The Gods of Greenwich (16 page)

“I may never leave Paris.”

“Stick with me, and you’ll own Paris.”

Rachel’s ears pricked up. “How so, Kemosabe?”

Five minutes later, and Rachel got it: the risk, the opportunity, and the prevailing market conditions. She found it odd that people could make money whether a stock was going up or down. Time to keep her head down and focus on the new target, a guy named Conrad Barnes from Bronxville. She was still trying to understand the new tone in Kemosabe’s voice, a curious mix of salesmanship and unbridled fury.

I bet he’s wearing war paint,
she thought.

WEDNESDAY
,
JUNE
18
BENTWING AT
$61.22

“Cy, have you given any more thought to the Goncharova?”

Siggi was referring to a painting by Natalia Goncharova. A Russian painter, she lived from 1881 to 1962. The art dealer reckoned that his biggest client would appreciate her Cubist leanings.

“No, in all honesty,” replied Leeser. “Too busy running my business. You know how it is.”

“I totally understand. I don’t mean to pressure you.”

“Not at all,” Leeser said. “We’ve been dancing around this one for how long?”

“Two months. But it’s okay.”

“No, it’s time I make a decision.”

“It’s okay,” Siggi repeated.

Leeser’s eyes narrowed. He twirled his long black hair with an index finger. Was it desperation in the Icelander’s voice? Or was it opportunity? Cy detected something but could not tell what. “Will your seller take three million?”

“The estate is firm on four.”

“‘Estate.’ What do you mean?”

“I’ve said too much already.”

“You can tell me,” pressed Leeser, detecting a nervous timbre from the art dealer, or so he thought.

“The family patriarch was a good friend. And he’s turning over in his grave because the heirs are splitting up his collection.”

“It’s just business.”

“It’s the legacy of a man’s life,” argued Siggi, “which his kids don’t appreciate. They want to dump the Goncharova. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“How come they won’t take three?” asked Leeser, ignoring the Icelander’s sick stomach.

“Because somebody else has an interest.”

Siggi leaned back in his chair. He waited for Reykjavik’s damp ocean breezes to whip through the open windows and rearrange the dust inside the tiny office of his gallery. Then he cast a line with enough live bait hanging from the hook to snag a big one.

“Somebody else with an interest in excess of four million.” He yawned, his voice quivering ever so slightly. “Maybe as much as five.”

“What happens if I wire you four million in five minutes?” asked Cy.

“The Goncharova is yours.”

“You think I can flip it to the other buyer?”

“Probably an eighty percent chance,” replied Siggi, inspecting the half-moons of his fingernails.

“I’d love to make a quick buck.”

“It’s perfect for the other guy’s collection.”

“I’ll take it,” said Leeser, “under one condition.”

Siggi’s enthusiasm waned, his shoulders slumped, and his casual veneer disappeared. There was always a catch. “What do you mean?”

“I want a put option. You have one year to flip the Goncharova at a profit to me. Otherwise you buy it back at four million.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Commissions. First when you sell it to me and then when you flip it to the other buyer.”

The art dealer paused for a long moment. He said nothing, the silence between phones darker and deader than the middle of the night in central Iceland.

“Are you there, Siggi?”

“I’m thinking.”

“It’s okay if you can’t handle that kind of action,” Leeser said, baiting him back. “A four-million put option is a bunch of money for anybody.”

“I’m still thinking.”

“That’s the funny thing. When money is on the line, everything comes into focus.”

“Okay, Cy. We have a deal.”

*   *   *

Ólafur erupted when his cousin hung up. He raced around the art dealer’s desk and slapped his cousin on the back. “That was beautiful, Siggi. You belong on the stage. Better yet, why don’t you come work for us at Hafnarbanki?”

“Beautiful for you, cousin. See that piece?”

Siggi gestured toward a whimsical line drawing of a kneeling green figure. The corpulent belly jutted forward, a cocky, aggressive stance. Elbows akimbo, spindly arms lined in bold black, the figure had no head. A plume of wispy gray smoke billowed from the neck.

“I see it.”

“That’s how I feel right now—headless.”

“Are you kidding? Our plan is perfect.”

