The Deal (11 page)

“Well then, what’s the point? I mean, isn’t that your life now?”

“It sure is. Except out there, somewhere, are a lot of other brokers who claim they have brokered the most impressive deal this city has ever seen. I want us to end that debate once and for all.”

That was the point.

Chapter 11

As the limo cruised east down the L.I.E. toward the Hamptons, I was riding in the back, solo. Even though the air-conditioning was blasting I had the sun-roof opened so I could watch as the clear sky, lightly painted with thin cirrus clouds, went speeding by. The TV, muted, was on CNN. Wolf Blitzer, at his usual studio post, was sharing a split screen with legendary GE Chairman Jack Welch. My suit jacket was off and there were papers spilling out of my briefcase all over the seat around me.

While I was speaking on my cell phone, my eyes couldn’t help getting stuck on the site of the wet bar. Bottles of premium booze staring me in the face, I slowly tore my corneas away, forcing them instead to settle on the Diet Coke in the cup holder to my left.

“— and I’ve been in New York enough times to know that the Hamptons are about one thing, partying. Business, please!”

Andreu Zhamovsky’s voice was blasting from my cell phone. He was busting my balls.

“Just admit it, Jonah, I promise not to hold it against you. You’re jerking around when you should be working on my deal.”

“You finished yet?” I asked. “Because if you’re not, let me know when you are so we can get started.”

Andreu was back in Russia, and had been for about twenty-four hours. He was speaking to me from his office in Moscow.

I quickly reached over and took the plastic bottle of soda, throwing down a healthy sip before replacing it. Then I spent the next hour explaining our plan. Using my words with the precision of a surgeon wielding his scalpel, I detailed everything from our approach, to all the players involved, to exposure levels within each of the three potential deals, to ballpark financial figures. Understanding that time constraints were playing a major role in every facet of what we were trying to achieve, Andreu was able to stay with me and see the reasoning for trying to position all three deals at the same time.

Through tinted glass, I watched Long Island whiz by as we continued our discussion.

“So, you will essentially be conducting each deal as if it is the only deal,” Andreu said.

“Exactly. We set them all up and pick the one we like best. We come up with a solid, well-staged out for the two we decide to pass on. You know, to keep all relations as strong as possible.”

“As if something unexpected has happened from our end.”

“Perhaps.”

“Won’t the others be a bit pissed when they read about the deal that was, in fact, made?”

“Andreu, don’t worry about that. Trust me, some element of that made deal will be the nucleus of the reason they’re given for our backing out with them. What we tell them will perfectly explain why the deal we did works for us today, and why theirs
didn’t, thus leaving the door open to them with regard to any potential future business. Besides, we don’t really have a fucking choice here. It’s just too risky to pursue one deal exclusively.”

“Whatever you say, Jonah. I trust you.”

“Good. Because it’s time for the next order of business.”

“And what’s that?”

I took another sip of my Diet Coke.

“Each prospect is going to want some good faith cash up front. Meaning they are going to want some money, as a gesture of good faith on our part, even above the initial deposit required while we do our due diligence. Pretty much just a guarantee from us that we are not wasting their time, since they will need to put their own time and resources into pursuing such a deal.”

“This is normally how it works?” asked Andreu.

“It is.”

“Then that’s what we do. How much cash are we talking about?”

“Not much at all. Anywhere between fifty and a hundred thousand, depending on the landlord. Only thing that sucks is that we won’t be able to retrieve the money from the two deals we pass on. But without it, we’ll never get everyone to the table.”

“We eat the good faith cash from the two deals we don’t do?”

“There’s no way around this if we’re to do it right. We’ll just work the loss into our final target numbers.”

“You just tell me how much, and where to have the money wired.”

“Good. I’ll have all the information you need probably by the weekend, the end of the day tomorrow. Now—”

Andreu and I spoke for a few more minutes before hanging up. Everything was falling perfectly in place. Most important, Andreu Zhamovsky was doing what he had said he would. Trust us. Because of this trust, the team was already moving at a furious pace.

