by Adam Gittlin
“Can I ask who?”
“I can’t say. I don’t have their authorization at this point. But I will tell you this, they’re willing participants looking to come to the table with cash.”
Catalina appeared with our drinks. I stood up to receive mine and clinked cocktail glasses with Sam, who never got out of his seat.
“There has to be more. I mean—I know you. You wouldn’t have taken a ride out here if it was that simple.”
“I need to know the whole situation, Sam. I need to know how serious the bank is about finding the right owner.”
“Meaning what?”
I got up and walked over to the open window. I watched a lone seagull slice through the cloudless sky.
“Tell me what happened. The bank has to have a vested interest in this situation if a foreclosure proceeding for such high-profile buildings could happen so quietly. It simply must. No two ways about it between keeping not only the interested parties quiet but silencing the people handling the proper filing from the city’s side.”
I turned again to Sam.
“Your bank, prior to Murdoch’s foreclosure, struck a deal to get whole and help him get his buildings back. A deal most likely contingent on both parties’ abilities to keep it all quiet.”
Sam wasn’t ready to speak. He sipped his drink and continued to listen.
“I mean,” I continued, “I can see why he’s possibly reassigning funds. One thirteen Eighth Avenue is going through a twenty-nine million dollar renovation. At Seven twelve Third, he just made something like six deals over the last two months that all require full build-outs.”
A “full build-out” means the landlord has to construct the actual space for the incoming tenant on their own nickel, which can run anywhere from $45 to $75 per square foot in a typical situation. Let’s just say, for example, that one of the six deals is for 25,000 square feet, and the landlord has agreed to a $50 build-out. That’s $1,250,000.
“It’s obvious,” I continued, “that the well dried up faster than Mr. Murdoch ever anticipated. Something had to give.”
“You’re always dialed in, Jonah. I love that about you.”
Sam paused. I could see him mentally separating what he should and should not reveal.
“You’re definitely on the right track, kid. But you’ve understood for a long time that landlords often find themselves in the situation of reallocating funds.”
“I didn’t get to Seventeen Penn Plaza yet,” I continued.
The baffled, surprised look that came across his face was priceless. 17 Penn Plaza, a landmark office building across the street from Madison Square Garden. Lloyd Murdoch is half owner of the property, a building with a sizable outstanding mortgage. But he’s not the problem. The problem is the other 50 percent owner, Murdoch’s partner Graham Levitt, a wannabe player with a drinking problem.
“Levitt, the drunk that he is, finally bottomed out. He can’t even come up with the mortgage payments anymore, let alone any of the cash for the upcoming lobby and elevator renovation program. And apparently he hasn’t been able to for almost six months. Murdoch’s been covering for him, and in return Levitt had no choice but to give up a portion of his interest.”
I took a sip of my drink.
“How am I doing?”
“I’ll never understand how you do it for such a young guy.”
Knowledge is king in real estate, that is how I did it. Once in my world I made sure to align myself with as many sources of information as possible. In this case, Kenny Danzis. He’s the agent for the property, a guy a couple of years older than myself. Tommy and I saved a 50,000-square-foot tenant of ours from walking away from a deal in 17 Penn Plaza in the beginning of 2002, when the market was for shit. Now anytime I run into the guy, he sings like a bird about everything going on in the property. Doesn’t hurt either that he handles his liquor like some little freshman girl from Omaha.
“You put all those things together, Sam, along with the other financial responsibilities from the properties I haven’t even mentioned, and Mr. Murdoch’s got one hell of a nut to cover.”
I returned to my seat.
“There hasn’t been any press, which means a top priority has been put on keeping this thing pretty damn low. Am I right?” I continued. “Which means, I would imagine, one thing.”
Sam took a long, accepting sip of his Scotch.
“What’s that?”
“He’s planning on buying it back. He accepted his default in order to structure a more manageable deal.”
Nothing.
“Tommy mentioned to me that this guy has always toed the line. Is Gallo helping him this time around? Is Gallo helping him pull a Larry Peterson?”
“How do you mean?”
“You know exactly how I mean. Did he borrow from someone else to pay off the debt service, then come to buy-back terms with you guys before he accepted the default?”
Finally, the long sigh.
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, don’t—”
“Jonah, I don’t know.”
Sam had never lied to me. I could tell from his eyes that this time was no different.
“I haven’t been involved with these properties at all. I can tell you that I believe you are correct about Mr. Murdoch’s intentions. But as far as any prior deal is concerned, I just don’t know.”
“How do I find out?”
“My turn, first,” he retorted. “Tell me more about this potential buyer. How solid are they?”
“Diamond. They are triple A quality, want to pay cash, and they want to move fast.”
“Why?”
“Again, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I’m insulted. I thought this trust we had between us was a two-way street.”
“Let’s just say they are looking to take their firm to a safer, more risk-savvy level, one that requires some strategic acquisitions in the near term.”
“Are they looking at any other buildings at this point?”
Stick to the plan, I reminded myself. We want everyone thinking they are only bidding against themselves. Stick to the plan, get what you need.
