by Unknown
The first ‘snare meeting’ had been with a private investor, clearly an Arab given that his representative spoke to the buyer on the phone for every response to Tom’s points, apparently he never left the Middle East. That had been a cheaper luncheon affair, to the Sheiks it was all about the transactions not the over priced Beaujolais’s.
Tom had concerns over the Arab. More often in the market place, they would take a potential buy or sale to the very last possible moment before pulling out. They had all the money they could require, they just did this for the sport.
With two down, one eliminated, he was now in a yellow heading for JFK to meet the third potential buyer, Pine. Pine had made all their money in timber from the North West but realising that you had to sell a lot of trees to buy a Ferrari, they had recently expanded their horizons.
Real estate, long the staple for a tangible investment was now very much in their ballpark. Money came in millions from timber but it didn’t quite have the same ring to it as owning a new development in the heart of Midtown in the greatest financial centre in the world.
Tom knew this about Pine through a friend of his from College who was from the North West. His father worked for Pine and gave him updates as and when anything happened. Tom had read his law though, this was an insider source that happened to be a friend, not insider trading.
Their new CEO, Martin Lewis, was a new millionaire, playboy, and lacked touch. Father owned company, father died, ergo, party time. This new found cash made him concentrate on image, the financials could take a back seat. In reality this made him a fucking idiot but to Tom it made it ideal.
Tom called the office.
“Leina, Tom.”
“Hi Tom”.
“Flight status?”
He had briefed the new grad, eager to learn the innards and gizzards of the real estate profession that today her only job was to be on Skyscanner to check arrivals.
“On schedule sir.”
“Good”, said Tom and hung up.
He was well in time as the cab came to the great bridges of Manhattan. He leaned forward, “Mind if I smoke?”
The cab driver said something that sounded like ‘no’.
“Bill me for it then” Tom replied lighting up.
This was the one, he just knew it.
*
The 737 landed at JFK like a haymaker and April lurched forward. So this was it, the Big Apple. She had been waiting to see the great skyline erupt into sight but all they flew over were one-storey houses.
She looked at her watch and wondered where Lucas would be standing. She hated to admit it but she had missed him. Saviour or no saviour he was certainly an individual presence and a rogue unfolding entertainment at that. When he wasn’t drinking he was smoking and when he wasn’t doing either of those he was painting.
April skipped through passports but my god the Americans made you feel like a criminal before you had even set foot in the Promised Land. Home of the brave and land of the gun.
“Purpose of your stay?”
April was tempted to say ‘to get into porn’ but went for the standard holiday option. You were either here to fuck yourself up or make it, stealing their dollars right out from under their noses.
She walked towards the customs exit and knew he would be but metres away from her now, her Lucas. Rounding the corner she was greeted by a sea of dark faces all holding signs and jabbering.
So far she couldn’t see him so she walked on.
*
Tom arrived at the airport and gave the driver a $50 who kept bowing like he was from Japan despite clearly being from somewhere well West of that. He went into arrivals and knew he had a good fifteen minutes to wait so went back out for another cigarette checking he had gum, Martin Lewis of Pine might not like a smoker.
He went out of the revolving door and standing there was the rarest thing, a ten out of ten. Eights were rare, nines seen once a year, but a ten? Being Tom he didn’t hold back but put his lighter back in his pocket and sidling up, asked her for one.
“Thanks” he said taking in her figure.
“What brings you to New York?”
The girl looked at him sourly, “What do you think?”
Tom considered making a quip, “Boy?”
“Uh-huh” the girl said.
“Where’s the fella?”
The girl let her cigarette fall from her fingers, “Good fucking question. He didn’t turn up.”
Tom inwardly celebrated. “Idiot” was all he said.
The girl looked up as if to say, ‘I know’.
“Well look it isn’t difficult to get into town, grab a yellow. Its $60. You got cash?”
The girl looked abashed, she only had her cards and had already done one lap of the airport looking for an ATM.
Tom went into his pocket, gave her $80 and his business card.
“Look, New Yorks a big place, a gigantic place I know pretty well. If he stands you up again, give me a call.”
The girl smiled, thanked him and walked off into the cab rank. She looked back at him, the eyes clear even in the smog of fumes engulfing JFK.
Damn Tom thought. Now that’s a girl you want on your arm.
Shaking his head he put his mind back to Pine just as he saw Martin Lewis coming through customs. He walked over to him and extended his hand in greeting. This was it, the deal of a lifetime. Somehow though in the back of his cranium the girl from London wouldn’t escape his minds eye.
*
Lucas felt the buzzing of his phone and opened his eyes.
“Hello?” Lucas croaked.
“Real fucking smooth”, April spat.
Lucas looked at his watch. Fuck. Fucking cunt fuck.
“God April I am so sorry, look, I met someone who can sell the painting, and it was amazing….”
“Fuck you Lucas. Think of someone else you prick. I met someone too. Guy called Tom, gave me money for a cab and his card. Good looking and nice, hope they are all like that in this city.”
