by Adam Gittlin
“Now what I also need is for your attorneys to be brought up to speed. I will need them to all be on call twenty-four hours a day starting as soon as we get the green light for the first project. Even though our counsel, through power of attorney, will be handling everything from the contracts to the transfer of title, which, of course, you will be billed back for—”
“Cheap bastard,” Andreu said with a light chuckle.
I looked at the box closely. It was small, about big enough for a softball to fit inside. There was nothing on the outside aside from my name and address written with a black Sharpie. My palms began sweating so I wiped them on my pants.
“— I will want your lawyers to have a look at everything simultaneously, as close to real time as that can be due to the distance between us, strictly for your comfort level. I know you trust me, Andreu, but this way there aren’t any legal questions later on about the way we handled things. Any questions you may have can be dealt with immediately.”
“I appreciate that suggestion, Jonah.”
I took a semi-deep breath and lifted the package. It was light, almost as if it were empty.
“When do you plan on speaking with Mr. Merrill again?”
I returned to the chair behind my desk and sat down, still holding the small box up in front of my eyes.
“Shortly. Take a deep breath, Andreu. Go out and enjoy yourself, leave the business worries to us. I’ll continue to keep you up to date. I’m going to switch you over to Carolyn now so you can double-check with her that we have all of the correct contact information for your attorneys.”
“Remember, Jonah—Mr. Worldwide. We can’t afford any snags. Let me know if you need something. Anything.”
With that Andreu Zhamovsky was gone. I glanced at the door, knowing that even when I was alone in my office I wasn’t really alone. I lowered the package and placed it between my feet, out of the hallway’s view. I tore off the outer shell of thick, brown paper. Underneath was a plain, white cardboard box. I lifted open the top flap. Inside was some white tissue paper. I pulled it back, letting it drape over the sides of the box. When I found the object of my search, I became confused, startled. It was a lock of auburn hair, secured in the middle by a rubber band.
“Jonah?”
Carolyn’s voice was coming through the intercom.
“What is it, Carolyn?”
“I have Angie on the phone again. She says it’s urgent. She says you have something of hers that she needs to discuss.”
I looked at the lock of hair.
“Put her through.”
There was a three-second pause, then a beep. I pushed the button for line four and picked up the receiver.
“Why would you send me that?” I asked.
“Why won’t you see me? You were supposed to call me last night. Why won’t you at least try to explore what we could have?”
“You didn’t answer me. Why would you send me that?”
“It’s always about you, Jonah, isn’t it? Everything is all about how it relates to you. What you can handle and what you can’t, what you have time for and what you don’t. Just like yesterday and just like the other night. You just profess what you want, what you need, and expect that the words you have spoken become fucking gospel.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Again, it’s all about you.”
“What do you want!?”
“I have never felt this crazy before, Jonah. This empty. Each time we make love —”
My mind was beginning to flip.
“That’s not making love, Angie. That’s called fucking. Straight up, lust drenched, substance-laden fucking. And as I have already mentioned, however narcissistic it may be, I am extremely busy.”
“I wanted to hurt myself. Last night, when I was alone, after waiting for hours to hear from you, I had this urge come over me unlike anything I have ever felt before. I wanted to hurt myself. I was thinking about all the different ways I could—”
She paused, as if she were waiting for me to jump in. I didn’t.
“—I could, you know—”
The situation was fully getting out of control. The deal, the egg, this girl. I needed to contain it. But what was really happening? I still wasn’t sure if I was dealing with someone connected to the egg, or just some psycho who couldn’t get enough of me.
I needed to be careful. I needed to tiptoe. I needed to, as always, be proactive. I had an idea.
“I’m not worth it, Angie. Really—”
“The other night at the wedding, Jonah, I’ve never felt that special.”
“I find that hard to believe, Angie. From the second I met you, I simply took you for the beautiful, sexy, confident girl you appeared to be.”
“I wish I was those things, Jonah. Unfortunately, I’m a little bit more insecure than that.”
Gee, really? Is that so, you fucking sick, crazy, warped, hair-sending, possessed, twisted, psychotic, pathetic loon of a human being, who on the other hand is possibly just some damn fine actress trying to set me up?
“Look, I’m not bullshitting you when I say I’m in the middle of the craziest business deal you can imagine. But if it means that much to you, I can meet up with you this evening. Now I must tell you, I have a dinner appointment.”
Get her in person, spend only a few minutes, douse the fire.
“But I’d be happy to meet for a cocktail around seven so we could talk about this.”
“I’d like that, Jonah. I’m happy I sent you the lock of hair. I just wanted to put a part of me in front of you, something to remind you that I exist and I’m thinking of you. I’m happy I kept it simple.”
I could literally feel myself move from nervous to terrified.
“As opposed to?”
I was almost sorry I had asked before the words had come out.
“I was thinking either my pinkie toe or ear. Maybe the tip of my tongue.”
I couldn’t fight the image of a tongue-tip-less Angie spitting uncontrollably while butchering the English language.
