The Gods of Greenwich (35 page)

“Talk about the last supper.”

“Not funny, Jimmy.”

“Not meant to be.”

“What should I do now?”

Cusack’s stomach began to ache, like he might retch any second. But he looked at Sydney, rock-solid reliable through the years, and said, “Here goes. Call building maintenance on your cell. Get them to station somebody outside the office. Nobody in and nobody out until the police arrive.”

“Got it.”

“Where does Bouvier keep client assets?”

“Bank of New York,” replied Sydney.

“Tell your rep there’s a problem,” he said. “No wire transfers and no trades until further notice. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“Call the police, Syd. Tell them to get over here.”

“Do you think something happened to Jean Bertrand?”

“No,” said Cusack. “I think that Creole cretin skipped in the middle of the night and took everything that wasn’t nailed down.”

“Asshole.”

“Do you know,” Jimmy asked, “his accountants or lawyers?”

“My computer is gone, and that’s where I keep their phone numbers.”

It can’t get any worse.

Louis Armstrong begged to differ. He interrupted, singing “La Vie en Rose.” It was the ringtone Cusack reserved for Emi.

*   *   *

“Can you talk, James?”

“Not now,” he replied. “I’m at the Empire State Building with Syd.”

“Why aren’t you in Greenwich?” asked Emi.

“Long story. Do you mind if I call you back, sweetie?”

“Somebody’s stalking me.”

Cusack forgot Bouvier. His face tensed, and he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Creeped out is more like it.”

“What happened, Em?”

“Some woman was staring at me during lunch yesterday.”

“Did she say something?” asked Cusack.

“No. But she had this funny look, like I didn’t recognize her.”

“Do you know her?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” admitted Emi. “I talked to her, and she was nice enough.”

“But?”

“Call it feminine intuition. She had a creepy vibe.”

Cusack checked his exasperation. “I don’t see the stalking part.”

“I didn’t either at first. The two of us walked over to the Nile crocodiles. And you know how people stand too close sometimes, the way they violate your body space?”

“Did she touch you?” asked Cusack, concern replacing exasperation.

“No—”

“But what?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Did she grab your bag or something? What’d she do, Em?”

“Is this twenty questions? I don’t know what she did. She was creepy, the way some guys are greasy. Okay, James? I forgot about her until this morning.”

“What happened?”

“I spoke with Tina.”

“Who’s Tina?”

“She works in tickets,” explained Emi. “And this morning, Tina said, ‘I’m glad you found your friend.’”

“The stalker?”

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “The woman stopped by the zoo last week and asked all kinds of questions. According to Tina, the woman is a ‘long-lost friend who wants to surprise me with a baby gift from Tiffany.’”

“What did Tina tell your stalker?”

“Everything she knows about my schedule here,” replied Emi.

“What made Tina think it was okay?”

“She saw us walking yesterday.”

“Jesus, Em. This is creepy. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll leave for the zoo.”

“Why don’t you go back to the office?”

“Because I might smash a chair over Shannon’s face.”

*   *   *

“Smitty, it’s me,” said Cusack. “I’ve got a big problem.”

“What now, Jimmy?”

“Bouvier skipped town last night. Took everything that wasn’t nailed down.”

“Anybody know where he went?”

“Not yet,” Cusack advised his lawyer.

“That’s trouble,” Smitty stated. “Remember Litton Loan Servicing?”

“Of course,” replied Cusack. “Get to the point.”

“You don’t have forty-five days. Your condo is gone, pal.”

“What are you saying, Smitty? We’re talking about my lease at the Empire State Building. The condo payment is not due until February.”

“I doubt you own it another month, especially if you don’t find Bouvier.”

“Why?”

“Remember the terms of your mortgage note?” asked Smitty.

“Of course not,” barked Cusack.

“Start with the Empire State Building. You personally guaranteed the lease payments. I bet Bouvier is two payments behind. You are technically in default on the lease.”

“I have a million-dollar problem. I know that.”

“No. You have a four-million-dollar problem, Jimmy. You signed a cross-default clause on your condo. Because you defaulted on the lease, you triggered a default with Cy.”

“Why’d I agree to that clause?” asked Cusack testily.

“For one, you had no choice. For another, Cy insisted on an early warning device. You make one annual payment every February. He wanted a heads-up in case there’s a problem. Now there’s a problem.”

