About Face (32 page)

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Are they happy with the number? Or do they still think they came up short?”

“Long or short, they're walking away with a nice little pile of cash. I think they're just fine with it.”

Brand's eyes move from mine to over my shoulder.

“Ah—Enzo!” he says, saved. “Enzo. Please,” he goes on, voice loud as he waves him over. “Please. Won't you come say hello to our guests of honor—who just happen to be your new landlord.”

Enzo Alessi is definitely a presence. Dressed in a taut, custom-made navy windowpane-pattern Brioni suit, his gold tie knot thick, bold, he presents himself.

“We are very excited, and honored, to have you all here today. Ryan tells me we are in the hands of a very capable new landlord—one whom is European based, which actually makes me feel a bit closer to home.”

Alessi is tall, probably six three or four, with a large head and very prominent facial features, and perfectly coiffed thick salt-and-pepper hair. And he knows how to work the crowd.

“Enzo, meet Cobus de Bont,” Brand introduces them. “Cobus is the founder and chairman of de Bont Beleggings.”

They shake hands.

“It's nice to meet you,” Cobus says. “I'm a fan of your restaurants. And we're very much looking forward to entering this market and having you as tenant.”

As I'm staring at this guy, I can't help wondering what I'm not seeing. I get it that he and Brand are working each other, but where did Scott Green come in? Why was he so scared that he'd rather kill himself than go to the police?

“Not just any tenant,” I cut in, “but an anchor tenant. One locked in for a while thanks to your recent lease signing.”

His eyes, and extended hand, move to me.

“Anchor tenant—I like that. And you are?”

“Ivan Janse. I work with Cobus.”

“Ivan has been spearheading the acquisition,” Cobus chimes in. “I'm just along for the ride.”

At that moment, a waiter comes by with a tray of champagne flutes.

“Please,” Enzo says, taking the filled glasses and passing them around, “A toast, if I may. To our new landlord and a nice working relationship.”

“You know, your family has a lot of places to look after in a number of cities. Is that difficult?” I ask Enzo.

“We have a world-class organization, Mr.—”

“Janse. But please—call me Ivan.”

“Ivan. One of the first things my father taught me is that it all starts with the right team. From myself down to hardworking men and women who clean up after hours, we're all in it for the same common goal. An unmatched experience.”

“So it all begins and ends with you.”

Alessi raises his eyebrows.

“If you're asking do I accept the burden of knowing our success or failure ultimately falls to me—then, yes. I take our family's name very seriously, Ivan. I gladly welcome the responsibility of making sure our establishments live up to the standards my father set years ago.”

“Your father. I believe I read somewhere he isn't well,” I add. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, well, he is a strong, spirited man with a lot of fight. So, why don't we all—”

“Where do you actually consider your home base? Meaning, where is the firm actually incorporated?” I barrel forward. “If I'm correct, the checks come from what is a U.S.-based subsidiary of the Milan-based headquarters, correct?”

“Perhaps this is a conversation for later,” Julia tries to diffuse the situation.

“Why do you ask?”

“I'm just a man of detail, Enzo. Cobus will tell you, I like to have as much knowledge as possible when it comes to a building's tenant roster. Makes for a much easier time dealing with whatever situations arise. And I can promise you, things always come up.”

Enzo, holding it together nicely, thinks for a second before responding.

“That is correct. We are a Milan-based company.”

“And you handle it the way you do for tax purposes, I imagine. Meaning there must be significant tax ramifications for having separate companies in each country as opposed to having separate subsidiaries that fall under the parent.”

“I'm sorry. We are a private company, so we don't discuss how
we handle our tax matters. I'm sure you understand, being a private company yourself.”

“Of course. Interesting. I'm just curious—how much of the corporate structure you've devised is based on the taxes as they relate to your staff?”

“Ivan, I really think this should wait until later,” Julia again tries to interject.

“I'm sorry, Ivan, why is it, once again, you are so interested?” Enzo goes on.

“Nothing more than due diligence. I just like to have as much knowledge as possible about with whom we're getting into business.”

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

“Well, rest assured we are exactly the type of tenant you are happy to have. One that increases the value of your property.”

“Well, I guess that ultimately remains to be seen when one's dealing with such a unique piece of real estate.”

Cobus places his hand on my back.

“Ivan—may I have a word?”

“Of course.”

“Please help yourself to some hors d'oeuvres,” Enzo says, looking to bow out gracefully. “Try my son's favorite—the langoustine fritters in a lychee and dragon fruit glaze; just amazing.”

Not so fast.

“Thanks for having us,” I go on. “Hey, I've been thinking about taking a trip to South America. I read your family has a villa down there. Colombia maybe? Or Argentina?”

“Uruguay.”

“Right—Uruguay. I've heard it's a beautiful country. I'm guessing the amount of hours you put in hardly leaves much time for getting down there.”

“There's never enough time vacationing with one's family. Now if you'll excuse me …”

Cobus and I step aside.

“What are you doing, Ivan?”

“Learning about our tenant.”

“That's you grilling our new tenant—a tenant with a fine reputation. We are both quite familiar with your due diligence practice and techniques. This was not that. This was you being aggressive. Why?”

Over Cobus's shoulder I see Brand and Alessi having what seems to be an intense conversation.

Back off.

Keep Cobus where he needs to be.

To get where I need to go.

“I see what you're saying. Perhaps it was a bit more of a discussion than we needed to have right now,” I concede. “Maybe I'm a bit on edge because I haven't been sleeping well since we've arrived.”

Cobus, Arnon, and I are riding up in the hotel elevator following lunch.

“Dinner with GlassWell isn't until eight. I believe Mr. Spencer himself is joining us.”

