The Deal (14 page)

She motioned with her eyes for me to look down to her right. On the black marble counter surrounding the sink were two thick, long lines of coke.

I went inside and closed the door.

Chapter 14

I fell into the backseat of the limo at about three thirty a.m. My skin glazed over, I smelled of a mix of booze and Angie’s scent. I opened the sunroof and leaned my head back as the chauffeur slowly pulled out of the driveway. I listened to the gravel underneath the tires as each pebble was spit backward as the rubber gripped the surface. The sky looked like smooth black granite. The stars popped like Christmas lights.

Once we eased our way onto the highway, I pulled my attention back into the car. The top two buttons on my shirt undone, my suit jacket folded on the seat next to me, I leaned forward and walked, crouched and fumbling, a few steps to the bar. My legs were further apart than normal as I tried to maintain my balance. I poured myself some Sapphire straight up over a couple of rocks.

Before I retook my seat, I reached into my briefcase and grabbed a CD, Rage Against The Machine’s The Battle of Los Angeles, one of three emergency albums I keep with me at all times simply because one never knows what may arise. In case you’re wondering, the other two albums are Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head and the Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty. I popped the disc into the limo’s Harman Kardon CD player then fell backward into my seat keeping my left hand, the one holding the cocktail, high in the air so as not to spill. With my right hand I grabbed the audio system’s remote control and immediately hit play. From the crushing, precise sound of the opening drum beat I knew two things. I needed to skip three songs forward and I needed to turn up the volume.

I dropped the small remote on the seat next to me as “Mic Check,” or track 4, started to pulse all around me. I took a healthy sip of my gin then lowered the windows, reaching my hand outside to feel the force of the air as it whisked by, extending into the passing night like ribbon from a “Just Married” sign.

Straining my eyes, I tried to make out where the earth and sky met in the distant blackness. As the world continued to furiously race by I became dizzy, so I returned my attention to inside the vehicle. Once I did I saw an image suspended in the air. Everything else had disappeared. It was a woman, seemingly Angie, just standing there at the exact moment we met with that perfect, sexy posture. Her tight shape covered by the same exquisite dress. Again I lifted the glass in my left hand to my mouth. The smooth crystal gently met my lips as I slowly took a careful, savoring sip.

Once the clear, cold liquid made its way past the back of my throat, I graciously accepted the satisfied smile that eased its way across my face. My eyes, moving consciously slow in order to soak in each detail, began to make their way up her enticing form. Her delicate, tanned feet strapped into those spiked Jimmy Choos. Her smooth, defined calves that so easily, gracefully blended into her athletic knees. Her beautifully proportioned thighs as they met the silky material of her dress. And so on. When I finally reached her neck I could feel the excitement of just a little while earlier, in Sam Archmont’s bathroom, as nerve endings throughout my body were connected through bursts of desire. I was eager for just one more look into her eyes. Then—

I got to her face. Or should I say, lack thereof. This was the exact moment I realized just how much my drunken mind was fucking with me. The vision before me was faceless. Was it supposed to be Angie? I quickly rescanned her form. Was it Perry?

By six thirty Friday morning, showered, clean shaven, and rejuvenated, I was already hard at it when Jake came into my office. He was drinking from a Starbucks cup. A New York Post, folded in half, was under his arm.

“So, how’d it go?”

Jake has this innate ability to intertwine weather and fashion. His tie always reflects the mood of the day outside. That Friday morning was gray and dreary. Jake was wearing a Gucci tie with a simple pattern of brown and black.

“My meeting with Sam or the wedding?”

“Both.”

“Productive for the meeting. Wild for the wedding.”

“I’m sure. Let me guess. His wife stormed down the aisle, chest out and full of purpose, to Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” like she was at work gunning down the catwalk for the pole.”

“Not quite.”

“Really.”

“Nope. The song was Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”

Jake took a sip of his coffee and sat down. At that moment rain could be heard starting to fall. We both glanced at the window as diagonal streaks of water began to fill up the glass.

“Tell me about the meeting with Sam. You get what you were looking for?”

