The Gods of Greenwich (20 page)

The threat silenced Geek. Investor redemptions brought down Cusack Capital. With one phone call the sheikh could do the same to Geek’s firm—all by himself. For a while, neither man spoke.

“You know what we need,” the Qatari finally said. “Hurry up and get it.” Then he hung up, leaving Geek to ponder how the game had changed from theory to brass knuckles since graduation.

*   *   *

It was 8:30
A.M.
Jimmy Cusack sat alone in his office, troubled by Geek’s conclusion, fuming, unable to work. The more he thought about the mystery phone call, the more he suspected Shannon was the culprit.

“Daryle has the world’s deepest voice.” Emi’s description fit the head of security at LeeWell Capital—dark, observant, a bad mood with biceps. Shannon seldom spoke. But when he did, his voice resembled a bass violin.

And Geek made the more troubling remark: “Maybe somebody is investigating you?”

Is it Cy again?

“Move to the ball, Jimmy.” Cusack’s coach screamed those five words all the time during football practice at Columbia. They still made sense. Cusack grabbed his notebook and headed for Leeser’s office. He was armed with a cell phone, a twisted smile, and an opportunity in Rhode Island. He needed answers.

Who called Emi and why?

*   *   *

Surrounded by a netherworld of paintings, the whims of artistic fantasy, Cy studied a yellow line graph on his thirty-inch computer screen. The line’s shape resembled the cast from a fishing pole. It arced up, peaked, and dropped steadily, inexorably, moving down, down, down, and farther right as though searching for a sandy bottom. The cast was Bentwing’s share price—little changed even though Victor was “backing up the truck” and buying more Bentwing every day.

Leeser leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head and fingers locked. He muttered, “This sucks.”

Cusack hesitated at the door, hoping Cy would sense his presence. Leeser concentrated on the screen, however, oblivious to anyone and everyone. From behind her bank of lateral files, Nikki signaled for Jimmy to knock.

“This sucks,” Leeser repeated to himself, uncoiling his fingers and leaning forward.

“Do you have a minute?”

Cusack rapped on the door, surprising the boss with his presence, not in the startling way that makes people flinch, but surprising nonetheless to a guy grumbling, “This sucks,” to himself.

“I’ve got a couple of things to go over, Cy.”

Leeser swiveled in his chair and said, “Come on in and have a seat.” There was no trouble in his voice, just the staccato beat of street speak from New York City. “Futures indicate a higher open,” he boomed, radiating confidence, unaware that Cusack had heard “This sucks” not once, but twice.

Cusack avoided small talk. He had no stomach for it today. He began with a flanking strategy—delivering good news before asking what the hell was going on with the Mad Bomber from Oakland.

“On Monday
The Wall Street Journal
profiled a medical device company. Did you see the article, Cy?”

“The company that sold for one point three billion?”

“That’s the one.”

“Nice fucking trade.” Leeser focused, all ears.

“The founder is a guy named Graham Durkin. He pocketed one billion plus from the sale.”

“There’s a guy you should be calling.”

“We have a meeting in Providence the week of the eighteenth,” Jimmy said.

Leeser’s expression morphed from concentration to euphoria. He sprang from his seat and pumped Cusack’s hand. “That’s fucking awesome.” It was an attaboy for the ages.

After Leeser sat, Cusack said, “I could use some help with the pitch.”

“Do you want Victor to go?”

Are you crazy?

“Cy, I mean you.”

“I’m on the Vineyard all that week. You can handle it.”

“On most things.”

“But what?” demanded Leeser.

“We get one chance with Durkin. One chance, Cy. I want to show him how we reduce risk. What hedging is all about. The steps we take to protect his money. I want you to tell him war stories from your days at Merrill, while I tell mine from Goldman. I want to scare him about Enron and WorldCom and other big companies that went belly up. And to discuss the conflicts at investment banks, because those buzzards will snatch this business the first opportunity they get. I want you to talk about Peloton. They earned ninety percent last year. Now they’re dead, and two billion is gone. Toast—and 2008 isn’t over. You’re the founder, Cy. I want you to look into Graham Durkin’s eyes and explain why we won’t be another Peloton, even with all the Bentwing we own.” Cusack stopped talking. He could have continued. He thought his speech sounded pretty good.

