The Deal (17 page)

“Pangaea,” she repeated, which is never a good sign. “Well, I hope your meeting goes well. I’ll give you another try over the weekend.”

While I was pissed at how the conversation had gone, I was relieved to be getting off the phone.

“Please do,” I answered.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good night.”

I hit the “end” button on my phone.

“Who was that?” inquired Perry.

“No one.”

“Didn’t sound like no one.”

“Remember when you said something about finding the hottest girl at Archmont’s wedding, and visualizing you in her dress to compare?”

“I do.”

“This was the girl I used for the comparison.”

It was at this moment that I looked at my phone. I hadn’t properly hit the “end” button. I put it up to my ear.

“Hello?”

I heard a click on the other end.

Chapter 19

My Sapphire and tonic felt sweet as it coated my throat. A Madonna remix blared through the space, which was a relaxing tango of velvet, leather, deep, rich colors, and dark lighting. Perry and I were seated around a secluded corner table with three other couples, most notably the Auerbachs. Between thoughts of the jewel-encrusted egg in my closet I listened intently to Perry’s conversation with James, which had taken an unexpected turn. He was taking the position of “broker, then friend” as opposed to “friend, then broker.
”

“I told you, Per, Cantrol’s board is more than willing to come to the table. But you need to know it’ll only be because the right numbers have been offered. Not because you know what kind of apples my wife likes.”

Perry laughed with obvious, intended sarcasm.

“The right numbers. James, we both know we’re dealing with a couple of dinosaurs looking to unload here. ‘The right numbers’ are whatever you tell them they are, and we both know I’m coming in here offering figures well above market. Which, being the broker you supposedly think you are, should scream only one thing.”

“Which is?” asked Auerbach.

“That I have a buyer coming in ready to buy. Not just ready to talk. An interested party that is willing to put forward a number noticeably higher than what it should be given the current market conditions.”

Perry, giving him a chance to let the words set in, took a healthy sip of her Cosmo.

“Don’t be a dolt, James. Don’t fuck this up and start moving backward because you’re not reading between the lines.”

At this point, Perry was speaking to James as well as his wife. A smart move, since no man likes to, number one, look like a schmuck in front of his wife and, number two, let his wife know that his miscalculations could cost them both a boatload of cash.

“There’s way too much of a payoff here.”

Now, to drive her message home, Perry looked directly at James’s wife.

“Your man, if he plays his cards right, could be one of the players to close a major deal this year. Which means, Catherine, you could finally gut and refurbish the Montauk house.”

Perfect. It’s all about knowing who’s sitting across from you and Perry had hit James’s nonworking housewife where it mattered most, her ability to spoil herself. Mrs. Auerbach now had a vested interest in her husband’s potential deal.

I caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to my empty drink. My eyes continued to drift, soak in my surroundings. I couldn’t shake the desire to, every so often, check that no one unusual was looking my way, which was tough since people seem to curiously stare at me from time to time. I’ve graced enough business publications for people to have that sense that they have seen me before.

Everything seemed cool. There was one hot blond staring at me from across the lounge, but I knew from the way her tongue was fondling her sultry lips that Fabergé trinkets weren’t her interest. Not too far away from her, on a burgundy velvet couch in a dark corner, two beautiful women, one with red hair and the other a blond, shared a passionate kiss, which I stared at simply because I’m a guy. Relevance? None, other than, looking back on it, I believe those were the only ten stress-free seconds of that entire day.

I brought my attention back to our table. I looked at the watch I had chosen for the evening, a Lange 1, strapped to my wrist. The time was 11:47
p.m.
As the waitress put my drink down, Perry spoke in my direction.

“Tell James about Gerry Clauson over at Dillinger,” she said.

Dillinger is an architectural firm we deal with regularly.

Before I had even had the chance to open my mouth, a multiple spilled drink incident at the next table, and the ensuing explosion of bodies springing up, captured my attention. I started to survey the faces of all the involved parties, but a hand touched my shoulder from behind me. I turned around.

“So this was who you were envisioning in my dress?”

