The Gods of Greenwich (12 page)

“Okay?” Cusack avoided the temptation to say, “There always is.”

“If you leave LeeWell Capital for any reason, whether you’re fired or you take a job with a competitor, I want my money. Your mortgage is payable in thirty days.”

“Is that negotiable?”

“Not one comma, Jimmy. The loan documents are standard.”

“Where do I sign?”

“Shannon will drive you.”

Twenty minutes later Shannon parked Leeser’s glacier-white Bentley on Greenwich Avenue outside the lawyer’s office. The big man said a total of three words during the short drive: “Hi” and “Let’s go.”

Cusack pulled out his cell, phoned Smitty, and asked the lawyer, “Can you get my payoff figure?”

“Through when?” the attorney stammered, surprised by the question.

“Ten minutes from now.”

“That’s awesome, dude.”

“Thanks,” replied Cusack, thinking Smitty should strike “dude” from his vocabulary. “Text me the payoff number.”

Smitty sensed something else, something in the way Cusack hesitated over the phone. “Anything else?”

“Call Robby and tell him to overnight a listing agreement.”

“That’s crazy. Why sell your condo when the pressure’s off?”

“I’ll never be this vulnerable again, Smitty.”

Last night Emi had agreed to put the condo on the market. She supported the idea of raising their family in the suburbs. Cusack liked cutting their debt. The first payment on his new mortgage from LeeWell Capital was not due until February. But interest was still accruing at 5.75 percent on $3.1 million. That was $14,854 ticking away every month like a time bomb.

“But the market—”

“Just do it,” Jimmy interrupted. It was time to move on and leave the condo mistake behind.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DAY ONE AT LEEWELL
 …

The first time Jimmy saw Victor Lee, the head trader had his jaws wrapped around one-third of a cheeseburger fully loaded with mushrooms, bacon, and some kind of brown-red barbecue sauce. There were probably pickles and lettuce, maybe even some diced onions. Cusack was not sure because Victor never dribbled the trace elements—not even a drop of the blood-soaked grease that would have soiled the chins of lesser men.

Lee had a broad mouth, his double-wide face big enough to swallow half the cheeseburger in one bite. He opted for fries instead, wedging them between cheeseburger and cheek and grunting over the phone mid-swallow. From the distance, Victor’s guttural sounds could have been mistaken for walrus sex had he been somewhere else than Greenwich Plaza.

The head trader took one look at Cy and one look at the new guy. Victor garbled something into the phone that was either “gotta go” or “get stuffed.” It was impossible to tell with him scarfing down the five-inch-high cheeseburger.

“Victor Lee,” he announced, ripping off his ultralight headset, tossing it against a wall of three thirty-inch LCDs, and thrusting out his hand.

He blinked several times through horn-rimmed glasses. His spiky, jet-black crew cut stood straight up. For a guy in his thirties, he looked like a throwback to the 1950s.

“Meet Jimmy Cusack,” said Leeser. “He’s the new face of sales.”

Cusack shook Victor’s hand. “I’ve heard great things about you.”

“Over there,” Leeser continued, “that’s Bill. And Adam. And that’s David. They all trade with Victor.”

Cusack shook hands with each of them.

“You any good?” asked Lee, no smile, no humor.

One of the junior traders rolled his eyes. The others watched Jimmy. They had seen Victor in action before.

“We don’t want anybody who sucks, Cusack.”

Lee’s clipped accent betrayed long years on the crowded streets of Hong Kong. He stood five foot six and 165 pounds, not an ounce of fat. He looked like a preppy fire hydrant, open at the throat and blasting testosterone rather than water.

“I do okay,” Cusack replied.

From experience he knew the one technique for taming blowhards: rope-a-dope. Take the punches while they talk themselves into exhaustion. Then land a few smart-mouth combos. He had seen his share of “Victor Lees” at Goldman Sachs and other shops around the street. Jimmy counterpunched with the best.

“You have any idea what we do here, Cusack?”

“Make money.”

“Hey, Cy,” Victor said, grinning for the first time. “I like this guy.”

The head trader turned back to Cusack. “What else, newbie?”

Jimmy hesitated and glanced at his boss. Leeser never said a word. He watched his employees with less expression than a cantaloupe.