“Not happening. It’s the only week I’ll see the twins this summer.” He straightened the photo of his twins to emphasize the scheduling conflict.

Shit.

“Nothing more important than your kids,” Cusack observed.

“While you’re here, any word from Caleb?”

“We’re on target for September.” The truth was they had not spoken. Cusack hoped the white lie would not bite him later. “Anne and Caleb are in Bermuda through Labor Day.”

“Why don’t we hop a flight to Bermuda?”

“You like game fishing?”

“I get seasick,” Lesser said.

“Knowing Caleb, he’s spending all month strapped to a fighting seat with a fishing pole.”

“I can’t do business over a barf bag.”

“Then go with your strength, Cy, and wait for your big night at MoMA.”

“Did you want to discuss something else?”

“It’s awkward.”

“Spit it out,” coaxed Cy.

“Are,” Cusack started before pausing, “are you investigating me?”

Leeser’s eyebrows arched high in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“Emi received an odd call yesterday. Some guy said he was investigating a friend of ours.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“The questions were too personal. More about Emi and me than our friend. That’s why I thought—”

“I never sanctioned an investigation,” said Cy. “But Shannon’s job is to provide security in whatever form it takes. Did you get a name and number?”

“The caller left a name. But it’s a fake.”

“How do you know?”

“Long story,” Cusack said. “Just trust me on this one.”

“What about a phone number?”

“I think it’s Shannon’s cell.”

Cy picked up his receiver and punched four buttons on the console. “Shannon, I need you in my office. Now.”

Thirty seconds later the big man arrived. He wore a starched white shirt, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, military bearing. His biceps bulged every time he bent his arms. He glanced at Leeser. He glared at Cusack.

“Have you been investigating Jimmy?” asked Cy.

“It’s my job to watch everybody.” Shannon’s bass tones filled the room.

“Did you call Emi Cusack yesterday?” Cy continued.

“Why would I do that?” replied Shannon.

The big man’s evasive answers had no impact on Leeser, never fazed him. “Do you have your cell phone?”

Shannon reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small mobile, and placed it on the table. He said nothing.

“Is it on?”

“Always, boss.”

“What’s the number, Jimmy?”

Cusack read the 646 number from his notes. Leeser dialed. Nothing happened.

Shannon flashed the big gap between his front teeth. His expression was half smirk and half gloat, more screw-you than smile. The big man picked up the phone and showed the display to both Leeser and Cusack. No silent ring.

“Anything else, boss?”

“No thanks.” With that, Shannon exited Leeser’s office. “There you go, Jimmy.”

“I’m ready to crawl into a hole.”

“Forget it,” Leeser said, changing the subject. “I need a favor.”

“What can I do?” asked Cusack, drowning in a sea of embarrassment.

“Wife-sit tonight.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

TAKIN
’
CARE OF BUSINESS
 …

L’Escale was hopping by six that evening. The popular restaurant overlooks six hundred feet of private docks on Greenwich Harbor, where captains from neighboring ports sometimes anchor for meals before powering out. Happy hour on the outdoor patio draws the gods and their disciples, otherwise known as groupies or divorcées and definitely not to be confused with moms on ladies’ night out.

The drinks are strong and the bartenders discreet. The sea breezes are always a refreshing change from the frenzy of trading floors. When happy hours stir restless libidos, a five-star hotel beckons from next door. Suites at the Delamar generate grist for the local Greenwich gossip. And they feed the enduring loop of bar, bedroom, and bar that appeals to so many in the cocktail crowd below.

Cy asked Jimmy to meet Bianca for no more than “1.5 drinks” at L’Escale and promised to relieve him from wife-sitting by seven
P.M.
sharp. Cusack insisted on “sharp,” because he was celebrating his fifth anniversary tonight with Emi.

Bianca, however, was nowhere to be seen. Sitting at a pentagon-shaped bar, its teak gray from the elements, Cusack sipped a glass of cabernet. He said hello to a few buddies and made small talk. Mostly, he chafed while listening to the ambient sounds of bar talk among guys without ties and women dressed in their summer uniform of white jeans.

Hedge fund god: “Frank’s been hogging the Presidential for six months. I wish he’d wrap up his divorce so I can move in and get mine started.” The man, in his early fifties, was referring to the $1,800 suite at the Delamar.