It was Angie. She was angry, but damn she looked good. She was wearing tight, low-riding True Religion jeans and a form-fitting baseball T-shirt, white with pink sleeves, that said ‘skank’ on the front in glitter. On her feet were spiked Manolos, pink to match her T-shirt. I know, the fact that I remember this is a problem in itself. She continued, pointing at Perry belittlingly.

“Are you kidding me?”

Everyone, for obvious reasons, was clueless, shocked. Especially Perry, who was being taunted by someone she didn’t even know
.

“Jonah, what’s going on?” asked Perry.

“Angie, what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, bad time? Am I ruining your meeting?”

I stood up.

“I don’t think you understand—” I started.

“I understand perfectly. You’re just another narcissistic fuck who thinks he’s the earth’s axis.”

Any other night, if I was the person I am today, I may have agreed with her. But this night was different. I ignored her, even though, whether I realized it at the time or not, I had heard her loud and clear.

“Angie, if there’s something you’d like to discuss—”

“You’re damn right there is. I don’t like being lied to.”

That was it. I do not like to be embarrassed, especially by someone I barely know no matter how hot she is. And not only do I hate being cut off mid-sentence, she had just done it twice.

I turned back toward the people at my table and addressed the group.

“I apologize,” I began. “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go educate this week’s fuck-puppet as to whom exactly it is she’s dealing with.”

Small bursts of surprised laughter sprang from the table. Angie, shell-shocked, didn’t move as I stepped away from the table.

“Are you coming?” I asked, shaking her out of her stupor.

Angie followed me over to the bar.

“How fucking dare you,” she started.

I took a long sip of my drink then responded.

“Let me explain something to you. Whether you want to believe it or not, the dark-haired girl who you just insulted is Perry York, one of my business partners and one of my closest friends. The man next to her is James Auerbach, a prominent broker we’re involved in a tremendous deal with. No one has lied to you. Furthermore, unfortunately for you, I am someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone nor do I take kindly to being embarrassed. Now, if I say I’m going somewhere for business purposes, then I’m going somewhere for business purposes.”

I paused for a second then continued.

“Do you know how you can tell?”

Nothing.

“Because if I’m going somewhere to fuck someone else, then I’ll tell you I’m going somewhere to fuck someone else.”

She said my confidence turned her on, so this must have been driving her crazy.

“Look,” I continued, pausing briefly to throw back the rest of my drink, “I can’t explain to you enough how truly great last night was for me. Not just the sex, but the connection. But, truth be told, I don’t even know you.”

“Tell me then what was all that bullshit about me being the girl used for your little fantasy comparison?”

“My phone was still on,” I said to myself in a Seinfeld-esque moment.

“Yeah, your phone was still on.”

“That, my dear, was nothing more than Perry, might I add who’s married, and I playing with one another.”

“Playing.”

Her voice had retreated a bit.

“That’s right.”

“How so?”

“Well, to be honest, this is the point in the conversation where I’d usually tell you that it’s none of your fucking business. But since you’re so...let’s go with persistent —”

Unable to hold it back, she smiled.

“— I don’t mind explaining that we’ve been working closely together for seven years, and people in that position sometimes have a tendency to get close. Sometimes we play games with one another. What you heard on the phone, taken without the knowledge of how it fits into prior conversations, came across as an insult when in actuality I was complimenting you.”

Angie’s lip curled up as I got the bartender’s attention.

“What would you like?” I asked.

“Grey Goose and cranberry.”

I ordered the drinks then turned my attention back to Angie. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t afford to have some psycho rich girl stalking me. It was time to let her know exactly how things were going to be.

“Listen to me,” I began. “There is a lot happening in my life, the deal back at that table included. Now that’s not to say I don’t have room for exploring something with you. But you need to know that in my professional life I always—always—appear as exactly what I am, which is the strongest entity, in every way, at the table. What you did tonight, in front of those people, completely undermines me, and I won’t have it.”

“Jonah—”

“I’m not finished. I’m going back to my business partner. Last night was sensational, but I don’t have the time for some carrying-on little girl.”

The bartender put our drinks down. I picked mine up then looked her dead in the eye.

“Relax, take a deep breath, enjoy your drink, and call me tomorrow.”

