The Gods of Greenwich (32 page)

“How are you?” He rushed round his desk to hug her hello. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured for Bianca to sit. He grabbed the other guest chair and pulled in close.

“Your wife is adorable.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy replied. “Emi said you had a good talk.”

“It’s amazing what we accomplish in the ladies’ room.”

“I know last night was awkward,” Cusack said, “but whatever happened in college was a long, long time ago.”

“I forgot one footnote,” stated Bianca in a rueful tone.

“You don’t need to explain.”

“No. But I’ve been wearing a scarlet letter all my life. In some ways, I’m glad Cy outed me. Takes a load off.”

“I hope things are okay.” Cusack immediately regretted the comment, too much of an opening.

“They’re not.”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Jimmy said.

“Dorothy Parker said, ‘Union is spelled with five letters. It’s not a four-letter word.’ You know what I say?”

“No?”

“She lacks urgency. I should have left my husband years ago.”

*   *   *

“What a nice surprise,” greeted Leeser, as Bianca and Cusack walked into his office.

The words belied his tone. He sounded like a priest administering last rites. The phone rang before they could respond and preempted, perhaps, a confrontation between husband and wife.

“This is my conference call,” announced Leeser, turning his back.

Cusack, feeling the air grow lousy with tension, asked Bianca in a low voice, “Would you like to wait in my office until he finishes?”

“You still have the names of all our contacts in Reykjavik?” Leeser growled into the receiver.

“No thanks,” Bianca whispered to Cusack, as her eyes darted from one painting to the next. She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and said, “I’ll be fine.”

Leeser continued to bark on the phone. “You’ve got to finish that piece from the International Institute for Financial Transparency. Today, dammit.”

The ranting and raving hardly bothered Bianca, who grew industrious despite all the commotion. She scribbled notes here and adjusted tallies there. She appeared thoughtful and, to Cusack’s eye, the most curious thing. Peaceful. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking inventory.”

*   *   *

On the way out of Leeser’s office, Cusack bumped into Shannon. Literally. The big man came to visit Cy, and the head of sales could not wedge through the door at the same time as the head of security.

Shannon looked past Cusack and spotted Bianca, pad in hand. He frowned and turned to Cusack. “How long will they be?”

“I’d give them some space,” Cusack suggested. He paused and added, “Hey, do you have a minute?”

“I do now. What do you want?”

“To discuss a few things.”

“Yeah, whatever, Cusack. Let’s get this over with.”

Suck up. Bide my time. Get the video.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” Jimmy said when the two were inside his office. “I don’t know if there’s any way to clear the air, Shannon. But I’d like to try.” He extended his right hand in truce.

“Why?” The big man scowled at Cusack’s hand and made no effort to shake it.

Jimmy retracted his hand, not comprehending the depth of venom. “So let’s cut to the chase then. I can’t afford for that videotape to go public.”

“Think I care?”

“Maybe not. But I have a favor to ask.”

“You don’t listen, man,” the big man said, surprised by Cusack’s persistence.

“Just keep it under lock and key, okay?”

“Not my problem,” Shannon scoffed. “Nikki keeps the Mac.”

“I don’t know what you think about me. Or why. But LeeWell Capital is a small shop, and it would really help if we got along.”

“Then stay away from your Geek friend,” the big man instructed. “I’ve got a job to do, rich boy.” He stood to leave and added, “One other thing.”

“Yeah.”

“You may be a plumber’s son, Cusack, but I don’t owe you shit.”

“My family is off-limits, pal,” muttered Cusack as Shannon walked out of the room.

*   *   *

Bianca tucked the inventory count into her purse. Scanning Cy’s desk, she found the overnight package from Reykjavik marked
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
.” Her husband’s back turned, Bianca reached into the envelope and pulled out a four-inch nail and handwritten note.

The note read:

Dear Mr. Leeser,

You may recognize this nail from your crate of Seventeenth Nail in My Cranium. What a generous gift to Siggi. I commend your choice of wine, which I had the good fortune to share. Seventeenth Nail is an excellent vintage, the taste dramatic if I say so myself. It gives me great pleasure to return this nail with the profound and personal hope you shove it up your ass.

Sideways if possible.

Too bad about Bentwing. Shorting and betting against companies—like war if you will allow me to paraphrase von Clausewitz—is an “act of violence, which in its application knows no bounds.”

Yours sincerely,

Ólafur Vigfusson

Bianca examined the note, read it over several times, and checked the return address from Iceland. It sounded bad, and the preternatural curiosity of a novelist consumed her. When Leeser finished his phone call, Bianca put her business on hold and asked, “Who is Ólafur Vigfusson?”

“Siggi’s second cousin.”

“I like Siggi. How’d you piss off his cousin?”

“These damn Icelanders,” hissed Leeser, “are crippling my portfolio.”

“What about the secret sauce?”

“Screw you,” snapped Leeser, “and don’t you ever tell anyone
Night of the Living Dead Heads
was a bomb. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I can’t fucking hedge fast enough to protect my portfolio from these Icelanders. That’s the big deal.” Cy’s face bloated with contempt. He finally said, “Ólafuck is about to get his. Mark my words.”

You, too,
thought Bianca. But she said nothing.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

SATURDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
20
MARKETS CLOSED

There is no escape. Not even on Saturdays. The markets control the psyche of every man and woman in the money business. They occupy the mind like invading warriors that seize, plunder, and rape all thought courtesy of the Internet and other means of modern colonization. There is always the overhang of bad news, easy enough to find on cable twenty-four/seven.

