The First Wives Club (20 page)

Morty just nodded. Zen, shmen.

But there was a lot of talk now about Gil’s interest in the Japanese, and not their goddamn tea ceremony, either. He’d been quoted in Business Week recently saying that several of the Japanese firms looked right for takeovers, sparking all kinds of rumors of Pearl Harbor revenge. The guy had a helluva pair of nuts. Morty wondered if it was all a smoke screen. You could never tell with this guy.

It was like the scandal before he married Mary. When the press picked it up, he denied it. He said it was male prejudice against a talented young woman.

That there was nothing between them. He said he was only her mentor.

That he’d been happily married for over twenty years. The women’s magazines picked it up, and the National Association of Women, or one of those dyke groups, had Mary Birmingham speak on the subject at their annual conference.

What cracked Morty up was that then Gil went out and did get divorced, and three months later, he announces that ow he’s started a relationship with Mary. So he’d faked em all out. And he got what he wanted. Mary stood beside him now, while the other dogs sniffed them both. Morty approved. After all, he had traded up, too.

And like Gil, he’d faked em out. Brenda hadn’t a clue to his net worth, and he’d bought her off for a song. Christ, his lawyer, Leo Gilman, collected more than Brenda did each month!

Yes, Morty thought, I could play in Gil’s league. Maybe I could play as well as Gil himself.

Bill Atchison, abandoned by the geisha, joined them. Good—now Morty could mention Shelby and her gallery and not fear getting the cold shoulder. Money changes things. Not like when he was with Brenda. He could take Shelby anywhere and be accepted.

“So, I hear that Phoebe’s show is shaping up.”

Bill smiled. “So it would seem.”

Phoebe Van Gelder was a terminal nut job in Morty’s opinion, but she was a Van Gelder, knew everyone, and got loads of the right kind of press. She was a skinny, bizarrely dressed piece of ass, but there was no denying that her credentials were impressive. And her conceptual art, or whatever the hell it was, was big in SoHo, but had never been shown in an uptown gallery. Until now. Neither Bill nor the Griffins had ever socialized with Morty, but he figured he could parlay Phoebe’s show into a few dinners and invitations. And then maybe he could get in on some of the action as a regular thing. These guys on the inside always helped each other out. Whenever there was a new stock offering, the inner circle, like Gil and Bill, always got early warning.

If he got in with them, he could make money over and over again.

Serious money.

Morty had made his first serious money with this deal. Now, instead of having all his assets tied up in his business, instead of being overextended, stretched to the limit, he’d got his hands on $61 million at once. And he wasn’t going to part with a nickel of it. He’d got out from under Brenda just in time. She was tied up with the settlement she’d made at the time of the divorce, so this was all his.

Good thing Brenda falls apart whenever you mention lawyers or courts.

It made it that much easier to get her to settle quickly and cheaply and before he went public. Morty had already put a lot of it away in Switzerland. But oddly enough, rather than filling him it had made him hungrier. Gil pulled that kind of money in every year, not once in a lifetime. Morty wanted more. A lot more.

If he had that kind of money, really big money, he’d have them name things for him. The Morty Cushman Center for Cancer Research. The Morton Cushman Library.

The Cushman Building. The M. R. Cushman Home for Wayward Girls. He reflected for a moment. Ah, fuck the hospitals and wayward girls.

He’d buy a team. Maybe the Giants, maybe the Knicks. Who knows, maybe even the Yankees. Steinbrenner, that total asshole, might sell. You never know. And he could build the team, make them something again.

And then he’d be famous. He’d have a real image behind him. Not just as the screaming nut on TV, but as a real person. Someone who had done something.

Right now, however, he had to find a toilet. These people probably don’t piss, he thought. He hated to have to ask. A weak bladder was a sign of weakness. He continued to stand at the window, squinting, trying to make out the Statue of Liberty through the wavy, bubbly glass. The door to Gil’s office was still opened. Morty remembered there was a private toilet and shower off there, as there were in most executive suites. He’d duck in and no one would be the wiser.

No one noticed as he sidled through to Gil’s office. He was standing with his back to the bathroom door, emptying his bladder and almost groaning with relief, when he heard someone enter the office outside.

