I doubt Lila cares about fines. I know she is not stewing over money. If Cash covers the other dealers, the family’s aggregate loss will equal $14.25 million. It is a great deal of money. And I don’t intend to make light of the sum. But the money is the least of the family’s worries.
The twenty years caught their attention. Big-time. I am scared sick for
Lila. I am scared sick for her daughter. If Lila goes to jail, how will her absence affect that poor little girl? She has already been through her mother’s divorce from Osama bin Trailer Trash.
I hope the family finds a way out, but I am not optimistic Fitzsimmons can or will help.
It’s worth a try anyway.
The legacy of the Kelemen Group strikes me as darkly ironic in one sense. Years ago Charlie saved Lila from Hurley’s beatings and those purple welts on her rib cage. More recently, Charlie left her to battle through a murky, unsettling future. Lila may well spend the next five years fighting the courts. And in the end, jail time is a real possibility, no matter how good her lawyers are.
She is so fucked.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
My world changed the day Annie, Mandy, and I ate lunch at Le Bernardin. It improved remarkably during dessert. Mandy exited with a pad full of quotes, leaving Annie and me to explore new territory.
Annie no longer calls me “Boss,” and that’s just fine. The label bothered me. It sounds pushy and overbearing, too corporate ladder for my taste. Besides, the title no longer fits. Annie works for Cliff Halek these days. By all rights he should be “Boss.”
Cliff said yesterday, “I prefer something more tribal. ‘Chief’ has a nice ring to it.”
Yeah, right.
Nothing, not even “Chief,” will ever replace Halek’s real title. He is “SKC’s Smartest Man.”
Annie’s departure means we can date in peace. There is none of that psychobabble from Human Resources, no need for me to worry about a hostile work environment. We spend all our free time together.
I worry about our relationship. It’s not my eight years on Annie. It’s my baggage. I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. My wife, my daughter, well, there are things I’m still working out.
Evelyn’s jewelry may be the first step. I dropped it off with an appraiser
last Monday, everything except for the engagement ring. I could never use her baubles to romance someone else. So I’m meeting with Popowski tomorrow. We’re setting up a trust for Fred Masters and funding it from the sale of Evelyn’s jewels. Betty will resist when she learns. But I won’t take no for an answer.
When I confided my plan to Annie, her eyes brimmed with tears. My heart sank. “Did I say something?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“No, Grove,” she said, punching my arm. “Sometimes you don’t understand anything.” She smiled radiantly and hugged me hard. My throat swelled. It grew fat inside from all the affection.
I am completely out of practice.
This past week Annie and I went out every night. One night to Shun Lee, one night to a gallery in SoHo, and one night to a chick flick. Annie thought the movie was trite. I bawled like a baby. That’s why I stick to films with car chases and no dialogue.
Words spoil the ass-kickings.
Madame Rosa, neighborhood psychic and local whack job, read our palms last Sunday and stated, “The spirit is strong around you. Would you like to contact friends from the other side?”
We presumed she meant dead people and almost walked out of her shop. No way were we conjuring up the memories of Charlie Kelemen. Instead, I asked, “Can’t you just read our palms? Tell us we have long life lines and all the standard stuff?”
Spending time with Annie is great. I’m trying hard not to blow my good fortune. We do stupid things together. It beats all those research reports every night in the solitude of a deserted office. No more sifting through prospectuses with CNBC’s talking heads blabbing in the background. The other night she mentioned law school and asked my opinion about Columbia, Fordham, and NYU.
“They’re okay,” I said, not endorsing the concept, not really.
“What do you mean?” she bristled, suddenly angered by my lack of enthusiasm.
“I think you should consider a graduate degree in journalism, like Columbia’s program. You’re a born storyteller.” That reply settled things down, and Annie’s exploring both options. I’m glad.
It still mystifies me why we took forever to “hook up,” as Annie says. For
the record, the expression is not my favorite. “Hook up” sounds like something you do with laptops. Maybe that’s the point. So many times I had savored Annie’s perfume, her smile, the way she dressed, simple yet provocative, and the way her hips swayed while walking. Her golden-blond hair glowed like Big Sky sunshine. But it was the big personality I loved the most. Who else could have conceived a catch-and-release program for fruit flies?
Our impromptu lunch at Le Bernardin pushed us over the edge. As Annie worked through her sorbet and me through some kind of chocolate bombe, she asked, “Are you asking me out again? Or do you need to fight somebody at the Red Flame first?”
“You’re not seeing anyone?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You said ‘love you’ to somebody on the phone the night after Sam and I had dinner at Live Bait.”
“My sister.”
“Oh,” I replied. “What about all those weekends at the beach?”
“Four girlfriends,” she explained. “We share a summer rental in the Hamptons.”
“You set up my date with Sam at Live Bait,” I observed. “Why?”
“Proof of concept,” she replied. Her breezy confidence reminded me of first years at Harvard Business School.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Grove, you’re always telling clients that competition is a good thing among companies. It legitimizes their product offerings. When I set up that date with Sam, I realized why you never asked me out. You never asked anybody out.” She raised one eyebrow, an expression stuck somewhere between flirtatious and all knowing.