“I absolutely did. Even though Sam stopped short of telling me that buy-back terms had been discussed, if not set, before title was transferred, he did tell me who’s handling the deal internally. A guy named Jack Merrill. Once I told him why I was asking he told me he’d call the guy personally, ASAP, to see if he’s willing to field any offers. Or at least listen.”

“Who’d you tell him the buyer was?”

“I just let him know that he would have to trust me on their strength. Let’s also say it didn’t hurt for those old, big-ass ears to hear I was talking all cash.”

We both paused as Jake absorbed my words.

“I should hear from him no later than ten this morning,” I added. “How about you? How was lunch with Jagger?”

“As expected. The due diligence scenario freaked him out. He said it was out of the question, even assuming his family was willing to discuss parting ways with any of their interests. ”

“He actually knows what the word diligence means?”

“Unfortunately, all too well. And you know how stupid people are. He lives his life in this constant state of paranoia that everyone and their mother are trying to put one over on him.”

“Were you able to ease his concerns?”

“I told it to him straight. That we’d be willing to offer financial considerations for operating under such unusual circumstances. So he goes on to ask me what kind of considerations I’m talking about.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Easy there, young Jagger. You don’t just expect me to empty my pockets, do you? You let me know that your family is at least willing to listen to what I have to say, I explain what type of consideration. It’s that simple.’ ”

Jake took another sip of his coffee.

“That’s when the moron missed his mouth and ruined his tie with dill sauce.”

“So, what was the outcome?”

“Said he’d mention our conversation to his cousin Leo this morning.”

“Ah, Leo. The other cheek of the ass.”

“Their fathers are due back in town this weekend. They’re golfing at Pebble Beach. No matter the general sentiment of all parties, Jagger said I can expect to hear from him first thing Monday morning.”

“You think the two dickheads will actually tell the old men?”

“Of course not.”

Jake began to lift himself out of the chair.

“Which is fine with me.”

I knew exactly where he was going.

“Jagger and Leo don’t tell them, it only confirms what we’ve known all along.”

Jake’s back was now to me. He was walking toward the door.

“That the old boys really are looking to sell,” I responded.

Jake stopped in the doorway and turned around.

“You’re not as stupid as you look, pretty boy. Sad, isn’t it? How easy they are to read? You put the four of them together, you get one big fucking piece of Saran Wrap.”

Jake sipped more of his coffee. Although he had intended on going back to his office, we ended up talking about Archmont’s wedding for about ten minutes as he leaned against the frame of the doorway. I gave him all of the details from the hookah to the harp music to Angie. At one point he was laughing so hard he farted.

“Now, if that’s not a sign of getting older.” he cackled.

“Anything interesting in the paper?” I asked.

“Aside from the front page moving on from the drug addict actor who’s missing?”

Jake took the paper from under his arm, took a few steps back into my office and threw it on one of my chairs.

“Take it. I already read it. Hey, what do you think of this?”

Here it comes, I thought. Jake’s idea du jour. He may be a hard worker, but that doesn’t necessarily mean because he wants to be. What he really wants is to come up with an idea that allows him to live off the royalties, and then kick back in a silk evening robe a la Hugh Hefner.

“Little miniscreens in coffins, right above the dead person’s face. You send in a signal through a satellite, they spend eternity with their favorite channel.”

I couldn’t even respond to this one. I just stared at him as though I could see right through him. He turned and left my office.

“Rich people will pay for anything, you know that—” he said, his voice fading.

After he disappeared, I put my nose right back to it.

At about nine fifteen, we all met in Tommy’s office to discuss how each of us had fared in the initial stages of the plan. As for Perry, she too had made solid headway. She had received a very clear message from James Auerbach. He fully believed the board was ready to play ball. He gave his word he would do everything he could to expedite any potential deal. His game plan was to speak with as many decision makers as possible, then report his initial findings and plan of direction back to Perry.

The mutual feeling was a strong one. Each of us had done exactly what we had set out to do. We were all focused, intense, buzzing. Our captain had jumped right in with both feet, as always, leading by example. With the skill and balance of a tightrope walker, Tommy was tending to a significant portion of our combined affairs. He was working for us because we were working for him and he was actually enjoying the work load. The energy of such fierce multitasking was making him feel like a young, deal-hungry animal again.