He finished and stood silent. Christ, how bad would it be to be caught? He heard Gil’s voice, and the voice of Gil’s secretary, Nancy Rodgers.

“No, it’s important, and I’ll call him from here,” Morty heard clearly.

‘No one is to interrupt me.” Mrs. Rodgers murmured something.

“Well, give me the number, then,” Gil said. Morty held his breath.

Gil had crossed the office and was at his desk, just on the other side of the lavatory door. Morty stood motionless, staring down at the frothy, urine-filled bowl. He heard Gil begin to speak.

”Hello, Asa? What is it?” There was a pause. ‘I told you all that, Asa. We’ve been through it all before.”’ There was another pause.

“No, I don’t want it to run until October. Wait a month.” Morty heard Gil sigh. “Of course we won’t be caught, Asa. I have a lot more to lose than you. Remember that. And remember that all the information about Morty the Madman stock is dead true.

Absolutely. So you got a scoop. All I’m asking for in return is timing.” Gil sighed again. “Asa, don’t be an ass. And don’t call me anymore. Now that the offering’s been made, I don’t want these calls.

All right? … All right.”

Morty stood there, virtually frozen in position. He heard Gil hang up the phone and cross the room. He heard a door close. His mind raced.

What about his stock and October? Who had Gil been talking to? Wasn’t the guy who’d written about the offering in the Journal named Asa something? It was a weird name.

Carefully, slowly and quietly, Morty Cushman opened the door and peered out into Gil Griffin’s now deserted office. There, on the immaculate marble-topped desk, lay a small pink paper phone message slip. Morty walked over to it and picked it up. Swiftly, he read and dialed the number.

“Asa Ewell,” answered a voice at the other end. Morty replaced the phone silently. He shook his head. Gil Griffin, big dealer. The guy was a gonif. He was going to run something to jack up the stock price.

Unbelievable. Morty grinned. This was the way the big boys played, but this time Morty Cushman was playing, too. If they wouldn’t cut him in, he’d cut himself in. Something gets published, everyone jumps on the bandwagon, the stock price goes up. Good all around. After all, everybody loves a sweetheart deal.

He left the desk and walked out of the office, leaving the door to the lavatory open, his urine still gleaming yellow in the bowl.

Uh-Oh in SoHo In Aaron Paradise’s opinion, SoHo—the portion of Manhattan that was once only commercial and manufacturing lofts—was the most exciting part of New York. In only a decade the area had gone from decaying, half-abandoned cast-iron-fronted factories to trendy galleries, hip boutiques, and artsy bars, all topped by fabulous apartments carved out of the big empty spaces of old sweatshops, tool and die plants, and the like.

Some one—a shrewd real estate developer no doubt—had named it, not after London’s Soho, but because the area was south of Houston Street (which only out-of-towners pronounced like the Texas city, to New Yorkers it was ‘Howston.”) Like London’s Soho, however, this area became a haven for young, developing artists, the buildings’ fabulously large windows and great open spaces perfect for their work. Tres avant-garde and very attractive to New Yorkers always on the lookout or something new. Ironically, the avant garde had driven up the prices and driven out most of the artists and nouveau bohemia who had pioneered the place. Aaron shrugged. So be it. He had no patience for artsy-fartsy whiners. If they couldn’t pay the rent, out they’d have to go. He himself had had to give up artistic pretensions to earn a living. It was all a part of the maturing process. Still, he was glad he had once had them. It gave him the je the sais quoi that so many in business lacked.

Now Aaron strode purposely down lower Broadway, passing the huge plate-glass windows at O. K. Harris without even his customary glance at his reflection.

Unlike most of the jean-clad kids around him on the street, Aaron wore a brown tweed Armani suit jacket over a luscious soft cashmere turtleneck. Too uptown for this meeting, but he hadn’t expected to be called down to it. Sure, he thought to himself, three thousand dollars worth of clothes and I’m still dressed wrong for the occasion.

He was irritated, no doubt about it. In the advertising game—and rest assured it was a game—he was the best, the Canseco of commercials, the Agassi of ads.

So he knew that dressing for success was not an empty phrase. Well, he wasn’t dressed for success at this unraveling. In fact, he wasn’t even supposed to be here. United Foods was Jerry’s account now, goddamnit.

