The Gods of Greenwich (26 page)

“They’re no cakewalk in mine.”

“You’re missing the point, Cy. Recover a painting lost to the world. Fix a Nazi sin that’s generations old. And you live forever in the annals of art. Who’s that hedge fund manager you always mention?”

“Stevie Cohen?”

“Suddenly, Stevie Cohen wants to be you.” Ólafur watched with wide eyes, riveted as his cousin manipulated Leeser.

“How much is the painting worth?” asked Leeser.

“High eight figures under ordinary conditions. Maybe more.”

“That’s strong.” Cy hated to admit $80 or $90 million would tax his resources. It felt like he was always playing catch-up. “And now?”

“Hard to say. The price is negotiable.”

“How do I know the painting’s real?”

“I have experts, Cy. Plus, there’s paperwork signed by Hermann Göring and Hans Frank.”

“Göring!”

“I had his signature verified by three separate experts,” the art dealer replied.

“Let’s say I get comfortable—”

“We can work something out,” Siggi interrupted, anticipating the money discussion.

“What do you mean?”

“The owner wants some cash up front.”

“He’ll take a note for a portion of the purchase price?” interrupted Leeser, unable to stifle his excitement.

“With the right security arrangements.”

“What kind of security?” asked Leeser, his expression growing wary.

“Pledge your stock in LeeWell Capital. Assign a percentage of future earnings until the note is paid. These are things you need to arrange with him, not me.”

“It’s too easy,” Cy objected. “Something’s wrong with this picture.”

“Easy,” Siggi cautioned. “You’re dealing with a thorough man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before my owner takes security in your business, his team will inspect your operations, your profitability, and how you manage risk. They’re not turning over
Portrait of a Young Man
without decent security.”

“We’ve never lost money.”

“Tell the owner. And remember this. You won’t become a legend until his people know everything about your hedge fund.”

“Not happening.” Instinctively, Leeser recoiled at the thought of sharing trade secrets.

“You’ll need to explain your techniques to my owner.”

“Not happening,” echoed Cy.

“No problem,” Siggi replied. “I can always find someone with more money.”

“Let me think about it,” Cy reversed, feeling the needle.

“You know where to reach me. But there’s one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t wait forever.”

*   *   *

Siggi placed the receiver on its cradle and sighed.

“What did Leeser say?” demanded Ólafur.

“He’ll get back to me.”

“When?”

“You heard me,” growled Siggi, no longer cool and in command. “I told him, ‘I can’t wait forever.’”

“What’s the problem?” Ólafur asked, noting the change in his cousin’s temperament.

“Cy might call our bluff,” the art dealer snapped. “That’s the problem.”

Siggi had been so smooth on the phone. Now the calm veneer was gone, his agitation mounting by the minute. Ólafur started to speak.

“What if he wants to meet in Reykjavik?” Siggi interrupted, growing sarcastic. “Maybe we show him
Portrait of a Young Man
in an art history book.”

“Agree to meet,” Ólafur soothed. “The ‘owner’ is our fiction, who does what we say. He can develop cold feet at the last minute.”

“It won’t be the first case of seller’s remorse,” acknowledged Siggi, understanding the concept but not buying into it. “Your game is stupid, cousin. Cy backs out. Or we back out. I don’t see what it gets you.”

“Knowledge,” countered Ólafur. “The next call is critical. If Leeser concentrates on price, then his investment secrets are real.”

“Why?”

“I know this guy, Siggi. I’ve read everything about him in print. Cyrus Leeser will swap formulas for immortality in a heartbeat—especially if he thinks there are tens of millions to be made in the process.”

“And if the secrets aren’t real?”

“He’d never risk exposure,” explained the banker. “Trading desks are like war.”

“How so?”

“It’s all about deception,” Ólafur said. “He won’t expose his flank.”

“Well, I wish you’d stick to your securities, cousin, and leave me and my art business out of your war.”

“Your art business is our advantage. Leeser is patrolling foreign soil.”

*   *   *

Cy surveyed the walls of his office. For a moment, his gaze settled on a line drawing by Picasso. The piece, no more than meandering scribbles courtesy of a sardine and sangria lunch, was inexpensive as Picassos go. But the hedge fund titan liked what he saw.