“Your plan,” Siggi corrected Ólafur. “You think the Qataris will pay five million for the Goncharova?”

“It’s a done deal.”

“I hope you’re right. I don’t have four million dollars.”

“Forget it, cousin. The Qataris are rock solid. And you’re fantastic.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Siggi replied, relaxing in the wake of his cousin’s praise. “Cy structured the deal.”

“That’s the thing about finance guys,” said Ólafur. “We’re always telling people what to do. Even at meals.”

“Meals? What are you talking about?”

“Cyrus Leeser just told us how to stuff his balls down his throat.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WEDNESDAY
,
JULY
2
BENTWING AT
$59.87

“We need to talk.”

“I hate that expression,” Leeser growled at Siggi. “Can’t you say, ‘I’d like to bounce an idea off you.’ Or ask if I have a minute. Or come up with some other expression than ‘We need to talk.’”

The rant stuck four inches out of Siggi’s back. It was cold and edgy. It was utterly confusing to the art dealer. “I don’t understand.”

“My wife says ‘We need to talk’ when there’s a problem.”

“Has Bianca ever wired you five million dollars?” asked Siggi.

“The Goncharova?” Leeser knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

“You sold it.”

“But I haven’t taken possession.”

“You forced a decision, Cy. It’s perfect for the other bidder’s collection.”

“And I’m up a million bucks on the trade.” Leeser glowed from inside out, savoring the sweet, swift score. “Minus your commission, of course?”

“Yes and no,” Siggi replied. Ordinarily, he never toyed with his customers. This time he could not resist.

“What are you talking about?” Leeser’s good humor vanished at once. Inside, he berated himself for dropping his guard. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. You’re up a million bucks. And there’s no deduction for my commission.”

“Nobody works for free, Siggi.”

“Who said anything about free? I sold the Goncharova net. The other party paid my fee.”

Leeser blinked, processing Siggi’s words. He surveyed his office walls, every square inch graced with urbane musings from gifted artists. And he finally erupted, not in God-speak but in language from the streets: “Shit hot. You know what I’m saying? That’s shit hot.”

“It’s not much money in your world but—”

“It’s a down payment on a new helicopter,” interrupted Leeser, his voice drooling with anticipation. He had his eye on a Bell 430, fully loaded and currently owned by a Swiss industrialist.

“I’m working on something new. Something big.”

“You got my attention.”

“I need to work out a few details before we talk.”

“Tell me when you’re ready,” said Leeser.

“Done. Where do I wire your money?”

“I’ll put Nikki on the line. And by the way, keep your eyes open for a package from me.”

After they hung up Ólafur said, “We’ve got his trust, Siggi. Now it’s time to find out whether there’s any substance.”

SATURDAY
,
JULY
5
MARKETS CLOSED

On Saturday morning, Jimmy forgot the markets and his schedule for the following week. The unanswered questions about Cy’s hedges never entered his mind. Nor did Shannon, Victor Lee, or any of the usual suspects. Saturday was his day to cook, his turn to feed Emi and Yaz—their baby now four months in the making. His turn to create fantasy breakfasts.

Cusack was serving crispy bacon, which was a risk. Pregnancy had turned Emi’s taste buds fickle. She might love it. Or she might go, “Eww.” But he was okay with risk even in cooking. Cusack believed the weekends required bacon. It had been that way ever since his childhood in Somerville.

He was serving scratch biscuits, none of that pop-and-regret crap from the supermarket freezers. And the pièce de résistance—he was serving caramelized apple omelets complete with sugar and sour cream and splashes of dulce de leche because Emi craved sweets more and more all the time.

“Smells like donuts,” she said, passing him the business page of
The New York Times.

“Your breakfast,” said Cusack, pretending to be miffed, “is not on the menu at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Oh my God, this is good,” Emi garbled with full mouth and biscuit-loaded cheek.

“Nice,” Cusack mumbled, pretending his own mouth was chockablock. He noticed a headline toward the bottom of the
Times.
“I can’t believe it.”

“Something wrong?” Emi had swallowed her first bite of the omelet. Even without a verb, she sounded more articulate this time.

“Caleb paid Hartford two hundred million for one of their divisions. Cash.”