“Not yet. I thought we should see how we could do here first, considering Four Ninety and Four Ninety-five are a perfect fit for what they are looking to do.”
I had hit my threshold of saying all that I wanted to. We both took a sip of our drinks. It was time to switch gears.
“I hope this hasn’t been too much of a bother, Sam. I mean your wedding is going to be getting started soon.”
“Please, Jonah, never a problem. I see so much of me in you. Have since the day we met.”
“I appreciate that. And I definitely appreciate you accommodating the fact that I couldn’t wait to deal with this.”
I had buttered him up just right. It was time for the hook.
“Tell me, who can I get the inside scoop on all this from. You know, about what everyone’s real intentions are here? I mean, I’d rather not waste any time here if there’s no reason to.”
“Of course not,” Sam agreed. “Jack Merrill is handling the account. You know him?”
“I don’t.”
“Top guy—I’ve known him a long time. I’ll give him a call and bring him up to speed on the interest from your end. If he indicates to me that he’d like to hear what you have to say, I’ll have you call him directly. This way I can kill three birds with one stone for you. Find out if there’s a deal to be made, brief him on the situation, and give him an immediate comfort level with you. Sound good?”
My father once told me that business, like life, is all about a consistent string of victories leading to that one glorious triumph.
“Sounds excellent. I take it Jack won’t be here tonight?”
“He won’t,” Sam went on. “I do my best not to bring too many business relationships to my weddings. Too many stuffy types tend to make for a glum party, you know?”
&
nbsp; “I do.”
“How about you?” asked Sam, swallowing the remnants of his drink. “You going to stick around?”
“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t I fall into the stuffy, business-relationship type you were just referring to?”
“I’ve seen the way you party and I’ve even stared, admittedly inappropriately, at the girls you date. The sight of any one of them naked for ten seconds would kill me. You’re my kind of stuffy.”
Chapter 13
When I reentered the front foyer I was surprised to see all of the activity. A waiter dressed in a tuxedo and white gloves approached me with a tray of filled champagne glasses.
“Monsieur.”
I took a glass, and before my first sip had even slid down my throat there was another waiter trailing with a platter of mini-quiche. I waved him off, and downed the sweet liquid in my flute before the initial penguin could get away. I took another, replacing the spot on the tray of my fresh drink with the glass I had just polished off.
Beyond the front foyer I could see the crowd gathering. There were men and women of all ages. They all had one thing in common: money. Some were more casual than others, but everyone was draped in designer clothes be it a Canali tuxedo or a Valentino couture cocktail dress. The rear wall of the house, leading out to the terrace and beach, was glass from the floor to the two-story high ceiling. Everything seemed to be made of either white or pale gray marble, and the women all looked beautiful as the summer sun snuck away against the backdrop of a clear, aqua sky. The amalgamation of separate conversations bounced between the walls, running together creating one muffled, monotone sound.
Thinking of all the work that lay ahead, I turned toward the front where my limo waited. Inside the stretch there were a couple more drinks and a nice joint, both items that undoubtedly would have helped me get a little sleep. I readied myself for my first step. Only just as I did, in blew all the reason I needed to stay.
She stood about five and a half feet tall, wearing the sexiest pale blue, clinging, satin summer dress that stopped a few inches above her tanned knees. She had on strappy little matching Jimmy Choos, and her toenails were painted a shade of blue that perfectly mirrored her dress. Her eyes were a glowing, icy gray. They almost appeared transparent. I know because she made sure to look at me as she brushed by. Her straight, chin-length auburn hair showed off her chiseled facial features. Her figure could have made even a blind man fall to his knees. I watched from behind, dazzled, as she sauntered into the house.
As she made it outside, standing just beyond one of the sliding glass doors leading out back, she pulled her cell from her tiny gold purse and answered it. I followed her, making a quick stop at the bar before my approach. I offered her champagne without a word as she ended her call. She smiled appreciatively, placed her cell back in her purse, and took it from me.
“Jonah Gray.”
“Well, Jonah Gray, don’t you think it’s a little early in this relationship for you to be trying to get me drunk?”
“Actually, all I really wanted to find out is if your name and voice are as pretty as the rest of you.”
Ever so slightly, the corner of her mouth turned up.
“Very smooth there, Mr. Gray,” she said. “Very smooth indeed. Although, what makes you so sure I’m your type?”
“I don’t have a type,” I conceded, truthfully. “Although I did have a phase once. It was in college. Brunettes who liked to wear their hair in a ponytail and looked great from behind running on a treadmill.”
Giggling, she extended her hand.
“Angie Sheppard.”
I took her hand, which I couldn’t help noticing fit perfectly in mine.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angie.”
Few things are as sexy as a woman with a perfectly stern yet feminine handshake.
“Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?” I asked.
“The groom. My family’s beach house is the one right next door. You may have seen it on your way, depending on which direction you were coming. From the look of you, my guess is that you passed it.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because you’re one hundred percent city boy. You were definitely driving east.”