At 10:00
a.m.
sharp I was by my phone. Sam Archmont was the punctual type. It didn’t matter that he had had a wedding the night before, his own nonetheless. If he said he’d be in touch at ten, it meant he’d be in touch at ten.

Three minutes later Carolyn informed me Sam was on the phone.

“What’s the deal?” I started. “A sixth marriage doesn’t entitle us to a honeymoon anymore? What’s the world coming to?”

“Please. I was probably asleep before you. Whether it was the booze or the fact I’m a hundred years old, I’m not sure.”

Amazing. The old fella had been partying and boozing all night at his own bash. Now he was up talking shop like he was in his prime. I couldn’t help admiring his old-school, balls-to-the-wall style. At the time, I couldn’t help hoping that someday that would be me.

“You enjoy yourself, kid?” he continued.

“I did, Sam. I did. It was a fantastic party.”

“Good. Then let’s get to it. I spoke with Jack Merrill this morning as promised. And, also as promised, I filled him in on the necessary details. Now, he wouldn’t disclose whether buy-back terms had been previously settled on. But, nonetheless, he’s more than willing to sit down face-to-face with you.”

Ah. Such beautiful words. There are few things as sweet as those ultraimportant, ever-revealing moments in the birth of a deal. One of those moments is knowing that the person who will be sitting across the table is genuinely interested. Their not knowing the deal about to be presented is a thousand times better than they had even hoped is another.

“That’s good to hear, Sam. That’s all I’m looking for, a little of Mr. Merrill’s time.”

“Well, he’s happy to give it to you.”

Of course he was. Whether it was because I was a cash buyer or merely someone who could expose his little cover-up scheme with Murdoch, it didn’t matter either way.

“Is there any chance of my swinging by this afternoon? You know, before—”

“He’s on the golf course,” Sam cut me off. “He’ll be unavailable all weekend.”

“Did he mention how soon we could get together?”

“I explained to him that you were trying to adhere to an atypically fast-paced timeline. That understood, he still wouldn’t commit to anything over the weekend. He has plans to be at his house on Nantucket with his family. He said he could do Monday morning in his office, early as you want.”

Not bad at all. Sam had done great.

“Think about what time for a second,” Sam continued. “I need to grab another line.”

Sam put me on hold. Waiting for him to return, my eyes started wandering around my office. Eventually they stopped at the New York Post Jake had thrown on my chair. It was folded horizontally in half. All I could see was the paper’s logo and the day’s headline:
june easter egg hunt
.

Again, I looked at the phone. Nothing. Within a millisecond I jumped up, grabbed the paper, and returned to the chair behind my desk. As my ass hit the leather I let the back half of the paper drop down, fully exposing the front page. Underneath the headlines it read: “Prized Fabergé egg, worth reported thirty million, stolen from U.S. Mission to the UN on East Side.” Wow, I remember thinking to myself. Talk about balls.

I decided to read the first few lines of the article, which started on the front page in a column running down the right side. It began by describing the way it went down. It had happened at 5:14
a.m.
the previous morning. It was an inside job by the consulate’s chief of security who, seemingly unbeknownst to him, got caught on cameras even he didn’t know existed. They had been installed by our government as their ultimate line of defense even against our own employees and security staff.

Fabergé Easter eggs. Many consider these little masterpieces some of the finest works of art on the planet; I know this because a girl I used to date was infatuated with them. Any time we passed a Barnes and Noble she’d drag me inside to thumb through the big, colorful coffee-table books about them. She even gave me the book as part of my birthday present one year so she could look through it when over at my apartment. They were designed by, and named after, Peter Carl Fabergé. In 1885, as Easter was to mark the twentieth wedding anniversary of Czar Alexander III and Czarina Maria Feodorovna, Alexander wanted a one-of-a-kind gift for his wife. At the time the work of a young jeweler, Peter Carl Fabergé, had recently caught Maria’s eye. Therefore Alexander deemed young Fabergé the perfect man to be commissioned for such a special gift.