“Something small enough to deliver, yet serious enough to send the message that nothing could hurt as much as what I’m feeling right now.”
I picked up the phone and dialed. I waited for an answer.
“Sam Archmont.”
“Any surfing this morning, young fella?”
“Sticking to indoor sports today with the new missus, if you know what I mean. She can’t get enough of me or my Viagra.”
“Well in that case, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“You’re never a bother, Jonah. You know that. I spoke with Merrill. He says the two of you had an interesting meeting.”
“Depends on your definition of interesting.”
“What’d you think of him?”
“I think he’s a pussycat.”
“Atta boy.”
“Actually, Sam, it isn’t Jack Merrill that I’m calling about.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Your neighbors, the Sheppards.”
“Good people, Jonah. What’s the interest?”
“I’m curious about their daughter, Angie.”
“Sweet kid.”
“So you know her well?”
“I knew her quite well. She used to run the beaches along the back of our homes all summer long.”
“So you haven’t seen her in a while?”
“No one has, Jonah. She was killed in a car wreck about five years ago.”
Chapter 26
At three fifty-five I was sitting in my office, ensconced in technology. Files and documents littered my computer screen. I had fourteen windows minimized at the bottom of the flat-screened monitor. The file that was open was in Acrobat Reader. It was a final draft of the contract between PCBL and the firm that would be responsible for the HVAC inspection of the Madison properties.
As I was sitting there, evaluating a document that was
simply regurgitating terms I helped put together, I found myself doing something I had never before done in my entire professional life. I was pretending to work. Sam Archmont’s little morsel of information had completely thrown me.
I had become paranoid to the point of believing that my office’s phone and computer activity were possibly being monitored. A few minutes earlier I had used one of the vacant offices two floors down, the ones set aside for new administrative underlings brought on board, to do a little research on Angie Sheppard. I Googled her and, in fact, Angie had died not five but six years earlier one summer night in the Hamptons. She was close to her family’s home when the accident happened. It was on Ocean Drive. Her BMW was crushed by an SUV being driven by a young guy more hammered than Eddie Van Halen at a bachelor party. The Angie I knew was not only a complete lunatic, but she was also a complete fraud.
“Jonah?”
Carolyn’s voice came through the intercom, shaking me from my reflective, façade-driven state.
“Yes, Carolyn.”
“I have Jack Merrill on line one.”
I literally gritted my teeth. All I wanted was the solitude to examine what was happening, what I might have missed.
“Please put him through.”
As I waited, I turned and stared blankly at the cardboard box I had thrown in my trash can.
“Jonah.”
“Jack. How are you this afternoon?”
“I feel good. I apologize for not getting back to you earlier in the day, but I was still waiting on word from the final decision makers. I must say, Jonah, they found the offer very interesting.”
I rolled my eyes. We both knew they were all probably doing their best to avoid the champagne corks being shot around the conference room.
“I can’t say I’m shocked. Frankly, I’m amazed it took so long for them to agree that this purchase price for an all-cash transaction is a no-brainer.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jonah. I never said they had yet agreed on the purchase price.”
“Please, Jack. I should probably mention that this call is being recorded. Don’t force me to make you look like an ass when I play this for our peers, and show them you had the nerve to ask for a higher price. You know what has been offered here is the aggressive, overinflated price of a very eager buyer.”
I wasn’t kidding. The price I had gone in with was decided upon for one reason. To allow them to make a quick, easy decision.
“Not my call, Jonah. I’m simply the messenger on this one.”
I could feel my real estate instincts starting to take over.
“You’re the chief real estate advisor, Jack. Did you advise the final decision makers on just how stellar of an offer this was? Or did you not?”
We both knew the answer to that question.
“I acted in a manner most appropriate in terms of assessing the situation and guiding my company.”
“Basically, that’s code for saying you told them you had a serious buyer who you should take a chance on squeezing.”
“The Madisons are two trophy-caliber buildings, Jonah. We’re not just going to let someone come in and bully their way into taking them into their possession. Now as I mentioned, we have found the offer to be quite intriguing.”
It was obvious I was dealing with a guy who must have had a joke of a poker face. I sensed myself clicking into warrior mode, entering that place that makes the great brokers stand above the good ones. It was all about the upcoming moments, ones I could feel were about to happen, that often end up making, or breaking, deals.
“But we need the number to be a bit higher in order to make this a priority.”
“How much higher?” I asked, playing along.
“You tell me we have three thirty-five, and I can give you my word that we’ll look to make this a priority.”
My blood’s temperature rose quickly. Three hundred and thirty-five dollars per square foot was not the issue. Some pretentious, wannabe big shot looking to take advantage of me was.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours, Jonah, to decide if you’d still like to move ahead.”
Looking to exhibit the control that had come to define my life and that others were trying to take from me, I decided to show Jack Merrill the light and punch him in the face as my father taught me. Not just for the team, for the deal, but for myself.
“At this precise moment, Jack, twenty-four hours is a tremendous amount of time. I don’t think I have it to spare.”