“He never told me,” Emi observed, loading her fork with more omelet. “I wonder why.”

“He can’t.”

“Can’t what, James?”

“Discuss a deal involving a public company. It’s too easy to run afoul of securities laws.”

Emi placed her fork on the plate and blinked hard. “Any idea how long my father was negotiating?”

“Knowing Caleb, I bet nine months. Maybe longer.”

“That’s what I think,” agreed Emi. “He was probably negotiating with Hartford back in December.”

The couple reached the same conclusion at the same time. “Caleb needed money,” said Cusack, “to close the deal with Hartford. He shut me down but couldn’t breathe a word.”

“That’s a game changer.”

“It still sucks, Em.”

“But you get it.”

“Yes,” Cusack conceded. “I get it.”

“Maybe you can declare a truce,” she offered hopefully.

“Maybe,” he agreed. “And it sure would make Cy Leeser happy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pass the bacon, and I’ll tell you about it. Want some orange juice?”

TUESDAY
,
JULY
8
BENTWING AT
$57.50

Eddy was on the phone again. He was a trader on the team that managed Merrill’s relationship with LeeWell Capital. He knew Leeser from way back, from the time when his client was a stockbroker at Merrill. Because of their history together, Eddy worked with Cy to shepherd his loan requests through Merrill’s chain of command.

The two men were not especially fond of each other. Nor were they especially civil. But the relationship worked. Eddy booked his trades, and Cy booked his loans.

“Your loan balance is over two hundred and sixty million dollars.”

“Is there a problem?” asked Leeser, cool at first.

“That’s a bunch of money.”

“Number one,” Leeser said, opening and closing his right fist, “it’s two hundred and sixty-three million. Don’t call me unless you get your facts straight. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time. Number two, our loan balance is thirty-four percent of total assets. Last I looked you guys lend up to sixty-five percent. Which leads me to number three. What the fuck do you want?”

“Bentwing is down thirteen percent since mid-May,” the trader replied, remaining calm. His job was to please clients, no matter how difficult. “I hope there’s not a problem.”

“I sit on the board. And as an
insider,
” Leeser paused to let the word register, “I can tell you straight, we’re knocking the cover off the ball. I can disclose every detail about Bentwing, every number, every order, every dollar saved, anything you want to know, even down to our expense cuts in the ladies’ room where we opted for a cheaper brand of air freshener.” Trading sarcasm for cyanide, Leeser added, “Afterward we can jump for joy on each other’s stomachs when we’re summering together in Leavenworth.”

“Aw, come on, Cy. The market’s got us spooked.” In full retreat, the trader added, “I’m just saying,” like the phrase was a peace offering.

“I’m hedged. And by default, so is Merrill Lynch.”

“We can’t see your hedges. I don’t have anything to show my boss.”

“Show him the commissions I pay. My trades bought his wife’s face-lift, Eddy. My trades paid tuition for his kids.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Morgan Stanley wants my business,” interrupted Leeser. “So does Goldman. But UBS will get it. They do a great job executing my hedges. So, Eddy, are you asking me to pay back your loan?”

“You’re too important a customer. I’m giving you a heads-up.”

“Margin call—yes or no, Eddy?”

“No.”

“Then get off my phone.” Leeser slammed down the receiver, scattering poison pheromones every which direction and leaving the trader with dial tone. “That guy gives infanticide a good name.”

Cusack, with the timing of a two-dollar watch, rapped on the door and caught his boss on the wrong side of a portfolio down 4 percent since the beginning of the year. “Gotta minute?”

“What. What. What,” Cy snapped. “Don’t bother me unless we have an appointment with your father-in-law.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THURSDAY
,
JULY
24
BENTWING AT
$53.56

The movie theater was dark inside. The noise was not deafening so much as it was annoying—the shuffling, the getting situated, and the backing and forthing on cell phones. Who the hell cared? The cleaner closed her eyes, trying in vain to shut out the hubbub from seniors on date night.

Rachel considered her employer’s words from earlier that month. She understood so little about the stock market and her finances. But one thing was for sure. His analysis of her profession was right on target.

“You have a problem, Rachel. Your business doesn’t scale.”

“What do you mean?”