As I walked through the hypnotic space toward Perry and the others, I could feel Angie’s eyes gouging into me. With each step, the reality of what had just happened sunk in further. Angie, a seemingly stand-out girl I had just met, had already shown, almost at record pace, the potential for becoming that psycho-possessive, lunatic, freak woman all men fear. As my ass hit my original seat next to Perry, she leaned into me as everyone at the table carried on with their conversations.

“I must say, a fine choice. Very classy girl.” she whispered.

I knew it was coming, but I was in no mood.

“Later, Perry.”

“Were you able to get your little plaything under control?”

I looked over at the bar. Angie was gone, her untouched drink left behind.

“Everything’s fine. Let it go.”

At two thirty a.m., wracked by both curiosity and concern as I sat in my study, I decided I needed to enhance my limited understanding about Fabergé imperial Easter eggs. Where did they really come from? How were they made? What and whom did they truly represent? I wasn’t exactly loaded from the night’s activities, but I was past buzzed, and edgy about leaving a Web trail on my home computer. On the other hand, I figured, the alternative was setting out to find an all-night Internet café and I was in no shape to be wandering empty streets alone with a still faceless foe potentially lurking. My internal debate continued. This isn’t the office, I told myself. This isn’t some place where an IT guy is monitoring multiple servers and employee Web usage. I was locked away in my apartment, no servers, just one high-speed cable connection to the Internet, where I was, in fact, the sole IT guy. My need for facts simply couldn’t wait.

I pulled a couple nice hits off a joint, strapped myself in, and began touring cyberspace. The lights were off so Neo, sprawled out on the desk and snoring, his moist nose touching the edge of the mouse pad, could get his rest. Around us, the building slept as well. All that could be heard was the gentle whirring of the apartment’s air-conditioning unit against the calm of the outside night.

As article after article scrolled down the monitor in front of me, I processed the information like a baby meeting his first puppy. Each nugget of information left me wanting a larger chunk. And with each chunk I found, I started to grasp the rich, regal history behind Danish Jubilee Egg.

Peter Carl Fabergé, son of a jeweler, was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1846. His was educated in Germany, but most of his jewelry training had been in St. Petersburg, and by the age of twenty-four he was taking over his father’s workshop. Later, brother Agathon, also a forward-thinking jeweler, joined him. The two formed a veritable team, and soon greatness began to take form as other fine artisans like Mikhail Perkhin and eventually Henrik Wigstrom joined.

While it was the Fabergé brothers who laid the foundation—created the forum—for such works of art, it is believed that others, amazingly, were responsible for managing the eggs’ creation. Perkhin, a Russian goldsmith, became the House of Fabergé’s leading workmaster in 1886, and supervised production of the eggs until 1903, when Wigstrom took over. Each had their initials inscribed to betoken the eggs under their care; MP for Perkhin—the Russian letter P actually resembles the mathematical symbol pi—and HW for Wigstrom. Some eggs were without initials, suggesting other possible supervisors than Perkhin and Wigstrom, but those that had workmaster initials also had Russian assay, meaning analysis, marks that showed the precious metals’ purity measured in zolotniks. A zolotnik was a small Russian unit of weight used from the tenth to the twentieth centuries derived from the word zoloto, or gold. Roughly four zolotniks equaled one karat; 14-karat gold translated into fifty-six zolotniks and 18-karat gold equated to seventy-two zolotniks. Because the House of Fabergé had a number of separate shops, the final order of business was a stamp that marked the city of origin. St. George and the Dragon meant Moscow, and for St. Petersburg it was crossed anchors.

That night I learned that inspiration for the eggs came in all forms. While many were fueled from works of art Fabergé came across while traveling, many were simply predicated upon Russian history. There were eggs that depicted the Uspensky Cathedral and the imperial yacht, Standart. During a time of war, the eggs served as a tribute to the military and Red Cross. Others were dedications to milestones of achievement, such as anniversaries and the completion of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Though no matter what the source was for each egg’s material, one thing was for certain: Easter meant an extraordinary Fabergé imperial egg to be delivered as a gift from the Czar to the Czarina. A tradition started by Czar Alexander III and carried on by his son Nicholas II.