I glanced at the seat next to me, my eyes settling on my briefcase. Inside, between some files, was my cigar case. Made from dark leather, it’s the perfect size for keeping close. Wide enough to hold three thick, stocky cigars side by side, but thin enough to fit perfectly into my suits’ inside jacket pockets. I grabbed it and slid off the top, exposing the top portion of the three Monte Cristo #2s inside.

I turned my attention to the TV, deciding I would take a moment to check on some stock quotes from the ticker streaming across the bottom of the flat-panel screen. As my eyes fixated on the shiny rectangle, I raised the open cigar case. I stopped it within an inch of my nostrils, taking a couple of nice, long whiffs, savoring the aroma. My eyes never strayed from the tiny letters skating across the bottom of the screen.

My cell phone rang. Without moving the cigar case or my head, I raised the mobile device with my free hand to where I could see the caller ID by simply moving my eyes. It was Perry. I dropped the leather case back into my briefcase, and hit send.

“What’s up?”

“Apples.”

“Apples,” I mimicked.

“Special green ones James’s wife loves. I’m on my way over to his office right now, so I figured I’d arm him with a little surprise for the missus for when he goes home this evening. Apparently she only likes to buy them from this one store, and I happened to be passing by, so—”

“Passing by,” I cut her off. “Sounds more like looking to turn on that subtle little charm of yours right from the get go.”

“Gee, you think,” she said innocently, mocking me.

“How many blocks out of the way did you have to go? Seven?”

“Eleven.”

We both laughed.

“It’s nice to hear you laugh. Things are okay?”

Perry knew exactly what things I was referring to.

“Sure. Things are fine.”

I hated interrupting her playful tone, but I guess I just needed to ask. Looking back now I’m curious which I was more concerned about at that moment. Her well-being or that of my deal.

“I’m telling you,” she continued, “anyway I didn’t call because I’m looking for your shoulder.”

“Ah. Tell me, what part of my body is it that you’re looking for?”

“Your unfortunately small, yet sometimes surprising brain. I need to talk elevators.”

“What’s up?”

“Twelve sixty-eight Sixth Avenue. They have a full elevator bank that hasn’t been properly upgraded.”

“Regarding what?”

“Motor.”

“Four separate elevator banks total. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the other three?”

“Perfect. Each has gone through a full restoration of all systems within the last three years.”

“So then why the—”

“Let’s just say ownership wasn’t exactly expecting the last few years. Like a lot of city properties, they’re strapped for funds. The final elevator bank is teetering on the brink of questionable stability, but they figured they had some time before having to deal with it.”

“Are the elevators safe?”

“They are. But more importantly we’re definitely talking amortizing the cost of the necessary refurbishing program across the purchase price. I don’t care if it saves us a penny per square foot.”

“Sounds like you’re on top of it. Why the call?”

“Elevator consultant. I won’t use Farkus again after last month’s Lexington Avenue disaster, and I couldn’t remember the name of the guy you used for the project at Five Ninety-five Madison. The guy from Dynamo—”

“Chambers. Sandy.”

“Chambers, that’s right.”

“Ultracompetent. Corning still calls to thank me for finding him.”

Greg Corning. Some twenty-nine-year-old asshole whose grandfather left him two mortgage-free properties. Our team handled all of his leasing. From day one the creep took a liking to me, so I always led the account. Truth is, in a perfect world I’d never even fart on a guy like this, let alone represent him. But in the imperfect world we do live in, back-scratching is simply part of the game. Because not only are his two buildings high rent, thus stuffing our pockets, but he knows a ton of people. And you never know what you may need down the line.

From anyone.

“You have his number with you?”

“I do.”

I reached into my briefcase and pulled out my BlackBerry.

“Five-five-five-three-three-nine-three.”

“Thanks.”

I tossed the BlackBerry back into my briefcase and finished off my Diet Coke.

“You almost there?” Perry asked.

“Probably about another hour.”

“You gonna stay for the wedding?”

“I don’t know. I’ll play it by ear depending on the time.”

“Bash in the Hamptons, beautiful, exquisitely dressed women, open bar. I don’t know, something tells me somehow you’ll find the time to stick around at least for a little while.”

