The Gods of Greenwich (23 page)

For an instant Cusack lost his voice. His head cocked to the side. And then he recovered. “We can talk. We can do that.” Jimmy instinctively liked the billionaire’s casual indifference to convention.

“Charts get in the way,” said Durkin. “You know what I mean?”

The two men built a quick rapport over the next two hours, in part because they fed each other’s good-natured irreverence. Cusack grew increasingly comfortable but reminded himself not to drop his guard. Too much was at stake.

“What do you think about hedge fund fees, Jimmy? All this two-and-twenty nonsense?”

“Sometimes the letter
K,
as in ka-ching, is the only difference between money and monkey business. Unless, of course, you know what you’re doing.”

“Does LeeWell Capital know what it’s doing?”

“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be here.” Cusack paused at the comment, pensive and introspective. “But I’d put a big chunk of your money into bonds before you invest the first dollar with me.”

“You said the same thing over the phone. Is this some kind of antipitch?”

“Self-defense.”

“What’s that mean?” the billionaire asked.

“If you invest primarily in safe securities, then you won’t pull your money from me the first sign of trouble. It’s not easy finding new clients.” Cusack wished he had given Caleb the same advice long before last December.

“I thought LeeWell Capital never loses money.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” replied Cusack.

“It sounds like you don’t care whether I invest with your firm.”

Cusack knew investors associate indifference with prosperity. And so far, he deserved an Oscar for best man. He had feigned success and acted the part of a god from Greenwich. He never revealed his inner distress, never betrayed the tension growing louder and louder like bagpipers approaching from the distance. Fear—wanting something too bad—was the quickest way to scare off money.

It was time to send the billionaire a new message. Cusack leaned forward and riveted into Durkin’s eyes.

“Don’t get me wrong, Graham. I want you as a client. But let’s start the right way, so we work together a long, long time.” There it was. Cusack asked for the order. It was Durkin’s turn to move.

“You hungry, Jimmy?”

“Starved. Didn’t eat a bite on the train.”

“Good,” Durkin said. “Let’s grab a burger. You can tell me more over lunch.”

“Great.”

“There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that?” Cusack asked.

“Is there a problem with your firm?”

“Say what?” Cusack shook his head, puzzled.

“Do yourself a favor, Jimmy, and never play poker with me.”

*   *   *

Cusack and Durkin scarfed cheeseburgers at the Capital Grille. Graham called them “too high,” because there was no way to trap all the sirloin, bacon, Havarti, and jalapeño-onion marmalade inside. Not that it mattered. The two men used fries to mop up whatever dripped out the sides.

“My burger,” said Durkin between mouthfuls, “could make guys like you forget sushi.”

“And I suppose you think I’m a Yankees fan, too,” protested Cusack.

During lunch the two men forgot all about LeeWell Capital. They spent more time discussing ProShares Short Dow30. It was a blah and benumbing name for a public fund with perhaps the greatest ticker symbol of all time.

Trading as DOG, its shares tumbled when the Dow advanced. They climbed when the Dow fell. And these days DOG was off to the races, the stock price increasing more and more every day.

That discussion took place thirty minutes ago. Durkin was returning to his office, as Cusack walked toward the train station. Cloudy and damp, a soggy breeze rolled off the harbor as the gray summer skies misted across downtown Providence. The city’s sturdy brick buildings, many from the 1700s, defied the ravages of time. The structures extolled craftsmanship from days gone by. But the historic views were lost on Cusack as he dissected the conversation from lunch and wondered what his boss would think.

No need to wait for an answer. The phone rang. Cy was on the line.

“What happened, Jimmy?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad?”

“Go with the bad.”

“Graham won’t invest,” reported Cusack, “until he learns more about our hedges. He used the word ‘transparency.’”

“Tell him to buy some fucking Saran Wrap. What’s the good?”

“He wants to meet in Greenwich, Cy.”

“So what.”

“He’s nibbling,” explained Cusack.

“He should. You showed him our returns, right?”

“Here’s the deal,” explained Cusack. “There’s a revolving door into Graham’s office. Morgan’s been through it, Goldman, everybody. The guy needs a thirty-four-inch bat to defend himself. But he’s coming to see us. That’s good, right?”