“Got it. You seemed really upset the day after Live Bait. Do you remember?”
“Oh, I was upset, all right,” she confirmed.
“Why?”
“I wanted to be your date,” she said shyly, and grabbed my hand across the table.
When I told Chloe that Annie was leaving our team and we were now dating, she replied, “It’s about time, Grove. I remember the way you eyed her going for coffee.”
My face turned crimson red, and for a moment I said nothing. The two of us stood in silence, Chloe grinning and me just abso-fucking-lutely mortified.
“Oh, stop it,” Chloe finally said. “I’m not telling anyone. Annie makes you laugh. All of Wall Street will breathe easier when you lighten up.” She was Solomon wise underneath that airplane-sized headset.
I owe Chloe. Head down, she held our team together for the last six weeks and, in some ways, the last eighteen months. She steered clear of office gossip and kept our clients happy, Jumping JJ in particular. Chloe is easy to overlook: quiet, focused, not as playful as Annie, checking on her children during spare moments, always be-domed with that stupid headset. I may buy her a new one, something lightweight and state-of-the-art. No one works harder, especially now that I am ratcheting back.
Patty Gershon was the first to notice my abbreviated work schedule. She accused me of “broker burnout” last week. Frankly, I was glad to hear her scream, “Hey, O’Rourke. Thanks for coming in today.” Our fight is over for the time being, though she must suspect I hired the Union Rat.
Gershon, Gershon, rich and rude,
We don’t like your attitude.
Zola Mancini agreed to become a junior partner on my team. We cemented a fair deal, easier now that my troubles are behind me. We are still learning how to work together. Zola may be a newbie, but she is 100 percent firecracker. She speaks her mind, even if it means zinging me from time to time. And I am no walk in the park. Top producers have answers for everything. Remember? It makes me fucking insufferable at times.
I never took calls from recruiters in the past. Now I do. The folks over at Goldman are anxious to meet. Morgan claims to have a better mousetrap. Merrill Lynch is waving big dollars. “Grove, we’re different,” or “Grove, we’ll take good care of you,” or “Grove, you can make us better.”
All I can say is “horseshit.” Not aloud, of course. Not to Goldman, Morgan, Merrill, or any of the other shops. I have no desire to piss them off. For defensive reasons I listen to everybody. You never know when your firm will toss you out on your ass. Or when competitors will become your new employers.
Someday, I may even take a competitor’s check. The reason has nothing to do with the quality of corporate services. Or products for that matter. Goldman touts all its proprietary offerings, which I regard as little more than fees searching for an excuse to exist. The reason is all about survival. Wall Street’s allegiances are ephemeral. Deals change. Friends become enemies, and enemies become friends. Our coalitions are convenient. Our genealogical roots all trace back to Brutus. If there is a threat, any shop on Wall Street will sacrifice brokers without a second thought. Anything to make the problems go away. Someday, it may be in my best interest to join another shop. Why not take their check?
Deep down, I know Frank Kurtz was right the day I agreed to return. “You think anybody cares about you over at Goldman?” he had asked. “Goldman” could just as easily have been a blank. Fill in the name of any investment bank. Your choice.
Frank Kurtz apologizes weekly. All his expressions of remorse, all his bloody olive branches, have little to do with guilt. When my name cleared, his number-one problem disappeared: loss of revenues. He needs my fees to make his budget.
“Grove, it’s good to have you back,” he said upon my return. “Let’s grab dinner and kill a bottle of red after work one night. Smoke a few Cohibas.”
Call me cynical, but I eschew the cabernet school of people management. During our dinner he teased, “Did I get the wall right? Maybe you belong next to Kozlowski and the rest of the crew?”
He was referring, of course, to the glossy black-and-white photo of me. I had given it to him after Patty stormed out of the room during the big sit-down. My portrait hangs next to Pope John Paul. And frankly, I am pleased with the product. The pope and I look good together.
With a bold Sharpie I had signed: “Make sure your people stay out of trouble, Frank. All the best, Grove.” It was not conceit driving my demand to hang this picture. Rather, the picture was a reminder to Scully, to Casper sans clippers, to Radio Ray if he ever shows his commission-clipping face on this floor, to Patty and her cronies from Estrogen Alley, to people visiting Frank’s office, and to all those who might otherwise besmirch my name and reputation. I played no role in the Kelemen Group.
Crunch cut my hair last week. He was the friend Sam had charged with bringing Un, Deux, and Trois to her parents’ home in Boston. He never
delivered the dogs, though. The three hang out in his salon with crustaceans all day long. I’m happy the dachshunds have a good home. Crunch said he might design a new logo around the dogs.
One thing still gnaws at me. Sam’s jewels are missing. The trademark baubles, like the blue-green peacock brooch and the diamond cluster earrings, all vanished. Gone.
I asked Crunch, “Any ideas where they might be? Did Charlie pawn them?”
“No clue, honey,” he replied, and snipped away.
I won’t be looking under any rocks, though. As a runaway son of Charleston, a Southern boy just trying to find his way in the wilds of New York City, I “might could” leave you with a final axiom. It’s probably the most important one of all.
Seven: Top producers stick to their day jobs.