The Picasso equaled success. The drawing validated Leeser’s decision to leave Merrill Lynch and take a chance that landed him as lord and master of 19,000 square feet and a five-acre estate on Roundhill Road. There was glory in risk.

The spoils of the market—Picasso or Bentley—accompanied uncertainty. “So long as you win,” Leeser reminded himself. “Poor losers are poor because they lose.”

Now, Leeser had a similar decision to make. A similar chance to take. Because stick figures from a master like Picasso would not bring immortality to the founder of a hedge fund with less than one billion under management. It took at least ten billion, maybe even twenty, to live forever.

Cy imagined his fame from uncovering priceless Nazi plunder. He visualized a dream scene at Sotheby’s—flipping the Raphael, taking a check, and wallowing in glory. There had to be a way, he decided, to finesse the opportunity without jeopardizing his business.

Leeser could have dwelled on the thought forever. But Cusack knocked at the door and poked his head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Cy. Can you give me five?”

“Is it important?”

“I know who’s shorting Bentwing.”

“Who?” bellowed Cy, suddenly rising from his chair like a white-hot ember.

“Remember the Qatari sheikh I mentioned?”

“The one in cahoots with Hafnarbanki,” confirmed Leeser.

“He’s signaling us to leave the bank alone.”

“How do you get there?” Cy’s face grew curious.

“Retaliation. Our bet against Hafnarbanki hurt his portfolio. He’s pissed. So he’s shorting Bentwing to get even.”

“Send the fucker a peace offering, maybe a pound of bacon.”

“I think we should take profits,” replied Cusack. “But you already know where I stand.”

“How’s he know it’s us?” Leeser asked, ignoring the market advice.

“I pieced together a few comments from my circle of friends. It’s more hunch than anything.”

“Who?” Cy repeated.

“What difference does it make?” Jimmy knew his friendship with Geek would never be the same, doubted it would survive. But ratting out Dimitris Georgiou rubbed him the wrong way.

“Suit yourself,” said Leeser, before changing the subject. “Is Caleb Phelps on for MoMA?”

“Done deal. I confirmed it Friday.”

“Good work. Now leave me alone. I have a call to make.”

Cusack left the room wondering “good work” for what? Was it “good work” for exposing the Bentwing shorts? Or was it “good work” for delivering another guest to the party?

*   *   *

Leeser phoned Siggi forty-five minutes later. “You were right the first time,” he told the Icelander.

“What do you mean?”

“High Renaissance is not my thing.”

“No, but money is,” the art dealer insisted. Suddenly, he was onstage again, cool and confident, the consummate actor. “I’m surprised you would pass on an
opportunity.
”

“Not my thing,” Leeser repeated. Right now, everything from Iceland felt toxic.

“The discount will be substantial. It’s a forced sale.”

“Not interested.”

“What’s wrong? You’re the one who wanted to see deals from me.”

“Not interested,” Leeser said again.

“You haven’t seen the painting.”

“Probably better that way,” Cy noted. “I need to stay focused on my business.” His tenor grew cold and distant.

Siggi knew just what to say. “Have it your way. I won’t show these opportunities going forward.”

“You have others?” Cy asked, now revealing the first hint of remorse.

“Good-bye.” Siggi hung up. It was that abrupt. He looked at his cousin. The curtain had dropped. The mild-mannered art dealer was no longer onstage. He blinked once, then again. “I feel sick.”

Ólafur put his arm on his cousin’s shoulder, a gentle reassuring gesture. “I know just what you need. What’s the name of that wine Leeser sent?”

“You mean the 2005 Sine Qua Non the Seventeenth Nail in My Cranium? It came in a wooden case with a nail through the center of the lid.”

“That’s the stuff. Why don’t you pull out a couple of bottles? We need to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what, Ólafur? I’m not in the mood.”

“A couple of glasses and you’ll be fine, cousin.”

“You sound giddy.”

“That’s because,” the banker said, “I’m about to hammer the seventeenth nail from that case into Cyrus Leeser’s cranium.”

“That’s sick, cousin. That’s really fucking sick.”

“Relax, Siggi, it’s time for me to pour on the pressure. And you know what von Clausewitz says.”

“Military history is more your thing than mine.”