“I haven’t seen the portfolio,” Cusack started, “but I know that LeeWell concentrates its bets on a handful of companies. That you buy huge blocks of stock without running up the price. That Cy sits on the board of Bentwing Energy, where he’s not afraid to rattle the cages.”

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Victor snapped. “That’s the right answer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nobody knows what we do,” announced Lee, pausing for the silence to punctuate his words. “We don’t tell anybody anything. Otherwise, every dickhead in Greenwich would follow our lead.”

Cusack took the shot and waited.

“Nobody makes money,” Lee continued, “if we’re all hosing our mothers for each other’s trades.”

“You available for client calls?” Jimmy asked, speaking without any trace of sarcasm. “You’re perfect for the college endowments. Harvard, Yale, Princeton—we’ll make a road trip out of it. Stop by a few pension plans, maybe a family office or two along the way.”

“Victor’s no HR department,” Cy interceded, stifling a smile while slapping his trader on the back. “But he has a Ph.D. from MIT and knows how to trade. That’s why I want him on our team.”

“I look forward to working with you.” Cusack flashed a thumbs-up sign to the three junior traders, who returned the signal.

“Can you guys join Jimmy and me for a drink after work?” asked Cy.

Before Victor could reply, his phone interrupted the group. The incoming number displayed on his console, and he said, “I need to take this.” He donned his headset and asked, “What do you have?”

As Victor Lee listened, he fiddled with the claw of a sixteen-ounce Estwing hammer. Tools were out of place in most office environments. It was anything goes with traders, though. They were always fiddling with something—bats, hackie sacks, you name it. Anything to release the nervous energy.

Coiled and alert, Victor scanned one LCD display to the next. He searched charts, flashing tickers, and scrolling news as though evaluating his caller’s market advice. Finally, he announced, “Don’t waste my time, pal,” and clicked off.

Cy flashed a wan smile.

Lee gripped the hammer claw, pointed the handle at Jimmy, and said, “Just remember, Cusack. There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who make money.”

“And?”

“Oxygen thieves.”

*   *   *

Cy and Jimmy continued their tour of LeeWell Capital. The offices—a lavish, largely accidental hash of technology, hedge fund chic, and frat-house Shangri-la—included an eight-by-ten cool room for computer racks and a roomy billiards lounge complete with drop-down lights over a massive table. Cue sticks lined one wall. A fifty-two-inch flat-screen television was tuned to Fox Business on the other.

“Nice pool table,” Cusack observed.

“Snooker,” Leeser corrected, selecting a pool stick from the wall. “The table’s bigger, and the balls are smaller.”

LeeWell’s kitchen housed an open-flame range for grilling steaks, Le Cache wine cabinet racked with 160 bottles, and another fifty-two-inch flat-screen television. This one was tuned to CNBC. A huge copper-and-brass cappuccino maker engulfed an entire kitchen island. The machine contained two gauges, one digital display, and at least three spigots. On top, a spread-winged eagle scanned the horizon for stray coffee beans.

“Shipped it direct from Italy,” Cy announced with the pride of acquisition in his voice. “I insist on good coffee.” He was still carrying the pool stick from the billiards lounge.

Jimmy struggled to show respect. He remembered his firm’s Mr. Coffee machine, the one Emi bought at Walmart for $19.99. “I bet you can make moonshine in that thing.”

“Our coffee is stronger,” Cy replied, “and it tastes better.”

The workout room contained a stationary bike, weight machine, and another fifty-two-inch screen. Using the pool cue, Leeser pointed to a door at the rear of the room. He explained, “Back there we’ve got showers, lockers, and a sauna big enough to host client meetings.”

“Do you laminate the PowerPoint handouts?” Cusack deadpanned.

“No place like a sauna to close the sale,” answered Leeser, choking the pool cue with a gnarled grip. “Just turn up the steam and serve martinis.”

Over the next thirty-two minutes Cusack met two accountants, several junior research assistants, and Kennedy from Compliance. He visited with Nikki, who sat outside Leeser’s office, her head hidden by a computer screen and a bank of chest-high files surrounding the workstation.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she offered. “I’ll book flights and catch your phone during the day, if you’re not around.”

“Thanks, Nikki. You’re the best.”

“And this is your new home, Jimmy,” said Leeser, gesturing to a door next to his own office.

At that moment Shannon’s huge bulk filled the frame. “All clear,” he advised Leeser, not looking at Cusack.