Cougar cub: “This rosé is all the rage on St. Barth.”

Bartender: “Uh-oh, trouble. That’s the guy police Tased a few weeks ago for urinating here in public.”

Brunette: “We’re canceling NetJets.”

Redhead in reply: “Oh, you poor dear.”

The crowd ordered scotch rocks or white wine, “Just a full glass please.” Some of the gods wore earbuds and treated their BlackBerrys like prosthetic brains, capable of delivering double-digit investment returns with a few clicks. Every so often, one of them walked down the dock to take a call in private.

How did Cy talk me into this?

Cusack knew. Leeser dropped a five-letter F-bomb, the birthright of bosses everywhere, and asked for a “favor.” He said, “Bianca needs company, and I need to make my meeting,” which Jimmy translated to mean, “I’m sick of my clothes flying out the window.”

Airborne Armani was less the issue than job security. Cusack was still sweating over Monday’s blowup with Cy, and today’s confrontation with Shannon only exacerbated his fears. It paid to say yes these days, no matter how annoying or inconvenient the boss’s request.

Cusack could wife-sit Bianca and still make it home by nine
P.M.
There would be plenty of time for a fifth-anniversary celebration, the candles and romantic dinner on their terrace. Wine for him and maybe a taste for Emi. They would discuss diapers and debate “boy or girl,” because Emi insisted Yaz was a girl. After dinner Cusack would rub his wife’s stomach and whisper stories to her navel, which he called the “Yaz hotline.” He wanted to be home now.

Leeser had been so convincing. The man could sell. No surprise for a guy who started the year with an $800 million hedge fund. It was down to $700 million now, but market losses probably made him a better salesman, all things considered.

“I have an appointment at five, Jimmy. Bianca will meet you at six. I’ll be there at seven or so. And you’ll be home with an hour to spare. Guaranteed.”

“Just meet Bianca at seven,” Cusack suggested helpfully. “I’m not sure why you need me.”

“Date night. My wife will pitch a fit if things don’t start at six.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Cy. I want to meet Bianca. But tonight?”

“I need a favor,” the boss replied. “It’s important.”

Cusack perched on a stool and nursed his drink. He recalled the subtle grass stains on Cy’s sleeves last Monday. He understood Cy’s urgency. It was a good idea to court favor with the boss given a shit storm of no bonuses on the horizon.

From time to time a thirtyish woman, leathery smoker’s tan and teeth power-bleached to match her hair, glanced in his direction. Checked him out once over. Liked what she saw. He flashed his wedding band to throw her off the scent. His watch read 6:20
P.M.
, and he was growing more agitated with each passing minute.

Jimmy had never seen Bianca in person. He knew Leeser’s wife was in her late forties, short with dark Brazilian hair and lots of it. That morning he saw her photo, the one Leeser locked in a desk drawer with rubber bands and printer cartridges. But the picture was eight years old and Cy’s description sounded more elk than spouse. “Great legs, big rack. You can’t miss her.”

Five minutes later a busty woman strutted through L’Escale’s back deck. Dark features, she wore a white denim skirt and darted blouse open one button too many. It was a good look for a breezy summer night. Cusack guessed the woman to be in her late thirties. But he had never been a strong judge of age.

The woman sauntered directly toward Jimmy, hips rolling and body rocking. Men and women gawked. Hedge fund managers looked up from their BlackBerrys and forgot who was long this or short that. The cleavage, the clothes, the long swinging strides—there was a little something for everyone.

Cusack sipped his cabernet and noticed her platform sandals, the extra three or four inches of height. Leeser was right: “You can’t miss her.”

“I’m Jimmy Cusack,” he said, standing and extending his hand.

Bianca never answered. She tripped on the deck and, arms extended, flipped face-first toward the floor. The crowd froze with wide eyes and gaping jaws.

Cusack thought fast and bent low. Elbows facing down, palms facing up, he grabbed Bianca’s torso and broke her fall with a Willie Mays basket catch for the ages. He also discovered, to his growing consternation, that he had shagged Bianca’s weighty left breast. It was no way to “say hey” to the boss’s wife.

“Are you okay?” he asked quickly, pretending not to notice, pulling Bianca to her feet, feeling his face go red. She had been drinking.