“He is,” I confirm. “I'm going to spend a little time going through the arrears reports for The Hague properties. I'll see you downstairs when the car arrives.”

I step into my room. After waiting five minutes, I head back downstairs and out into the city.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

I'm so tired.

I knew these few days would be brutal, but I underestimated just how worn down—mentally, as well as physically—I'd get. I have a massive headache. Everything is amplified. The city sounds aren't just entering my ears, they're reverberating through my entire body.

I take the disposable from inside my suit jacket and dial the main number for PCBL, my old firm. I remember the number by heart.

“PCBL, good afternoon,” a cheery voice answers.

“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Jake Donald this afternoon, and I wanted to confirm his office is still on the eighteenth floor.”

A brief pause.

“Actually, Mr. Donald is on nineteen.”

Interesting. The Management Team floor. Looks as if someone has left the life of a broker behind.

“Ah—nineteen. Right. I appreciate the help.”

“Of course. We'll see you later.”

My eyelids are really heavy.

Fuck.

Before hailing a cab to go see and rock the world of my old partner and close friend Jake, I see a bodega. I move toward it, thinking a Coke, iced tea, something with caffeine. But a little couple-ounce bottle called “Life Fuel”—with the tagline, “Coffee, what? Wake up! Fuel for Hours!” catches my eye.

I place two of the cherry-flavor bottles on the counter. I pay for them, shoot one down, and put the other in my pocket. Then hail a cab.

Steps before entering the famed Chrysler Center—where I used to work—my mind kicks into gear. Nowadays security for large office properties in all cities is beyond tight and starts the second one enters the lobby. One of the keys to understanding how to beat security in a busy building like the Chrysler Center: traffic flow.

My eyes shielded by sunglasses, I step into the lobby. Pretending to be speaking on my cell, I stop immediately. The first thing I take notice of is the security counter. The checkpoint is equipped with guards checking people into the building—or granting temporary building passes for those who show proper identification and are on the security guest list for the day. At the moment there are three guards working the desk. And they are completely inundated, no doubt feeling the pressure of a line of people looking to carry on with their days.

I put my phone away, flip my sunglasses onto my head, and blend in with the flow of traffic heading toward the elevator bank servicing the floor I need, deliberately never even looking in the direction of the security desk. Just as I'm about to reach the bidirectional optical turnstile—the one that will only open with the bar code from a full-time employee or day pass—I do an about face.

Just like life, it's all about the timing.

And just like that, it appears as if I'm coming from the elevator bank.

“Fuck!” I yell.

But not a yell like I'm at a Knicks game and I want the ref to
hear, more of a what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking yell that is just loud enough for those around me to hear—including the security guards. Right on point each of the three glances up at me. I catch one's eye. I take three steps toward him.

“My cell phone. I left it upstairs. PCBL,” I say, throwing my thumb backward over my shoulder.

Always own the words that come out of your mouth, Pop always said.

And if you need to look like you belong—then look like you belong.

The security guard nods.

The acrylic barrier wing panels of the high-tech turnstile swing open.

“And how might we help you today?” asks the receptionist as I approach.

The PCBL reception area has gone through a facelift since I've last been here. The walls are still the same light shade of cream lined with the same trademark black-and-white stills of the Manhattan skyline, but the space feels fresher, cleaner, more vibrant. The hunter-green carpeting has been replaced with carpet containing a smart, contemporary, cream-and-beige pattern. All of the mahogany—the wood, the doors, the furniture—has been replaced by lighter wood, most likely soft maple or birch. Lots of glass still allows the light to flow freely, evenly throughout the space. Flowers, as always, are everywhere—big, bold bouquets of vibrant, rare species that look like they've been pulled from every exotic forest on the planet.

“Good afternoon. I have a four p.m. appointment with Jake Donald.”

“Very well then. Let me just ring his office.”

We both wait in silence for a moment.

“Yes, Mr. Donald's four p.m. is in reception,” she continues when the other end picks up.

She comes back to me.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Donald's assistant doesn't see anything on the books for four p.m. What did you say your name is?”

“I didn't give it to you. And I have to confess, I don't have a four p.m.” I say, motioning to her to cover the microphone bud on the headset she's speaking into, which she does. “I'm an old college friend of Mr. Donald's whom he hasn't seen in fifteen years. I just happened to be in town and was really hoping to surprise him.”

“Oh, that's so cool of you,” she said, “but unfortunately I can't let you in or request someone out here unless I'm given a name. I hope you can understand.”

Not only do I understand, I was planning on it.

“Of course I do. Well, it was worth a try.”

Jake used to refer to a college friend he was close to but never really saw again after school because the guy lived in Seattle.

“Please just let him know that Mason Brody's here.”

The receptionist relays the message. Then tells me Mr. Donald is on his way out.

I told myself I would detach upon walking into this office. I would keep my thoughts in the present and not let them pull me into the past. But my old life starts coming at me like a boxer's jabs—an image of my old senior partner Tommy sitting behind his desk, another of the old Perry tearing into someone in the very conference room off right now to my left. So much happened here. From the business, to the personal. This place is still a part of me, always will be. The moment reinforces for me that we can never escape who we are, or where we've been. All we can do as people is take any and every situation that happens in our lives, and ask ourselves what we were supposed to learn from it as we figure out how to move forward.

A door from the offices leading into reception opens. Out walks my old partner, my old friend Jake Donald. His face looks essentially the same but is older, rounder. Same as the rest of his body as he appears to have ballooned in weight.

He looks at me, then to the receptionist. He's confused.

I walk toward him.

“I'm sorry, I was told—”

“It's great to see you, Jake,” I cut him off. “An old friend wanted me to show you this…”

I hold up my iPhone right in front of his face. The screen is on the notepad app, with the following words typed: