The Deal (25 page)

“You might say he’s really submerged himself in this role of playing his younger self,” Jake commented.

“Good for him and good for us,” I replied.

“Always thinking with your wallet. That’s why I love you.”

“Where are you?” asked Perry.

“On the way to the Four Seasons to have dinner with my father. Tell me what’s up.”

“I think you may be right, Jonah. I hate that I did it, but I think you may be right.”

“You called a board member.”

“I called two. Both easily reachable, both in New York City. I also have a call in to another in Boston. His assistant told me that he’d contact me around nine tonight.”

“That fucking prick,” I bashed him.

“Tell me about it. I really didn’t want to make that call, but I couldn’t deny what you said. It just made too much sense.”

“It was the right move, Perry. We’ve got a client to please. Collateral damage gets handled later.”

“You got that right,” Jake jumped in. “We simply don’t have the time to be lied to. What this motherfucker did, after all these years you two have been friends, he deserves whatever he has coming to him now.”

“Cantrol’s board will slaughter him, Jonah. Think about it. Not only withholding an offer to them, but actually responding to that offer?”

“Not your problem, Per.”

“I know that. I’m willing to put him against the wall for it. It’s just that, I guess I’m disappointed.”

“In what?”

“The fact that this could ruin him. Not just with Cantrol but beyond if it really gets out. All I wanted was to make sure the deal was moving along properly.”

Perry’s personal life was more than showing chinks in her armor. Her remorse was nothing more than a by-product of her newfound loneliness. She was scared to lose anyone else, especially someone she had known for so long.

“And you did that, so let’s keep moving forward,” I pushed her.

“Definitely,” said Jake.

Perry didn’t say anything, which meant she had gotten the message.

“What now?” I continued on.

“I told her to not make any rash decisions until she hears from number three. Boston,” Jake said.

“I agree,” I countered.

“Once I hear from him,” Perry continued, “if it’s what we all expect it will be, I work through the night on a confidentiality agreement to be sent first thing in the morning and signed for individually by each board member. From there we move forward with the board and, hopefully, lose nothing more than these past couple of days.”

She paused, then, uncharacteristically, quipped into the air to no one, “This is unfucking believable!”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“About—” I probed.

“What pisses me off more? The fact that James would so easily spit on our friendship or the fact that I’ve lost substantial time.”

Perry wasn’t kidding. She really wasn’t sure. It’s hard enough to swallow a real estate foe screwing with you in the first place. It must be a whole different story when it’s a friend. On the other hand, Perry hates being thrown off schedule. She adjusts as well as anyone when it happens, but she hates it.

As for what happened between Perry and Auerbach, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never given anyone professional, whom I remotely consider to be a friend, even one second to think that sticking it to me would be a wise move. So I thought about how I react to people who try to fuck with me in the business world, and I gave her the same advice my father once gave me.

“Let James Auerbach go, Perry.”

“I know, Jonah. But when—”

“I mean it. Let him go, angrily. When you have, nothing will be more of a lesson to him than if this deal gets made in spite of his efforts. He’ll have to think about it every day. Nothing will gnaw at him more. Perry, you need to steamroll over him. You need to knock him to the ground. And when he’s down, you need to make sure his eyes are still open. This way he’ll be able to see the sole of your shoe as it comes crashing into his face.”

I walked into The Four Seasons on east 52nd street. Within one step of entering the space I was transported to the 1970s. Not the ’70s of trippy colors and tight shorts, the one of elegance and taste. The one of growing American wealth and splendor. The Four Seasons was the same place to eat for the privileged today that it was then. Same smart hues, same subtly crisp Philip Johnson architecture, same timeless aura.

After walking upstairs to the dining room, I was immediately greeted by Julian Niccolini, of Julian and Alex fame. The two together are responsible for fuelling the restaurant’s success from the beginning. Julian, the crowd pleaser, has a reputation built on his outgoing personality and charm, especially with the ladies. Alex Von Bidder, his reserved counterpart, has always been thought of as the establishment’s lightning rod. Together, they make a formidable restaurateur team.

I walked through the narrow hallway, the one with the huge, earth-tone Picasso on the wall, then past the wine room and into the main dining area. The cavernous, high-ceilinged room was dimly lit, as it usually is in the evening. The warm cherry wood walls seemed to be absorbing, then evenly redistributing, all of the room’s energy. The famous drooping, pink and bronze metal chain-link curtains gently shimmied in tiny vertical waves up and down the walls. Orderly, proper staff members glided about with little distraction. The square pool of cool pale blue water located in the center of the space muffled all of the room’s voices into a single calm entity. I spotted my father, and a woman I had never seen before, sitting at our usual table right up against the pool’s south edge.

A bit uneasy I sat down. I hated the fact that I had to be near my father, possibly putting him directly in harm’s way, but therein lay the problem. He knew me better than anyone and would have become suspicious had I started blowing him off. One of the few constants in my life had always been our time together. In his eyes, anything that ever threatened that routine came across as erratic.

I shook my dad’s hand.

“Jonah, say hi to Cesara. She’s Spanish.”

Cesara, who looked younger than me, had olive skin, huge breasts, and chiseled facial features. She wore a short, slinky black cocktail dress and three-inch heels. Her dark, lustrous hair was long and flowing. Her nose was buried in her BlackBerry.

“Hey!” Pop barked. “This is my son here! Finish up with your goddamned e-mails later.”

Cesara mumbled something in Spanish under her breath. She hit the miniature keypad a few last times and lifted her eyes to give me a quick once over.

“Nice to meet you.”

I could see right past her eyes into the smutty thoughts forming in her gold-digging brain.

“Stanley,” she went on, her voice spiked with Latin flavor, “I really need to get back to these people. Since the two of you are probably just going to talk business anyway, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, just go,” Pop quipped, as if he’d been through this exercise before.

Cesara jumped up. BlackBerry still in hand, she picked up her purse and cell phone, and scurried out of the dining room.

I sat down. A Sapphire and tonic was waiting for me.

“What’s doing, kid?”

The dope had made my mouth a bit dry. I downed a third of my drink.

“Not much,” I said. “Didn’t know there would be three of us tonight.”

When I arrived Pop had a few business papers out on the table along with one of my favorites of his Mont Blanc pens, Hemingway, but he was looking at a New York Post. He was taking one last glimpse at whatever article he had been reading as he put it aside.

“This egg thing is unbelievable,” he said, nearly throwing me from my seat.

“Excuse me?”

“The Fabergé egg that was stolen from the embassy. Haven’t you been following it?”

“Actually, not really. I haven’t had all that much time for the news lately.”

My insides began to simmer. I was surprised by my father’s interest. His nose was usually buried in the business section. I had never thought of him as a current events kind of guy.

“Yeah, well, it’s simply sickening to me that someone would steal something like this. I just don’t understand it.”

Shaking his head, he placed the paper on the floor next to his chair.

“Maybe it was Sam,” he continued, smirking, as he took a sip of his drink.

“Sam who? Archmont?”

“You never know,” he shrugged, half-kidding. “You know the story behind his going to prison? He was a dockworker. He stole some artwork that was headed overseas right out of the shipyard.”

All of a sudden it felt as if my head had been placed in a vice. Then, in a blink’s time, the Pool Room at The Four Seasons had become my own personal time machine. I was back at Archmont’s wedding, standing at the bar. I could see, not well, only peripherally, Robie/Hart putting my cigar case back in my briefcase. And I could see the cops that seemed to be milling about on the beach.

I had requested—pushed for—that meeting with Sam that evening. I thought, had I simply fucked myself inadvertently, putting myself in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time?

Pop looked at his Patek Philippe.

“How was your drink earlier?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Also irrelevant.”

“How come?”

“Pop if it’s cool I’d rather just pass over it. Some bimbo who isn’t even worth discussing.”

“Fucking women,” my father pushed out under his breath. “My lifelong dilemma. Of course, only since your mother passed, that is. Every day since has been the same crap, Jonah. They’re too damn needy to want around during the day, and too damn warm and pretty not to want around during the night.”