“‘Blood is the price of victory.’”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TUESDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
2
BENTWING AT
$42.81

Summer left like a three-time loser who just made bail. The morning after Labor Day all of Hedgistan returned from homes in the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard. Most money managers were tanned and focused, reinvigorated from the salty ocean breezes. Their heads were clear, their bodies lean. They were ready to grapple with the troubled markets, down 13 percent since January.

The beaches failed to reinvigorate anyone at LeeWell Capital. Bentwing was down 16 percent over five ruthless trading sessions, over one fugly week of the stock falling lower every trade, day in and day out. Employees attempted brave faces. But as 2008 headed into the final stretch, every man and woman suffered private cases of fear. It was bad form to express anxiety in public.

No one knew what to expect come bonus time. Or what to expect from the head trader. For all his expertise with small-cap stocks, no one suffered choppy markets worse than Victor Lee. And historically, no one harangued other employees with more serpentine venom. No one.

*   *   *

Victor walked past Amanda, already manning the reception desk. “Good morning,” she ventured, jittery he would blow a gasket without provocation.

“Nice blouse,” he grumbled. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” she said, thinking his comment surprisingly civil. Like everyone else at LeeWell Capital, she knew Bentwing was poised to open down. Again.

At his trading station, Lee wiped crumbs off a black chair. He was wired from two Starbucks ventis, sipping a third, and not eager to sit. He plopped down anyway and inspected his jar of Premarin. The container was one-third full of pills, the 1.25 mg dose. It was sitting next to his hammer, underneath three thirty-inch LCD screens flying over his desk like the Green Monster of Fenway.

“Estrogen makes for good business,” Victor said aloud.

Ordinarily, his team of three traders, all guys, ignored his remarks. They had grown accustomed to their boss mumbling and talking to himself. Today, he puzzled them.

Lee pulled out his calculator and ran the numbers he knew by heart. He multiplied $800 million by .93 percent—the annual cost savings, according to UK and Swedish scientists, from women traders who hold positions longer and pay less in commissions. A few more keystrokes, and he discovered LeeWell Capital could save $37.2 million in trading costs over five years with the right workforce.

Victor’s brow furrowed, as it always did when he ran the numbers these days. He was no longer trading an $800 million portfolio. With Bentwing down so much, the savings would only total $28.1 million. It wasn’t chicken feed so much as it was depressing. The portfolio now equaled $605 million in assets. Lee grabbed his hammer and called Numb Nuts, the trader who worked for Eddy’s team at Merrill. All the while, Victor stared at his bottle of pills manufactured from the urine of pregnant mares.

*   *   *

Since Cusack joined LeeWell, New Jersey Sheet Metal was the only thing that had gone right. Plan B—renegotiate the package—was looking more certain every day as his only hope come February. Unless he bagged New Jersey and other prospects, however, Cy would never discuss his mortgage.

Cusack picked up the phone to call Buddy at the New Jersey pension plan. An e-mail arrived from Leeser. The subject read,
Caleb Phelps.
And in the message, Cy asked,
Can we move up our meeting with him? I’d like to get started.

The request was bizarre. Not just the wording. Leeser had better things to do than chew the fat with Caleb Phelps. “Like hedge our stupid portfolio,” Cusack muttered to himself. There was no way he would ask his father-in law for a favor. “No way.”

Working on it,
Cusack e-mailed back, before calling Graham Durkin to keep the ball rolling. All the while, he wondered one thing:

“Started” on what?

WEDNESDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
10
BENTWING AT
$35.83

Ólafur studied two charts on his computer terminal. He liked one. Bentwing had fallen 30 percent from where it started the year. Sure, alternative energy offered some hope for a world running out of carbon fuel. What did he care? Iceland would always have heat. His country possessed a vast network of subterranean geothermal springs. There were more important issues bedeviling his thoughts—like the kronur in his brokerage account.

The attack on Bentwing started back in April, when Chairman Guðjohnsen approved the assault. It was slow at first, methodical, a few shorts here and a few shorts there. The campaign had since changed. The markets were souring, investor outlooks growing bleak. Oil prices were plummeting from their July peak. And the strike on LeeWell Capital’s single biggest position was gaining intensity.