The Deal

by Adam Gittlin

  Chapter 20

  The following morning, Saturday, I headed out into the still resting city. The time was 5:02 a.m. The warm, fleeting breeze felt soothing as I hailed a cab. Danish Jubilee Egg was resting safely in its case, which in turn was neatly concealed in the half-empty Dunkin’ Donuts box I was carrying.

  Since returning from Pangaea some four hours earlier I had done nothing but read up on Fabergé eggs then sat on my terrace with Neo and a baseball bat taking the occasional snort of a bump or hit of a joint. The thought of turning the egg over to the police entered my mind, but I admit only briefly. They would never believe my story, and I couldn’t risk that no one from the party would remember Robie Hart. I simply would have come off as an accomplice who’d suddenly grown a conscience. Besides, like I said earlier, for me the cops weren’t even an option. Someone in my own history had made sure of that. So as much as I wanted the egg near, I needed to make sure it was safe.

  After a quick cab ride up to 77th between Park and Madison, I hurriedly pushed my key into the front door of my father’s four-story brownstone, which was passed down to him from my grandfather. I punched in the alarm code, shut and locked the door behind me then stepped into the main foyer.

  To my left was the dining room, a boxy, high-ceilinged enclave with a long, golden oak table and an overly elaborate crystal chandelier. There were two Waterford candlesticks on the table, as well as a couple of others that matched a set atop the credenzas and

  buffets around the room’s perimeter. The walls were covered with a cream-colored paper that contained vertically interspersed vines of soft, beige velvet. On the ground, in front of the head of the table’s chair and slightly off to the left, was a buzzer that sounded only in the kitchen to summon the waitstaff.

  To my right was the main living room, or as my father liked to call it “The Parlor.” I took a few steps toward it and stopped in the doorway. The room was warm, rich. It had red-based, Far Eastern rugs covering most of the dark, Brazilian cherry wood-paneled floor and big, beautiful couches and loveseats made of thick yet soft auburn leather. The main coffee table had a brass base and a black-and-white marbled granite top, and matched the many end tables that were at all times, this moment included, adorned with an assortment of ceramic and glass vases full of fresh flowers exploding with color. The walls were spotted with an eclectic array of framed artworks from limited edition Maxfield Parrish and Andy Warhol prints to the haunting moonlit paintings of Ralph Albert Blakelock, one of which hung slightly off center over the fireplace. To my immediate left, snug against the center of the western wall, was a black Bombay-style three-drawer chest with a burnt orange latticework design. The complete works of Shakespeare, all thirty-seven plays, one hundred fifty-four sonnets, and miscellaneous verse stood on top held upright by simple bronze bookends. Next to them was an amber, lacquered porcelain lamp with a silk shade. Aside from anything to do with money, spending it or making it, these books were the only thing I ever remember my father reading. He loved them. So I loved them. So much, in fact, I was a Shakespeare legend with my friends in high school. The small, rare olive green antique books were lined up in the order they were written. On a few occasions I’d asked my father why he cared for the books the way he did. He always gave the same answer. “Someone we both know told me they’re the perfect study in human nature.” My mother, I figured. In the far corner was an old Steinway & Sons grand piano that I was told ever since I was a boy to stay away from. On top of the piano sat Pop’s prized collection of antique cigar humidors.

  Once I had removed Danish Jubilee Egg’s box from the larger, less sturdy one, which I dropped off in the kitchen, I headed up the house’s central staircase to the second floor. As I ascended in the darkness my eyes caught traces of the Ia (pronounced ee-uh) originals lining the wall next to me, drawings of wild animals done with the most intensely obsessive, almost Rain Man-like, detail. Each, whether it was a zebra or a tiger or a puma, was simply gray charcoal strokes on white paper. There were four separate pieces, and each was so lifelike, so ready to jump off the wall, it was almost startling. Even in the darkness the different animals’ eyes were struggling to show an emotion, a story. My father, so I had been told, had come across Ia in his European travels around the time I was a young boy. The artist’s work has been lining the townhouse’s staircase ever since.