“Nice sentiments. James Brown would be proud.”

“Joke all you want, Jonah. But for me there will never be another like your mother. That’s why I don’t waste too much time on any one girl. If they’re young, have a tight ass, and look great in an evening gown, I keep them around right up until the time they get used to the lifestyle and start expecting things. Once they do, I’m on to the next. I keep my mind on making deals, I limit my exposure and possible commitment levels and have some great sex along the way.”

Pop sloshed down a couple gulps of his drink.

“Trust your old man on this one, Jonah. I’m sixty-three in a couple weeks. I’ve lived a lot of years. You’re entering the prime of your professional life. Keep dealing with the ladies the way you have been. Don’t get too attached to any of them. That way you won’t get hurt or sidetracked. That way you can keep closing deals, which is the only place your head should be.”

Discussing our respective day’s events, we jumped right into the atmosphere. Soon we were eating caviar and sampling different cognacs on the house, all the while my senses working overtime. It was obvious my father had no idea he was cohabitating with the missing Fabergé egg. Soon it was equally clear that no one out of the ordinary had contacted him. Nothing odd was happening in his life. I had always thought I could tell when my father was keeping something from me. That night I was sure he wasn’t. Something that helped me loosen up enough to handle the moment.

I let the discussion turn to business, to Andreu, and filled my father in on how we were doing.

“By the way, how’s Galina?” he detoured.

“According to Andreu she’s fine. Still painting or doing whatever it is she does.”

“What she does is paint, draw, and sculpt,” Pop replied as he buttered a mini-croissant, a grin spinning onto his face. “Never signs her work. Just dates it. Anyway, that’s good. The two of them must have really bonded once Alexander died.”

“I wouldn’t know, Pop. Our recent conversations haven’t exactly been dealing with family and affairs of the heart. A wise man from the Upper East Side once told me there’s only so much time in a day. Know what I’m saying?”

Cesara eventually returned to the table. For dinner I ordered a sirloin steak topped with grilled onions, broccoli, and pureed truffle oil infused potatoes on the side. My father went with the fish special that night, scallops. Cesara had Dover sole. When we
were about halfway finished with our entrées, something strange happened.

A man appeared at our table. I recognized him, but he was looking at my father. They knew each other from both being part of the Manhattan real estate landscape for so long.

“I understand you have a tee time at my country club on Saturday morning, Stan.”

My father shot me a look before answering.

“You understand correctly, Lloyd. I’m playing with Halper.”

“Watch out for number fourteen. She’s an angry little bitch of a par three.”

“How have you been?” Pop went on.

It was Lloyd Murdoch. The man who’s empire I was infiltrating. Even though I had recently chumped him, I couldn’t help respecting the fact he was smoking a cigar in a “no smoking” restaurant, like he owned the place. Monte Cristo #2 no less. Before answering, he turned his eyes to me.

“Better. I’ve been better.”

I smirked at the guy menacingly. He was dressed sharp in Kiton from head to toe wearing a navy suit, perfect white spread-collar dress shirt, and gold well-knotted silk necktie. His feet were covered in Ferragamo. To most, without question, he looked successful. To me he looked like nothing more than a man trying to maintain an image that was in the process of fading away.

“Have you met my son?” Pop asked after introducing his date.

“Surprisingly, I haven’t yet had the pleasure.”

I extended my hand. I was surprised when he, without hesitation, shook it confidently.

“Jonah Gray.”

“Stan, you might want to have a discussion with your son. A dialogue about certain unspoken points of ethics when dealing in property.”

Murdoch took a nice draw of his cigar.

“Nah. I think he’s doing just fine,” Pop replied.

“Is that right?”

I looked at my father.

“Pop, why don’t you tell your friend I’m sitting right in front of him if he has something to say to me.”

The traces of blow swimming through my system took hold. I could feel cocaine muscles starting to grow underneath my shirt.

“I figured the discussion needed to be addressed as if you’re a child since that’s how you’re acting.”