“Okay,” Leeser replied, softening. “Why don’t you invite him to my deal at MoMA?”

“No offense, Cy. But I’d rather he visit our office, where we can focus on business.”

“Do both. Get him to stay in the city on Thursday, and we’ll meet with him the next day.”

“Good idea.”

“Are your in-laws coming to MoMA?”

“Working it, Cy.”

“You’re starting to piss me off. You said—”

“I said,” Cusack interrupted, “that I’ll deliver Caleb during September. We’re on plan.”

“Make sure we are,” Leeser snapped, and clicked off the phone.

Something was wrong. For the last four hours, Cusack had labored to stay cool and avoid the cardinal sin of sales—wanting something too much and showing it. And here, his boss was obsessed with Caleb Phelps.

Cusack could have dwelled on the thought. But his cell phone rang again.

What now?

*   *   *

“This is your lucky day.” Most of the time a Boston accent returned Cusack to the days when three brothers pigged out on “Hoodsies,” the small cups of half vanilla, half chocolate ice cream that come with flat wooden spoons. Only now the voice evoked images of Shannon and the embarrassing confrontation in Leeser’s office. There was also the warning from Daryle Lamonica: Beware the Greek.

“What’s up, Geek?”

“You’re in Providence?”

“How’d you know?”

“Called your office, Jimmy. I have an offer you can’t refuse.”

“The Red Sox aren’t in town until next weekend.”

“It’s better than Sox-Yankees.”

“That’s a pretty high bar,” Jimmy replied. “You’ll lose all credibility if this isn’t good.”

“We’re hitting the casino tonight.”

It was as though the C-word, “casino,” burst a balloon. “I can’t,” slipped from Cusack’s lips before he checked the rest of the sentence. He almost said, “I can’t afford that shit.”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” replied Geek. “You, me, and a couple of traders from UBS. Foxwoods is comping the suites.”

“I thought Monte Carlo was your thing. Since when do you slum the casinos of Connecticut?”

“They know me at the blackjack tables,” Geek explained.

“I’m due back in New York.” Cusack felt his interest roller-coaster. Geek was sure to put on a show. His prowess at the gaming tables was legendary inside Hedgistan, fun to watch. Cusack, however, could not gamble. It would be like going to a high school dance on crutches. And he sure as hell had no interest in explaining what happened.

“The casino is on your way home,” persisted Geek.

“I’m painting the condo this weekend.”

“Bad case of cryptorchidism.”

“What’s that?”

“In plain English,” Geek began, “it means no balls.”

“Bite me,” Cusack laughed. “I promised Emi.”

“Tell her it’s a night out with the guys. A few steaks. Some time at the blackjack tables. You’ll be home by midday tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Believe me, Emi understands man’s innate need to roam. It’s who we are.”

“You don’t understand.”

“That’s right,” Geek snapped. “You’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let me call you back in five. Emi’s on the other line.”

“‘No’ is not in my lexicon, Jimmy.”

“Yeah, right.”

*   *   *

“James, guess what we’re doing.” Emi’s voice bubbled with excitement.

“You got the wrong number, lady. This is Boris.”

“Quit horsing around.” In that whisper of a second, Emi changed the topic. “How’d it go today with Durkin?”

“Not great. I think the technical answer is ‘work in progress,’” Cusack replied. “So what are we doing?”

“Flying to Bermuda.”

We can’t afford it.

“Three days, all expenses paid, James. You hop a flight and meet me in Hamilton tonight.”

“Staying with your parents?”

“They rented a villa,” Emi confirmed. “It has plenty of room.”

Cusack wrestled with the idea. The seconds ticked away. No one said anything, like a husband and wife trying to remember who spoke the last sentence and used the last period.

I’d choose Abu Ghraib over Bermuda with Caleb.

“Are you there?” Emi assumed she had lost the connection.

“I’m thinking.”

“James,” she said, and paused for the gravity of silence, “you need to reconcile with my father.”

“I know. I know. But three days with Norman Bates is more than I can handle.”

“Knock it off.”

“All it takes are a few Bloody Marys, Em. Then it’s ‘Petri Dish Capital’ this. And ‘Petri Dish Capital’ that.”

“Dad drinks dark and stormies in Bermuda.”

“You get the point.”