“Good,” Cy replied.

Shannon glanced at Cusack’s two-star button, the big man’s expression colder than a gouty piranha. He turned and asked, “You need anything else, boss?”

“All set,” said Leeser, and Shannon left.

“What’s ‘clear’?” Jimmy asked.

“Your office. We sweep for bugs.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Our competitors will do anything to get an edge, Jimmy. Even if it means bribing employees or sifting through the trash.”

“Ever have a problem?”

“Not yet. Our bonuses keep people honest.”

“You were relaxed,” countered Cusack, “when you hired me.”

“You waited a few days before starting.”

“So.”

“You checked out just fine.” Leeser smiled broadly. His brown eyes gleamed.

Cusack suddenly felt violated. He tried to mask his reaction. But the crooked smile came too late.

“What can I say?” asked Cy with a matter-of-fact voice. “People in our industry will do anything to be right one time.”

“What do you mean?”

“What were your fees?”

“Two and twenty like everybody else,” said Cusack.

“Your fund was two hundred million. If you’re up fifty percent in one year, you keep twenty million dollars. You can break the rules once, retire, and tell the world to kiss the sand off your ass.”

“It works in reverse, Cy. One bad year, and we’re out of business.”

“Loyalty is fucking extinct,” Leeser agreed wistfully.

“Hey, you can’t quit now,” pressed Cusack, half in jest. “I just started.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jimmy. I love this game.” Passing the pool cue back and forth between hands, wielding it like a relay-race baton, Leeser added, “We’re creating long-term value at LeeWell Capital.”

*   *   *

On his first day, Cusack began working in earnest forty-five minutes after the markets closed. He sat alone in his office, eyeing a stack of papers and bubbling with optimism. He felt safe but refused to kick back.

Cusack sifted through his pile and found LeeWell’s portfolio of stocks. Within thirty seconds his eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he whistled under his breath:

“You’ve got to be kidding, Cy.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TUESDAY
,
APRIL
29
BENTWING AT
$61.88

Bentwing Energy totaled 30 percent of LeeWell Capital’s portfolio. It was a huge stake, especially when many consider 5 percent a full position. Every swing of one dollar in Bentwing’s share price added or subtracted $4 million to the fund.

The stock was like a toddler near the swimming pool. Cusack checked for company news first thing in the morning. When talking on the phone, he found his eyes drifting toward the ticker symbol BEG. And with a black marker, he scribbled
Bentwing $78.79
on an envelope and taped it to his computer LCD. That was the share price necessary to get a bonus.

The calculation, Cusack knew, was far from perfect. The rest of the portfolio could do almost anything—rise, fall, or trade sideways. “Bentwing $78.79” kept him focused, however, on the single biggest factor in the portfolio’s health. And unfortunately, the stock had already fallen $1.14 since his first day on the job. Every downtick at BEG, no matter how modest, kindled his growing curiosity about “the secret sauce” and how Leeser minimized risk.

Did Cy stumble onto something brilliant?

Cusack had barely taken the job. He could not reveal his doubts. Not to Emi, who shouldered her own issues. Not to colleagues, who heralded him as the new champion on their team. And certainly not to finance buddies, who trolled for weakness and snatched clients every chance they got.

During his first week at LeeWell—“Bentwing $78.79” forever in the background—Jimmy fielded a staggering number of phone calls. Fellow alums from Columbia, Wharton, and Goldman all wished him “good luck.”

“I heard you got carried out,” said Peter. He meant carried out on a board, as in the carcass of his deceased fund. “Glad you’re back.”

“The guys are calling you ‘Cool Hand Cusack,’” Sam reported. He worked at Wexford Plaza, another outpost of the gods, otherwise known as a “hedge fund hotel” because the tenants were all hedge funds.

Bill and Doug called. So did Rick, which was bizarre because they had not spoken since sophomore year. Fred invited Jimmy for drinks at Barcelona, a mecca for girls’-night-out dinners. “We’ll pound beers and check out the cougars. Last time I was there, a woman whipped out her boobs and dunked them in a couple of martini glasses.”

Even Sydney, Jimmy’s former assistant, telephoned to say congratulations and gossip about the hedge fund she joined. “My boss is a stitch. He put signs in our bathroom that say ‘Employees must wash hands after touching the money.’”