“You fucking…” but the line went dead.
Lucas stood up and screamed aloud throwing a stool against the wall that splintered at the corners sending shards bouncing off the walls.
Chapter 4
It was Valentine’s Day in New York City and like any other festival in American, they went crazy for it. It seemed they put that little bit more effort into celebrations than anyone else. Any excuse to break the routine a city by its very nature constructs.
Roses were sold in every convenience store, giant bears clutching hearts hung under the arms of loved up men on their own quests to make it back home to their women trapped in steel towers unable to escape.
Lucas, usually the master of scorn when it came to openly displaying affection, was for the first time actually excited and openly so. April was with him and the misdemeanour with the pick up thanks to quick lying, espresso martinis to abundance and a forgiving heart was passed.
Since his interest in girls began, Lucas had believed Valentines only as a chance for women to parade how much they were adored by their men, solely to instil jealousy on the rest of the ovary bearing population. Men competed like bears in a pit to see who could buy the most expensive piece of jewellery, or at least the most gaudy.
This was different though. This new desire within him to do something heartfelt for April because he wanted to was somewhat revolutionary. He felt like a sap, a content one though.
Breakfast was the all American affair in the Brooklyn Diner off 7th, eggs, easy over and a side of pancakes
“So, tell me about this Polly?” April asked half way through their third cup of coffee which was instantaneously refilled after each sip, explaining why everyone walked so quickly.
Lucas had to play this carefully. Yes, Polly provided the best route into the art world of New York and what he had been seeking. However, she was a woman, as too was April.
“Well, we met in a bar”.
April took a long swallow of her mimosa, “N
o surprise there then”.
Lucas grinned, “We literally just started talking, that’s the way it goes over here. Anyway, she works in an art gallery. Seems switched on so I gave her the rights to sell my painting for a month.”
That was the crossbow, penetrating clothing skin and even bone.
The eyes narrowed, “You what?”
“Look” Lucas began, “I am not going to give it to some corporate gorilla or some old wanker intent of replaying Turner’s globally. She needs a break, like us, and she will work hard for it. Said she had already generated some pretty serious interest.”
April just nodded, nodded to say ‘fine, not happy, but fine’.
Lucas was fast learning that no amount of bullshit, no matter the disguise would wash. This though was the truth not a lie, the two having been at loggerheads for years making reality almost impossible to ascertain.
They walked through Central Park, the only solace in a place such as this. Rare tranquillity surrounded by skyscrapers framing the green dot in the centre of New York.
April and Lucas walked arm in arm, occasionally pecking at each other. They had missed each other.
“So, do you like it here?” April asked.
Lucas thought. He did, he certainly did. It had been lonely though, wondering the streets alone unable to share stories or make adventures with anyone but himself.
“It would be better if you had been here.”
April squeezed his arm tighter, “Well, I am now”.
In that serenity they ambled without agenda, happy to just let their feet skim over the snowy paths. To be able to do nothing with someone and be content and silent was surety. They strolled past Belvedere Tower and along the west side, pointing like the tourists at the houses on the Upper West.
Their day in New York went by with the two only focused on each other, the rest of the city passed them by nonchalantly. From looking at puppies in windows, buying bagels and reading inscriptions on buildings, all they did as one.
In the afternoon with the sun beginning to hint that darkness was coming with its yellow tint on the buildings, they went back to their place. The tiny studio and the hissing radiators seemed irrelevant.
Within seconds of the door closing their hands were searching each other out, practised but just as eager.
April lay back on the bed pulling Lucas on top of her, both of them panting with strain.
Lucas held April tight in his arms, kissing her head.
With the noise of a fire engine screaming by Lucas jolted into April, “God, April, I love you”.
There they lay in the obliterated bed in each others arms listening to the world of New York spin by and watching the sun disappear for good on Valentine’s Day.
For both of them it had been the best in a very long time.
*
Tom put his head in his hands and barked into his palms. He was seated on the sink of the disabled restroom on the 43rd floor, one level up from Centon Estates.
The deal in Chelsea that would make him immune was still secret to his colleagues and company, this was the only place in the office he could show how pressure was beginning to tell. He hadn’t slept in days, no more than two to three hours a night. Headaches came on like a burning arrow. He had upped his meds by double but still the strain was starting to make him feel weak. His appetite, even his love for the gym was gone.
“Come on”, he yelled into the sleeve of his Armani three piece pinstripe suit just in case anyone from the floor below had strayed upstairs and overheard. There were eyes and ears everywhere, anything to bring the new West Coast boy of Wall Street down a peg or two.
Centon didn’t mind their brokers going rogue, meaning doing all their own background work, pitching and closing. This was providing the deal was closed. It wasn’t just the negative press for the individual but the company. Centon didn’t take unnecessary risks when there was a chance of losing a big fish. Reputation was everything in a market place flooded with real estate brokers and Centon had worked for years to make sure they had been and remained number one for the past six years.