What was all this crisis about? Just another stupid tempest in a teapot. Aaron sighed. He knew he was expected to bring in the bacon, be the rainmaker, lasso new clients, but couldn’t Jerry even manage to keep a satisfied one happy? If the two of them expected to stay in the big time, Jerry would have to do a better job pulling his weight.

Aaron turned left on Spring Street, nearing the address of the loft where Anton, the photographer on this shoot, lived and worked. A young girl dressed in typical downtown fashion—black tight-legged pants, baggy sweater, and some kind of outrageous African-looking cap on her gorgeous, unruly hair—ran out from an industrial doorway and flashed him a smile, the afternoon sun glinting off the tiny nose ring in her right nostril. Aaron smiled back. Christ, he liked it down here!

Years ago he’d begged Annie to move here, back when the industrial lofts were dirt cheap and only a few AiRs—artists in residence-were visible among the hidden, illegal conversions to living places that impoverished photographers, dancers, artists, and those who liked to live among them had created. But Annie had objected to the lack of grocery stores, schools, libraries. Practical Annie. She’d said it would be hard on Sylvie.

Sylvie, always Sylvie. Aaron shook his head. Well, he supposed it didn’t matter—he would have had to give up everything to her when he moved out, so it was just as well. Now he and Leslie were looking for a place, one larger than the loft she already owned on West Broadway.

It was just too bad he was so financially stretched—by this divorce, by Sylvie, by Alex’s tuition.

Aaron wasn’t used to doing without. He had never had to budget, never had to worry about money, except for that ghastly time when Annie and he were first married. Success had come fairly early, and soon after, some of the family money—trusts—had kicked in. He supposed, after his father died, he’d get much of the rest. Typical. They only give you the money after you succeed or they die. Aaron sighed.

Yes, he was a Paradise from the Newport branch of the family. A Bennet on his mother’s side. He’d grown up going to the right prep school, a member of the Knickerbocker Grays, a student at Mrs. Stafford’s School of Dance. He had gone to Yale, married a Main Line girl, and only stepped out of the mold when he tried to write screenplays.

But that hadn’t worked. The life of a writer had nearly driven him nuts. He realized that he craved excitement, being with people, taking charge. Despite his soft upbringing, he was savvy. He took pride in that. He was a regular guy. So he settled for writing the mini-screenplays of advertising. And he was a genius at it. He knew how to bring in clients, and how to handle em once he brought them in.

Advertising was perfect for him. And with his social background, he felt superior to most of the other guys in the industry. It was comforting always to be the most secure guy in the room. His partner, Jerry Loest, on the other hand, was probably the most insecure guy in any room.

Aaron speeded up his pace, wondering how much longer he could stand to work with Jerry. The partnership had seemed perfect when they founded the agency.

Even their names combined into a clever joke. Jerry the wunderkind, with those remarkable concepts and a brilliant visual aesthetic, coupled with Aaron, the clever wordsmith with the knack of bringing in the business and keeping the clients happy. And now there were five other partners, all creative and exciting people. Paradise/Loest was thriving, with the kind of excitement that only happens to an agency when it’s very, very hot. All the bright young talent wanted to get on staff, despite the slightly lower pay and the much longer hours.

People loved to work there. And they worked their balls off.

Aaron was proud of the joke around the office that was a variation of the old sweatshop warning, ‘If you didn’t come in on Saturday, don’t come in on Sunday.” That was how they’d keep their edge.

Aaron didn’t like to feel he was losing his edge. He never wanted to become old hat, stodgy, to play it safe. He’d been the bad, bad boy at Darcy, McManus, but his copy had been new, fresh, and it brought in the clients. He had style, and he’d gone out on his own with it.

But now, Aaron admitted, there were all these kids, real kids, nipping at his heels. Duetsch, Kirshenbaum and Bond. They had done the classy clothes ad that showed a Ralph Lauren-type WASP under the headline Dress Briish. Think Yiddish. What a ruckus that caused!

Aaron had to admit it was great copy. Then there was Goldsmith/ Jeffrey, Aaron felt they’d stolen their name slash from Paradise/Loest.

He was equally resentful of Buckley DeCerchio Cavalier, where even the president was under thirty—and a girl. They’d gotten the Snapple account that Jerry had been following up on for two years and had run the billings up to 5 million bucks.