“What about Cy? It’d be a great time to tell Daddy about MoMA.”

“I understand why Caleb pulled his stunt last December,” Jimmy replied. “But I don’t like it. And reconciling with him has nothing to do with my job.”

“Your feud is hurting my relationship with Dad.”

“I know, Em. I know. Part of the problem is that Geek just invited me to a guys’ night at Foxwoods, and I’d love to go.”

“So meet us Saturday and come back Monday night.”

“I’m not comfortable taking time away from the office,” said Cusack. “I’ve only been on the job four months. And I won’t fly to Bermuda for one day on Caleb’s dime.”

“You think Foxwoods is a better offer?”

Uh-oh.

“It’s not like that, Em.”

Their conversation had turned into an afternoon with
War and Peace.
Every sentence was a challenge. After an extended pause, she finally said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You go to Foxwoods, and I’ll go to Bermuda. Under one condition.”

“I’m all ears,” he repeated.

“You spend time with my father when I tell you. Where I tell you. No questions asked. Otherwise, you deal with Mom and me.”

“You’d make that trade?”

“I don’t want to ref squabbles all weekend.”

Cusack swallowed hard and agreed. “Done.”

“You owe me, Bubba.”

*   *   *

“Is this Jimmy?”

“Speaking.” The phone rang as he finished with Emi.

“It’s Bianca Leeser,” she announced with intonation that could have translated, “I’m here. I’m happy. And so are you.”

“What a nice surprise.”

“I’m double-checking our guest list for MoMA,” she said. “Cy will buy tickets for your prospects.”

“There are a few folks with New Jersey Sheet Metal, and Graham Durkin, the guy I met today.”

“Get me the names, and I’ll take care of the cost. That goes for your father-in-law, too.”

“Cy mentioned him?”

“I look forward to meeting Caleb.” On a scale ranging from light to coquettish, the timbre of her voice registered a notch below inviting.

“You got it, Bianca.”

Cusack thought they were finished. He was about to hang up, when Bianca said, “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“That night at L’Escale. I was a mess and—”

“You helped more than you’ll ever know, Bianca.”

“I bet you missed your anniversary date because of me.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, letting her off the hook.

“You are some kind of hug, Jimmy Cusack.”

“Hey thanks, right?”

“Oops, there’s Cy,” Bianca noted. “Gotta go.”

Her swinging cadence sounded cheerful. And her choice of words, calling Jimmy “some kind of hug,” turned Bianca warm and oddly affectionate. There was energy about her, the kind of perkiness found in coffee beans and substances that come with twenty-year sentences. But after five seconds of dial tone, which were three more than necessary, Cusack decided things were still tense in the Leeser household.

*   *   *

“I’m in.”

After a quick discussion, Cusack clicked off the phone with Geek. For the moment he forgot Durkin and Leeser’s secret sauce. He put Shannon and Victor out of his mind, as well as the warning from Daryle Lamonica. His attention shifted to the business of renting a car and driving to Foxwoods.

Cusack had no idea he was being shadowed. He never trained with the CIA or FBI, the Delta Force, or countless other organizations where individuals acquire the special skills to observe, evade, and hunt. He never jumped from an airplane or shot a gun.

Talk—that was Cusack’s job. He ate lunch with prospects. He lived inside a shark tank filled with numbers, either billions or basis points. When Cusack saw .25, he said “quarter.” He never heard the expression “deuce five” or interpreted .25 as the caliber of a gun. He lacked the espionage skills to spot surveillance or pick out a “pavement artist” from the crowd.

The tail knew how to make himself invisible. He knew how to extricate himself from messy situations. And he knew how to crush larynxes with his bare hands. He had stabbed, punched, and gutted his enemies under the cover of night. He once dropped a man in broad daylight with a sniper shot of four thousand feet, hardly the longest strike ever, but respectable nevertheless. Long ago, his hand had molded to the grip of an M9 Beretta. The tail pulled triggers the way Cusack ran spreadsheets.

*   *   *

The tail was not the only person with special skills. That Friday afternoon Rachel called her employer. Something in his voice that morning had troubled her. Anger. Venom. Something not right.

Emotions were a problem in her business. Mistakes accompany tempers—his spats of fury could cost her big time. It was that simple.