“But Cy has to go through all the foreclosure proceedings,” argued Cusack, “same as Litton.”

“I doubt it, Jimmy. He’s not a bank. My guess is he takes the keys to your house.”

“He’ll own it?” Cusack suddenly felt nauseous.

“You may be able to stall for a while. But not forty-five days. You’re negotiating with your employer. When all is said and done, you’ll pay rent to Cy Leeser.”

Cusack slumped. Loss of face. Loss of money. Loss of cash flow and somebody stalking Emi. Leeser was pulling all the strings at the office. Now he was pulling them at Jimmy’s home.

“What are my options, Smitty?”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

WEDNESDAY
,
OCTOBER
1
BENTWING AT
$28.42

“No, Graham. Invest now, and you catch a falling piano.”

Down 778 points on Monday, the Dow rebounded 485 points Tuesday to close the quarter. As Cusack and Durkin spoke Wednesday morning, the markets were tanking, giving up yesterday’s bounce like a torn trampoline. Same story, different day.

Cusack no longer cared. The office door was wide open. He wanted out of LeeWell Capital. Wanted out of this freak show now. Never mind Leeser’s instructions: “You’re the one with cash flow problems. So earn your keep.” It was time to go.

“Is something wrong?” asked Durkin.

“Just the market,” replied Jimmy, eyeing the sonogram of Yaz. “Can we meet later this month?”

“I’ll put my assistant on the phone. Set something up.”

“Will do, Graham.”

Cusack hung up thirty seconds later. Leeser could kiss his ass. So could Shannon, the stalker, and everybody else out there. Fingers laced behind his head, the POW pose from World War II, Cusack gazed outside his office door. Nikki was returning to her workstation, purse in hand.

He eyed her handbag for the longest time. It was leather, nothing flashy. Nikki bought it from Saks, at least four figures. Or she paid a street vendor ten dollars for all he knew. When she sat and disappeared behind the bank of lateral files, Cusack knew exactly what was necessary. Time to take a page from Leeser’s playbook, the one that said: “We fucking own Greenwich.”

*   *   *

“Hey, Nikki,” Cusack hollered ten minutes later. “Spread the word. Lunch is on me.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“The world is losing money. Hedge funds are collapsing left and right. But I booked a major appointment this morning and want to celebrate.” Cusack doubted he had ever been more charming.

“Planet Pizza?” she asked, referring to a spot just around the corner from Two Greenwich.

“No way. I already ordered from Glenville Pizza. Two meatballs. Two pepperonis, extra cheese. One salad. Two veggies. One everything, hold the sardines. And enough sodas to wash all the salt and grease back to Manhattan. But I have a problem.”

“There’s always a catch.” Nikki raised her right eyebrow. She looked wary, but playful and hip in her ruby-colored nose stud.

“My conference call starts at noon. Can you get the pies?”

“May I take your car?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. There’s a trick to cranking the engine, and I don’t want you stuck in Glenville with our lunch. Besides, this is a celebration. Get Shannon and take Cy’s Bentley.”

“What if he says no?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one person on earth who can make Shannon smile. It’s all about you,” Cusack said. “Your mission is to save the global capital markets: one car, two people, and eight pies at a time.”

“I’ll get Shannon. You need a nap. Or something.”

“Just bring me back a Mountain Dew and tons of caffeine.”

“You sure it’s necessary?” Nikki shook her head, bemused and smiling wide.

“I paid for everything, all the drinks, everything, including a tip. Disavow any knowledge of your wallet.”

“Is there anything else, Jimmy?”

Forget your purse.

*   *   *

Five hours ahead in Reykjavik, Siggi closed early and met Ólafur at the bar. “They what?” exclaimed the mild-mannered gallery owner.

“You heard,” Ólafur replied listlessly. He downed a shot of tequila, his sympathy drink of choice. “Hafnarbanki fired me.” The banker flagged the bartender and said, “Another.”

“After all you’ve done.”

“It doesn’t make any difference. Hafnarbanki won’t last another week. Yesterday, Guðjohnsen spent the day with investigators behind closed doors.”

Siggi lowered his voice and scanned the bar. No one was listening. “Who turned them onto you?”