I decided to show Jack Merrill who, in fact, was in charge.
“So here’s my counteroffer. Take it or leave it.”
“Jonah, just rewind here for one second. If—”
“You tell your final decision makers that I didn’t come in at three twenty-five as a starting point. I came in offering you all three twenty-five as a fucking gift in order to get what I want, plain and simple. If you want to pretend that this was just some interesting starting point in order to churn out a few extra bucks, I’m fine to take my business elsewhere. Are you with me so far?”
Just like that, all of the craziness fell away from me, like the shiny robe from the back of a champion fighter upon entering the ring. It was ridiculous how much, if only for a few needed moments, I was enjoying myself.
“If I may get a word—”
“You didn’t answer me, Jack,” I continued. “Are you with me so far?”
After a brief pause, Jack Merrill finally got wise to the situation.
“I am.”
“Good. I’m not fucking around when I say I don’t have the time for crap. Three twenty-five is the number, and you can forget twenty-four hours. You have ten minutes to get back to me.”
“For Pete’s sake, Jonah, you haven’t even told me who the buyer is yet!”
“Given the fact that we’re going to be paying cash, you should focus your energy elsewhere as this should be the least of your concerns. As I mentioned to you previously, they’re spotless. Once you confirm for me that the number is accepted, both parties sign a confidentiality agreement, one I have already had drawn up, and we each start our due diligence. You’ll have all the numbers and information you could possibly need, and you have my word that the strength of this buyer is what has given me the ability to come in as strong as I have. If you don’t like the organization, which I promise you won’t be the case, you can simply walk away. As an act of good faith, my client will deposit a hundred thousand dollars into your account to show we’re not looking to waste anyone’s time. We make the deal, you credit the hundred K against the final number. We fail to agree on terms, Gallo keeps the cash. As for Murdoch, that’s your fucking problem. Now, have I made myself clear?”
“You have,” he conceded, painfully, after a brief pause.
“Good,” I said. “Two things. Number one, stop saying ‘for Pete’s sake.’ It makes you sound terribly fucking old. Number two, the clock’s ticking.”
I hung up.
Nine minutes later, Carolyn informed me that Jack Merrill was on the phone.
“To begin with, Jack,” I started, “I’d like to have my inspection team on the premises by Thursday morning.”
Chapter 27
I walked into Pastis at seven ten. The Meatpacking District hotspot was already buzzing, the norm for a nice evening. The red tin ceiling, which is embossed with a smart, simple pattern, was highlighted by the clear light bouncing off the mustard-colored walls. The soft breeze from the city was rolling off the cobblestone streets and in through the windows lining the avenue. Above the bar, a wall-size mirror laid out the menu for all to see in white grease pencil.
My eyes scanned the crowd in a way that was becoming all too familiar. I remember at this moment feeling uneasy about the fact I could actually feel myself getting better at such subtle surveillance. The bar area, which is tight, was jammed with all types. People in suits, people in jeans, whatever. The only constant was that most of the crowd, speaking pr
edominantly in European accents, was wearing bright colors.
Through bodies and suspended cocktail glasses I could see the girl pretending to be Angie at the bar. Somehow she had managed to save a seat for me. As I made my way toward her, I could feel all of the eyes on me becoming increasingly inquisitive as people realized I was the lucky one with the hot girl. You should all only be so fucking lucky, I thought, pissed.
“I took a nap this afternoon. I dreamt about you.”
I sat down. Whoever this girl was, she looked delicious, as usual. Low-riding Seven jeans, sharp, plum-colored Yves St. Laurent heels, and a matching colored, tight-fitting cotton top. I hated myself for noticing.
“Lucky me,” I replied.
I immediately got the bartender’s attention and ordered a Sapphire and tonic. Then I quickly turned back to the imposter girl, locked eyes, and said, “Angie Sheppard died six years ago in a car accident in the Hamptons. Out with it.”
Angie shot me the faint smile of a demon. It was a bit bizarre, revealing a glimpse of her potential psychosis.
“You think it’s really that easy?” she asked.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you need to know that I don’t have the time or the patience for this kind of drama.”
“You have no idea what drama can be.”
“Look this is all very cute, but I don’t really feel inclined to sit here and trade war stories with someone who’s seen Fatal Attraction one too many times. You need to tell me who you are. Then you need to understand what is going to happen when—”
“Look at you, Jonah. You really think you’re that almighty simply because you know how to stuff your pockets? You know how to control the soulless shells of other money seekers?”
The irony from this comment, that I can now see, was amazing. This girl seemed to be as far from what I’d call stable or clear thinking, imaginable. At the time, all I could feel from such words was anger. What I couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow myself to see was such poignant, painful truth.
The bartender placed my drink down. I took a healthy sip and continued, “This is the last time I am going to ask. What is it that you want?”
“A fair chance, Jonah. A fair chance to have a real connection, a real life. Can you really sit there and deny what happened last Thursday night? Can you? The way—”