“White, three-story ultracontemporary, perched on its own hill about thirty feet above sea level. Set far back off the dunes, possibly the best view of the ocean imaginable.”
Again, the smile. Perfect, cloud white teeth framed by glossy, enticing lips.
“How long have you known Sam?”
“About ten years, since he bought this house. I know the whole family.”
A harp started to play George Michael’s “Careless Whisper.” We both laughed.
“Are you here alone tonight, Angie?”
“Actually, I am. My father got held up out west on business, so he and my mother were unable to get back in time. I’m representing the whole family.”
“Whole family, meaning you’re an only child,” I mentioned. “So am I.”
We paused and both immediately focused again on the ridiculous song. More laughter.
“Nothing like the classics,” she quipped.
The setting for the party was definitely happening, yet far from standard. It was very Sam Archmont. Very in line with a financially loaded sixty-nine-year-old party machine marrying his sixth wife, a twenty-three-year-old dancer from Scores. The huge pool had been covered over with Plexiglas, acting as the dance floor, while the surrounding terrace was where the tables were placed. No assigned seating, just tables to casually sit at whenever you felt like eating. There was to be no set dinner, just trays of mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres to be passed throughout the entire evening. Very chic. The actual ceremony was to take place by the water.
We started to walk together as we talked, and I noticed a few people slow dancing over the turquoise water as the sun continued to lower. The sky was starting to melt into neon streaks of pink and orange.
“Care to dance? I think we still have a little bit of time before the ceremony.”
“You don’t stop with the charm, do you? Are you as good with your feet as you seem to be with your mouth?”
Now we were getting somewhere. We stepped on to the edge of the dance floor, and casually, gently pulled each other close around the waist with our left arms as we held our champagne glasses with our right. I could feel her tight lower back muscles underneath the soft material acting as her second skin. I was so close that I could see the tiny yellow speckles scattered within the color of her eyes. Her subtle, flowery smell was intoxicating.
“I never asked,” she continued, “which side of the marriage are you here for? You better not say you know the bride through work.”
“Very cute. Actually I’m here with Sam as well. I came out of the city for a quick business meeting earlier, and he asked me to stay for the party.”
“You seem young to be riding out to Sam Archmont’s Hamptons house for a private business meeting right before he gets married. Should I be impressed?”
“I don’t know. That depends on what impresses you.”
At that moment a waiter appeared carrying a tray of chilled vodka shots in assorted flavors.
“Interested?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
I was. I took one straight up.
“Why not,” she decided. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we? I’ll have one of the vanilla.”
We clinked our tiny glasses and drank the shots, immediately placing them back on the tray of the waiting penguin. By this time the harp player had moved into Billy Ocean’s “Suddenly,” and we were again dancing ever so slowly. It was at this time that I noticed a crowd gathering on the opposite side of the terrace. We once again cleaved our way through the sea of guests. As we approached, we looked at each other as the thick, unmistakable smell of marijuana became stronger with each step.
Like I said, not your run-of-the-mill wedding. A cr
owd had gathered around a table that had a hookah in its center, a hookah being a water pipe with the extraordinary capability of letting five different people smoke from it at the same time. The apparatus is quite simple. In the center is the main water chamber and bowl where the weed is actually lit. Around it, extending from the center like tentacles from an octopus, are five equidistant, thin rubber hoses each with a mouthpiece.
This was classic. In spot number one was an older man wearing an Armani tuxedo, balding and holding a Jack Daniels in his free hand. I would have never guessed his profession if it hadn’t been for one of his buddies yelling, ‘Hey, counselor! You learn to smoke that shit at Harvard?’ In spot number two was a very distinguished looking woman, slender and tall wearing some of the finest jewelry I have ever seen to go along with her black evening dress. She appeared to be a socialite type, the kind who seemed like she ran a large philanthropic organization or sat on the board of one of the museums. In spot number three was Teddy, one of the waiters and the crowd favorite. In spot number four was the bride-to-be wearing, believe it or not, something that resembled a barely-there wedding dress made mostly of Lycra. In spot number five was Timmy, the florist for the affair and a man gayer than a pastel rainbow.
Everyone got ready and another waiter, standing on a chair in order to reach the center chamber, lit the bowl perched atop. Through the brown glass we could see the small pile of pot flare up as smoke funneled into the five participants’ lungs. Ms. Socialite, coughing, was the first to pull away.
“Who’s up next?” asked the man whose job was to ignite the giant pot instrument.
“We are,” Angie chimed in.
“We are?” I responded, surprised.
“Trust me, charm boy,” she continued half-jokingly, “I’m not half as innocent as you think.”
The crowd, drawn to Angie’s sexiness just as I was, started to clap and hoot, egging us on. Truth is I didn’t need any coaxing. I had simply been trying to be a gentleman and, I must admit, I was genuinely shocked by her versatility. Something that, for better or worse, immediately reminded me of myself. We took our places, and within moments were drawing the delicious smoke for ourselves, our eyes teasingly glancing at each other the whole time.