“Cy Leeser.”

“What about his troubles with Bentwing?”

“What about them? I made money on the short but lost my ass on Hafnarbanki.” Ólafur downed the second shot.

“You sent a message to Greenwich.”

“I sent a hiccup in a hurricane. And now I have no job.”

Siggi appraised his cousin, bent, drunk, shattered, slumped, his skin going sallow from too much sauce or not enough sun or whatever stress picked at him. Ólafur looked like a beat dog, whimpering with a broken tail between his legs. The sight stirred something in the meek art dealer, opened the faucet on more adrenaline than he had ever known throughout his entire mild-mannered life on a mild-mannered island away from the gore-or-get-gored world of trading desks.

“Fuck you, Ólafur.”

The unemployed banker looked up with the sour grimace of a man kicked in the testicles. “Excuse me?”

“You’re Mr. Ice. You’re the one who says, ‘The only victory that matters is the last one.’”

“What do you want from me, Siggi? I’m probably going to jail.”

“I can’t change whatever you did, cousin. I can’t get your money back or keep you out of prison. And one thing’s for sure. I can’t sit around and watch you snivel your way through shot after shot of tequila. You’re coming to work for me. And you start right now. Right fucking now,” he bellowed, “by acting like a man.”

Ólafur almost scoffed from force of habit. Siggi was a man of taste. He never exuded power or authority. But his cousin had been cool as ice during the Raphael scam. “What are you talking about?”

“I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I’ll get the bill, and then we’re buying you a ticket,” Siggi replied.

“Where to?”

“JFK,” the gallery owner answered. “We’re going to New York.”

“What for?”

“To meet my client,” Siggi said, inspecting his cousin’s face, more mottled than ever. “You won’t believe what she does for a living.”

“What’s our job?”

“To rip out Cy Leeser’s Achilles’ heel.”

Ólafur studied his cousin with shock and awe and plenty of newfound admiration.

*   *   *

At 11:59
A.M.
Cusack donned his headset, which was more persuasive than talking into a receiver. He punched buttons and paced the floor. He mustered all his strength for a sales call unlike any in his career. It started with one question:

“Buddy, who’s on the phone with us from New Jersey Sheet Metal?”

Over the next fifteen minutes Cusack nodded and gesticulated. He patrolled his modest office, throwing his hands up in exasperation or pumping his fists in triumph. He stormed. He danced. He uttered every line he could remember, cliché or god patois that made no sense:

“I’m talking an Elliott Wave Five. This is opportunity knocking.”

“You liked the market at twelve thousand. It’s a steal at ten thousand eight hundred.”

“When Greenwich needs portable alpha, the hedge funds see us.”

Cusack bobbed and weaved, pausing every so often to listen and catch his breath. To take a timeout. There was no one on the other line. And it was difficult to pretend nonstop as he waited for Nikki to leave, watching her every move like a three-eyed hawk.

Shannon appeared at 12:15
P.M.
on the nose. Nikki slipped on her jacket. Cusack pumped his right fist for good measure, and she finger-waved in return. The big man scowled, as Jimmy gave them both two thumbs up.

No purse. Nikki was not packing.

Thirty seconds of eternity ticked by. Jimmy waited, still talking, still selling, still staking out his claim to an Oscar. That was when his worst fears materialized. Nikki came back.

She reached under her desk, grabbed her pocketbook, and fished out her wallet. With both palms up and a perplexed face, Nikki signaled, “How’s it going?”

With both palms down and a gleam in his eye, Cusack rocked left, then right, and signaled back, “The weight of the free world hangs in the balance.”

Twenty minutes max until they return.

Cusack waited five to be safe. He strolled casually over to Nikki’s cubicle, checked to make sure no one was watching, and shoved his right hand into her purse—something he would never do with Emi’s handbag. He dug out her keys, put them in his pocket, and returned Nikki’s purse to the same spot. That’s when Cusack heard the speed-bag voice. “Hey, Jimmy.”

“What’s up?” asked Cusack, wheeling around, struggling not to redden.

“I heard you on the phone,” Leeser said. “That’s exactly the chutzpah we need. Who was it?”

“New Jersey Sheet Metal.”

“Did you make any progress?”

“We’re picking up again after lunch.” Cusack clenched his fist as a show of determination.