafur Vigfusson?”
“Siggi’s second cousin.”
“I like Siggi. How’d you piss off his cousin?”
“These damn Icelanders,” hissed Leeser, “are crippling my portfolio.”
“What about the secret sauce?”
“Screw you,” snapped Leeser, “and don’t you ever tell anyone Night of the Living Dead Heads was a bomb. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I can’t fucking hedge fast enough to protect my portfolio from these Icelanders. That’s the big deal.” Cy’s face bloated with contempt. He finally said, “Ólafuck is about to get his. Mark my words.”
You, too, thought Bianca. But she said nothing.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
MARKETS CLOSED
There is no escape. Not even on Saturdays. The markets control the psyche of every man and woman in the money business. They occupy the mind like invading warriors that seize, plunder, and rape all thought courtesy of the Internet and other means of modern colonization. There is always the overhang of bad news, easy enough to find on cable twenty-four/seven.
Cusack forgot Bentwing as best as possible. He forgot Cy’s p
reoccupation with Caleb and the videotape from the Foxy Lady. And he focused on matters at hand, breakfast for Emi.
He scrambled eggs with so much cilantro they looked green. He served seven-grain toast, dripping with enough butter to X out all the health benefits of wheat versus white bread. He placed fat juicy strawberries in the center of the table and squeezed what seemed like a thousand and one oranges. By the time he stopped frying steaks—Emi said no more bacon while she was pregnant—there was enough left over for three days of lunch.
“You can’t get this at the Ritz,” he said, admiring his handiwork on the table.
“Oh, I don’t believe this,” Emi said, eyeing The New York Times.
“Tell me.”
She held up the paper, folded to display a man’s photo. He looked to be in his seventies. “Do you know this guy?” she asked.
Cusack studied the man’s face. “No, who is he?”
“Conrad Barnes.”
“Never seen him before, Em.”
“I have.”
Cusack raised his eyebrows. His wife recognized people by names. Faces in print were a bigger problem than faces in person.
“How do you know him?”
“He helped me find a cab.” Emi was never so bold. She usually hung back and waited for others to confirm identities. Not this time. “I was starting to panic. He whistled, and it was like magic. A taxi showed up from nowhere.”
“You saw Conrad Barnes?” Cusack asked, doubt seeping into his voice.
Emi bristled ever so slightly. “Look at his face. What’s the one thing you notice?”
“He’s probably in his midseventies.”
“What else?”
“His unibrow is a mile wide.”
“Exactly,” thundered Emi, who always combed features for striking visual clues.
“Plenty of guys have unibrows,” replied Cusack. “Maybe I should grow one so you can spot me.”
“Let’s stick with the two-star pin,” she laughed. “But have you ever seen one so thick and bushy?”
“You got me there,” replied Cusack, still doubtful.
“He was the sweetest man. And now he’s dead.”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 25