  All of the common area floors were hardwood, so I was doing my best to be as quiet as I could. Once on the second floor, I headed straight for Pop’s study. The room had a creaky, old door, so I decided to leave it open. My steps were no longer a concern since I was now on brown carpet. As I went for the desktop lamp, paranoia again grabbed hold of me and I began to ponder someone waiting for me outside, surveying the house. If this was in fact the case, they already knew I was inside. A light would give them not only my location, but the location of the egg.

  I continued to navigate using only the predawn light. The room was in the same style of my own study, which made sense since I had copied most of it. The back wall was carefully speckled with framed photos of him and my mother, most of them black-and-white. On his desk a sterling silver Tiffany cup held some of his Writers Edition Mont Blanc pens, limited edition writing instruments crafted to honor some of history’s greatest authors. It also contained a letter opener and a hand-held magnifying glass I’d never seen him touch. The pens are some of the finest in the world, and the only ones Pop ever liked to use. He always had one or two with him. They would bounce back and forth between his home study and his office. That morning I remember being able to see the sterling silver “snake” clip of Agatha Christie’s 1920’s-style tribute as well as the marbled, midnight blue cap of the pen designed for Edgar Allan Poe. Alexandre Dumas was there in the Tiffany cup that morning also, as was Dostoevsky.

  On both sides of the pictures the walls were lined with bookshelves. Of the ones to the left, on a lower, out-of-the-way shelf, the last twelve books were attached to one another. They swung forward and out like some tiny door, exposing a 13" 13"  13" padlocked wall safe. It was nothing crazy, just something large enough to safely store cash, documents, jewelry, Fabergé Easter eggs, things that were home for assorted reasons as opposed to the safety deposit box at the bank. The safe had been installed by my father before I was even born. Even though only the two of us knew the combination, we changed it annually for safe measure. This year, my choice, it was 034050. The numbers, in order, of Stephon Marbury, Kurt Thomas, and Mike Sweetney, the only three Knicks worth shit for the future.

  I knelt and slowly turned the dial to the appropriate numbers. The safe opened. The main chamber was empty aside from two watches, a gold Rolex Presidential and a gold Patek Philippe 10 Day, and two nice stacks of cash. I say main chamber because this is the true beauty of this safe: The rear, interior wall hides a second chamber. All it takes is a push on that rear wall, and it slowly comes forward from the top down.

  After a quick push, the important goods were revealed. A stack of documents that are rarely touched and my father’s “serious” watches: An F. P. Journe and a Vacheron Constantin, each a tourbillion valued at more than a hundred grand, and an old, silver Audemars that was a gift from my mother and the spark behind my theory on the untouchable Seamaster. When I was young, before he would dismiss my asking to see the watch altogether, he would say, “A good woman asked me, not you, to look after it.” I figured from then on, like the Audemars, the Seamaster was a gift from my mother. Only the Seamaster, which he wore often, must have been engraved with something sentimental unlike the Audemars, which hardly ever moved. I never knew where he kept the Seamaster. It was never in the safe.

  I placed my hands inside and dropped off the goods. I put the rear wall back into place. As I went to reclose the thick steel box, a voice emerged from thin air.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fuck, Dad!” I jumped back.

  “Relax there little girl.”

  “I didn’t hear you comin
g.”

  He noticed, even though the safe was now shut, that the door was still open.

  “It’s not even five-thirty. Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s just fine.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Jonah. What are you putting in there?”

  “Nothing. Signed tennis ball.”

  “Signed what?”

  “Tennis ball. Andy Roddick, the kid who won the U.S. Open last year. I met him when I was out last night, and he signed a tennis ball for me. Anyway, I didn’t want Neo to get ahold of it.”

  “So you woke up at five to bring it up here?”

  “Please, Pop. I’m up because I never went to sleep. The rest of the donuts I just ate for dinner are in the kitchen for your breakfast. Anyway, don’t sweat it. Go back to bed.”

  Pop didn’t move. He wasn’t buying the story.

  “I know how you go out. And it’s not wearing jeans like some goddamned bum.”

  He was fully onto me. But I couldn’t drop the lie now, for his sake.