Centon didn’t fail, that was the rule.
Tom didn’t fail, couldn’t fail, that was his rule.
Standing he popped two Advil, numbers twelve and thirteen of the day. He drank long from the tap and then wiped down his face. His eyes looked bloodshot so from his inside waistcoat pocket he removed some eye drops.
“You got em. You know you do. Come on.”
The face didn’t lie though, neither did the slight quiver in his voice. The Arabs were out, they had pulled the night before. Despite Tom knowing that this would happen, it still felt like a gut punch. The building was now ready to go. Contractors were chomping at the bit to begin, they reckoned a nine-month build programme. This had been one of his biggest selling points. He was using Archibald Labour again, he always did, and that’s why they worked fast. They had an understanding together.
Still though this hadn’t been enough for the Sheik. He wanted a six-month spin. That just wasn’t possible. Not in a residential area when tools could only be lifted by 8.00am and had to be downed by 6:30pm.
This left only Pine.
Tom had been so confident that the company and the CEO would take the bait. Their first meet after he met that amazing London girl, who still, infuriatingly, wouldn’t remove herself from his thoughts, had been a whirlwind. As predicted, Martin Lewis, new CEO of Pine was a spoilt tactless rich kid who just wanted to have fun. Fun he had at Tom’s expense. Dinner in Public in Nolita, $300 a head just for food with the whole bill coming in just under $5,000. Then it was onto a club with VIP, then a strip club where Tom secured drugs and a hooker for the brash CEO.
Tom and Martin Currie had spoken countless times since then, each time Tom bringing the fat tuna closer to the boat so he could ensure the final strike didn’t miss.
However, it wasn’t striking time yet as it wasn’t timber season for Pine. Tom knew it was a fluctuating market, they were rich when lumbering, not so much when not. However, the amount of money in and out over a year was astonishing. Right now as Martin put it there was a ‘natural lull’.
Pine would be ready in a month. The contractors said they would wait two weeks. The current planning permission for change was up in ten months. There was a nine-month build programme. There was no contingency. This was not how Centon played.
He had no choice though, he had invested too much. When he filed his expenses after the next month they would see he had spent almost $150,000 on due diligence. This would be a small drop in a very large ocean of Centon pockets if he pulled it off. It would be a major fucking problem if he didn’t. The deal had to be done this week, next week latest.
“Think, think”, Tom spat.
He needed an over extravagant lure.
A lure Martin Lewis couldn’t say no to.
Tom closed his eyes, bowed his head and clutched the edge of the sink.
“Please”, he said aloud.
Flushing the toilet for appearances he made his way back down the stairs and took his seat at his desk. His colleagues looked up when he came back, did they smell a rat? If so and if he failed it wouldn’t take them long to find that rat, laugh at it and then string it up by its cocky tail.
Time was running out.
*
Polly tried to swallow her Murray’s bagel but her mouth was too dry. She had been waiting for a call for the entire day. Frustrated she skidded the bagel along the breakfast bar out of reach and swooped up the cold Sauvignon Blanc to her right.
She called again on her cell and the same message repeated. “This is Charles Kidd, leave a message”.
Ensuring she hung up before the obligatory bleep she took another deep swallow of wine. Where the hell was he? He had promised to get back to her.
Since meeting Lucas just over 48 hours prior she had been busy. Even she was not blind enough to see the mastery of his painting and the opportunity this presented. Art, dragged beyond the do
ldrums by the internet and new world demand now moved quickly. Pondering was not an option.
Neither was she going to ignore that some higher power or preordained episode of fate was involved. And you didn’t ignore fate. Before meeting the charming Lucas by absolute blind luck she had been down on her wits about how to change her future.
Then she had met Lucas and all had changed.
The morning after, despite a slight slug of a hangover perturbing, she had been straight on the phone. Like anything she was nervous at first, but practice made it easier, not necessarily perfect.
Male tyrants ran the art world of New York. To convince the misogynistic and arrogant brokers that she had a piece of art to sell the likes not seen for two decades would require gumption, elaboration and utter confidence.
Her phone rang making her jump. She knew the number, it was Charles Kidd of Christies. Brash, British and brilliant.
“Charles?”
“Speaking”.
“Its Polly, from the Gagosian”.
“Polly, how can I help?”
There was a hint of familiarity in his tone but this was equally mixed with ‘why the hell is someone from an independent gallery calling me?”
Polly took a silent swallow of wine before she began, this was her pitch.
“I have a painting under my name, just mine, and I would prefer it to be kept that way.”
Polly could hear Charles Kidd exhaling, he received this call no doubt a thousand times per day.
“I know how these calls come about, but this is utterly unique.”
Charles cut in, “Polly look, its been a while since we at Christies have taken up something independent, why not show it in your own gallery? Gain some grounding then see if we don’t take a bite.”
Polly knew it was now or never, “Because its far too good for somewhere like the Gagosian, far too good for anywhere but a main house”.