“I may. But don’t worry, Per. There are only so many tall, physically flawless model types I can sleep with in this lifetime.”

“Oh, is that right hotshot?”

“It is.”

“Well if you do stay tonight, do me one favor.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to look around the party tonight, and when you find the hottest girl there wearing the sexiest little dress, the one who starts to make your blood start rushing around inside your body, I want you to close your eyes. Are you with me?”

“I am,” I said.

“Good. I want you to close your eyes. Then I want you to picture me in whatever she’s wearing.”

Ouch.

Chapter 12

As the limo rolled up to the front of Sam Archmont’s beach palace, I was reminded of one of the true signs of real wealth which is beachfront property on so much land you can barely see your neighbors. The home was an architectural dance of glass and edges, a confident yet soothing structure that begged for the sea’s breezes to rush through it. It was like the house from the Julia Roberts film Sleeping with the Enemy, only with a welcoming, positive energy.

I rang the doorbell. I could hear its faint, electronic chime ringing throughout the entire house. Within moments an older gentleman, dressed in a black suit and white gloves, opened the door. He invited me in, and I crossed the threshold into the massive front foyer. The walls were three stories high, stark white, with bold, abstract oil paintings hanging prominently. Each work of art was comprised of more intense, brilliant color than the one previous.

“Mr. Gray,” the butler stated.

“I am.”

“Mr. Archmont is expecting you. If you’ll please follow me.”

Instead of continuing on into the belly of the mansion, we made a sharp left. We walked down a narrow hallway past what seemed like three hundred doors before the butler eventually came to a stop. He stood next to door number three hundred and one’s entrance.

“Please have a seat in Mr. Archmont’s study. He should only be a few minutes. Perhaps I can bring you something to drink?”

“Thank you, but I’m actually all set for now,” I responded.

He nodded and left.

I continued on into Sam’s study, placing my briefcase down next to the brown leather L-shaped couch. I stayed on my feet and slowly moved about the room. The office alone must have been a thousand square feet. Apparently, when Sam mentioned he was spending more and more time working at his beach house he wasn’t kidding. The walls were adorned with yet more abstract artwork, except for the wall directly behind Sam’s desk. That one was reserved for tons of framed photographs of all different sizes that seemed to be of family and friends. The kind of private wall, I realize now, that everyone should have in order to keep track of what’s, at the end of the day, actually important.

A laptop was open on Sam’s desk, turned on, showing an Excel spreadsheet, but I purposely avoided glancing at it for fear of appearing nosy should he enter the room. As I continued to absorb my surroundings, my eyes settled on a glass sculpture that was resting on its own pedestal in one of the corners. It was of a clear, large fish, exquisitely detailed, with a smaller fish of the exact same kind seemingly suspended in the center. The little fish inside was a brilliant combination of royal blue and yellow. Fascinated, I moved closer.

“Venetian.”

Sam Archmont had quietly entered the room. He was wearing a white, terry-cloth robe, exposing more of his chest than I needed to see, and white slippers. His thinning gray hair was wet. He had a low-hanging, gold Star of David on a thick, gold chain around his neck
.

“It’s fantastic,” I remarked.

“It’s dick!” he snapped back. “This putz, Sy Feld was trying to screw me on a deal. Bastard ends up in Venice on holiday and figures he’ll try to butter me up with some fucking blown glass.”

I started laughing; Sam knocked a sip of Scotch from the lo-ball glass he was holding in his left hand.

“Fucking clown, but it does liven up the room,” he continued.

We shook hands.

“Please,” he said, motioning for me to have a seat. “You look well, young man. You look good. Have you been in the gym?”

“I’m getting there as much as I can, which definitely isn’t as much as it used to be.”

“That’s probably why I’ve been reading about you so much lately. You’re spending all your time either in the office or on the town spinning your web. You’re looking to close deals—”

Sam took a seat behind his desk.

“Just like your father.”

“Thanks for having me out to the house, Sam. I know it’s a big day for you, but as I explained earlier I’m in a bit of a time crunch.”