  “What? I’m not allowed to go out casual?”

  I opened the safe. He started to come closer. As the door swung back I stepped away making room for him. He kneeled down to have a look inside. Before reaching in, he looked at me.

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “I put on a pair of jeans, two hundred and thirty bucks by the way, and my credibility goes flying out the window.”

  Pop reached in and pulled out a tennis ball. The red autograph read Andy Roddick, only it had been signed by me. I brought it as a line of defense against him asking what was up. I didn’t want to bullshit my father, but this was the last crap I wanted or needed him involved in. The less he knew, the better. Safe in its rightful case, Danish Jubilee Egg was tucked away inconspicuously under Pop’s documents in the second chamber. The same pile of papers that hadn’t been touched in what seemed like my whole life.

  Pop walked me to the front door.

  “You look like shit. Why don’t you hunker down in your old bedroom for a few hours and sleep it off.”

  “Andreu’s got me on a tight leash. I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m ever going to put this deal together.”

  “You ever going to tell me the full scope of what you’ve got for him?”

  Why not, I decided. Archmont’s boy had agreed to meet with me, which meant the buildings were in play. Give the old man something to help him fall back asleep.

  “Four Ninety and Four Ninety-five Madison. Lloyd Murdoch couldn’t keep up because of some problems he’s having. The bank took them back as R.E.O. properties after keeping their foreclosure status under wraps. Apparently Murdoch found some new money partners then let them swing back to Gallo thinking, after making sure the bank was whole, he would just purchase them again for prices that reflect this market. I’m thinking he had already made a deal before he even defaulted.”

  “You’re going to steal them out from under him?” Pop deduced.

  I winked.

  “Slimy fucker deserves it,” he went on. “I like it. But he’s as much brains as he is asshole, Jonah. He’s a smart man with the resources and guts for a good fight. It could get thorny so you need to move on him from the opening bell. You need to trust your

  reactionary instincts, let them guide you. There’ll be time for cleaning—”

  “— Up the mess later,” I finished up. “I know, Pop.”

  “You’re one hundred percent sure the buildings are within reach?”

  “Perry and Jake have each come up with equally attractive scenarios. Because of the time constraints Prevkos has put us under we’re working each deal as if it is the only one. We want each principal to engage with us as if they’re negotiating with themselves, not each other. Once we’ve got our diamond, we simply discard the rocks.”

  “Can be a dangerous game, Jonah.”

  “Yes, it can. But not if the three potential prospects never get wind of each other.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Cantrol Petroleum and the Slevin clan.”

  “All heavy hitters. Just be careful here. Any of these people get wind of the fact you’re playing with them, you could find yourself neck deep in—”

  “Pop,” I cut him off, looking at my watch. “Too early for anything that even approaches a lecture. Besides, haven’t I made the right decisions so far in getting where I am?”

  “And where’s that, big shot? You let that kind of mentality stick around, you keep looking down at the ground from your little nest instead of looking up at the rest of the tree, you’ll be knocked off faster than you can say ‘has-been’.”

  “You’re right, Pop,” I agreed. “You know what I’m saying; I’m just tired.”

  Pop put his hand on my cheek, sighed, and gave me a gentle, affectionate pat.

  “You’re a good kid,” he said.

  Then he turned and headed for the stairs.

  “Now try and get yourself some sleep. Sounds like you’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 21

  Neo and I took in daybreak on the terrace. It was a beautiful summer morning, not a white trace in the sky. Having simply tossed a couple of the donuts to make room in the box, I couldn’t remember the last thing I had eaten, but I wasn’t hungry. I hadn’t slept, but I wasn’t tired because I wouldn’t allow myself to be. I simply had too many uncertainties circling. My laptop was open and files were everywhere. I was doing everything to keep my head in the real estate game, in the deal. Neo was curled up in my lap, twitching every so often as REM sleep took over.

  I couldn’t understand why no one had come looking for the egg. Frankly, it was making me uneasy because it just didn’t seem possible. Had Robie or Hart or whoever the fuck he was, dumped it off on the wrong person? Was this even plausible? Had the authorities taken him into custody? Was he acting alone, which would mean I was the only one who knew the item’s whereabouts? No way. A work of art like this doesn’t get lifted by some poor schmuck who miscalculated. There had to be more, but I couldn’t put my finger on any of it. All I knew was that the more I looked over my shoulder, the more I realized I was alone. Eerily alone.

  I looked at Neo, envious of such innocence, and took in every whisker on his adorable face, every slow expansion of his breathing stomach. Something then occurred to me sending an unexpected jolt of reassurance, comfort through my veins. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t plotted, schemed or planned any of this. I hadn’t stolen anything.

  I heard a ping. I looked at my laptop. Outlook had put up a reminder on the screen. It read, “Bungalow 8. Pinner’s Bash. 11 p.m.” Paul “Pinner” Luckman was L’s pin-thin younger brother. He had snubbed the family business, but the two were close. “He’s too smart for meat,” L always said. Pinner had been an aspiring writer since we were kids and now his first novel was being published. The bash, being thrown by his publishing house, was to celebrate the book’s release. Everything had gotten so crazy during the last week that I had completely forgotten about it. One thing was for sure. L would have killed me had I missed it.

  11:45 p.m.

  After a quick “what’s up?” to Teddy, the bouncer, I headed inside Bungalow 8. Immediately, the jungle vibe enveloped me, and I dove in to the sea of hot women and top-shelf liquor. The lighting, purposely tricky, gave way to sexy shading and intriguing, inviting perspectives. Actresses and Page Six regulars were scattered about. I could feel eyes licking me, but not in an unusual way. I surveyed the area, and before even looking for Paul went straight to the bar located in the back of the space, giving the entire span of the lounge a good once-over. When I was satisfied, I went through the plan in my mind one last time. Say “hi” to Pinner, have a couple drinks, blame work, and get the fuck out.

  I found L’s brother seated at one of the tables lining the room’s margins.

  “Jonah,” he yelled, jumping up from the huge couch that appeared to be swallowing him, extending his hand, and pulling me in for a “gu
y” hug. “I fucking knew you’d make it.”

  “Look at you, Mr. Goddamn Writer Man.”

  “Please. This business sucks. This publishing house is so fucking nervous right now about taking a chance on me. The last time they—”

  We continued to chat for a few minutes. I went on telling him what an accomplishment this was, though I couldn’t help laughing inside at the fact I probably made in an hour what he made in a year. All the while I let my eyes casually drift around the room. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw L.

  After a few more minutes congratulating Pinner, L and I headed to the bar. We got a fresh round of drinks.

  “What’s doing? I’ve barely spoken to you since I saw you the other night.”

  “I know it. My fault, it’s this deal I’m working on.”

  Keep it loose, real. Act normal.

  “I haven’t even been able to see any of my women.”

  “I’ll bet you run into a few of them here,” L responded.

  He wasn’t kidding. Definitely a possibility.

  “I imagine, knowing you, the deal’s going great. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know about great, but it’s definitely going.”

  My phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID. Unavailable number. I didn’t answer it.

  “You’re not taking a call? That’s a first.”

  “I was in the Hamptons Thursday night for this wedding, and—”

  “You were where?”

  “Don’t ask. Anyway I end up meeting the hottest, most seemingly unbelievable girl, getting wasted, and having unreal sex with her in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Crazy.”

  “And that was her?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think so. I can’t see her number. She’s been calling all day.”

  I wasn’t kidding. My phone hadn’t stopped ringing since around noon.

  “And, I’m sorry, what was the reason again that you’re not getting that on the first ring and inviting her over?”

  I noticed someone looking at me. It was some guy who looked about my age, sitting at a table with another guy and a few girls. He was dressed in a navy, three-button suit, but something wasn’t right. He looked strangely out of place. If there’s one thing I know it’s suits, and his wasn’t exactly befitting of Bungalow 8 clientele. The cut, the fabric, it was all too—cheap. Once I looked in his direction, he slowly turned away and rejoined his conversation. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but something about him was familiar.