Cusack forgot Bentwing as best as possible. He forgot Cy’s preoccupation with Caleb and the videotape from the Foxy Lady. And he focused on matters at hand, breakfast for Emi.

He scrambled eggs with so much cilantro they looked green. He served seven-grain toast, dripping with enough butter to X out all the health benefits of wheat versus white bread. He placed fat juicy strawberries in the center of the table and squeezed what seemed like a thousand and one oranges. By the time he stopped frying steaks—Emi said no more bacon while she was pregnant—there was enough left over for three days of lunch.

“You can’t get this at the Ritz,” he said, admiring his handiwork on the table.

“Oh, I don’t believe this,” Emi said, eyeing
The New York Times.

“Tell me.”

She held up the paper, folded to display a man’s photo. He looked to be in his seventies. “Do you know this guy?” she asked.

Cusack studied the man’s face. “No, who is he?”

“Conrad Barnes.”

“Never seen him before, Em.”

“I have.”

Cusack raised his eyebrows. His wife recognized people by names. Faces in print were a bigger problem than faces in person.

“How do you know him?”

“He helped me find a cab.” Emi was never so bold. She usually hung back and waited for others to confirm identities. Not this time. “I was starting to panic. He whistled, and it was like magic. A taxi showed up from nowhere.”

“You saw Conrad Barnes?” Cusack asked, doubt seeping into his voice.

Emi bristled ever so slightly. “Look at his face. What’s the one thing you notice?”

“He’s probably in his midseventies.”

“What else?”

“His unibrow is a mile wide.”

“Exactly,” thundered Emi, who always combed features for striking visual clues.

“Plenty of guys have unibrows,” replied Cusack. “Maybe I should grow one so you can spot me.”

“Let’s stick with the two-star pin,” she laughed. “But have you ever seen one so thick and bushy?”

“You got me there,” replied Cusack, still doubtful.

“He was the sweetest man. And now he’s dead.”

“That’s eerie.”

“It’s gruesome,” Emi said.

“What do you mean?”

“He burned to death inside his car,” she reported. “He crashed on Washington Street in Carlstadt, New Jersey.”

“I know that area,” said Cusack, surprised. “I park there for Jets games.”

“Are there any bars?”

“Redd’s. But most of the buildings are industrial. Why do you ask?”

“Police think alcohol was involved,” Emi explained.

“Happens all the time.”

“He wasn’t drunk when I saw him.” She toasted her orange juice for effect.

“Redd’s could fix that.”

“He was with a younger woman,” Emi continued. “I thought she was his daughter at first.”

“So?”

“So the
Times
says Barnes is married and a longtime resident of Bronxville. I don’t see a seventy-year-old guy driving all the way to New Jersey, getting drunk, and flipping his car.” She paused and added, “Alone.”

“You sound like
Law and Order
.”

“Maybe. But I bet that woman was his mistress.”

“Are you sure it’s the same guy?” asked Cusack, growing more skeptical.

“I’d know his unibrow anywhere. And you should have seen the scar on that woman’s hand.”

*   *   *

Inside her one-bedroom on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Rachel scraped lingering bits from a ravaged half of a grapefruit. With painstaking care, she spread a wisp of margarine onto a half slice of wheat toast. Coffee, no cream, was the one indulgence she allowed. And she downed cup after cup as she leafed through
The New York Times.

When Rachel found the article on Conrad Barnes, she dialed her employer. “Did you see today’s paper?”

“I’m glad we can move on.”

“That may not be possible, Kemosabe.”

“What do you mean?”

“A woman saw me with Barnes.”

“Not my issue,” he said.

“I don’t like loose ends.”

“And I don’t need extra bodies.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m doing all the heavy lifting,” Rachel complained. “And if the law gets me, you’re at risk, too. I don’t care who or where you are.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Stating facts.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. But it won’t be hard to find out.” Rachel doubted many pregnant women visit the Bronx Zoo in formals. There had to be a trail.

“Do what you need to do. But one thing.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Don’t call me anymore.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

MONDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
22
BENTWING AT
$33.88

Nikki was slumped outside Leeser’s office when Jimmy Cusack arrived. At 7:30
A.M.
she was already a wreck, headset askew and hair disheveled. Even her nose stud lacked the trademark allure. Cy’s visitors usually found Nikki warm, her command of the details reassuring. That morning her large-and-in-charge persona had gone AWOFL, which is the same thing as AWOL but more so.

“You’re here early,” Cusack remarked in his most pleasant voice. He lingered at her station, hoping she would speak her mind, hoping to make the guardian of Cy’s computer his new best friend.

“I couldn’t sleep,” explained Nikki, her forehead a tangled knot of furrows.

“Everything okay?”

“You tell me. Are
we
okay, Jimmy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a girlfriend who was decruited by a global macro shop at Pickwick Plaza.” Nikki was referring to a hedge fund located at offices around the corner from Greenwich Avenue.

“What’s ‘decruited’ mean?”

“She was fired before she started,” explained Nikki. “My job isn’t what worries me, though.”

“It shouldn’t,” soothed Cusack. “Cy needs you.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I worry about car payments like anyone else.” Nikki added with a wry smile, “Except you, maybe.”

“You don’t like my Beemer?” His car became the office joke after Greenwich Plaza’s management towed it one day. They thought it had been abandoned.

“If you’re making payments, honey, you’d better stop.”

“Easy now,” Cusack laughed. “What’s bugging you?”

“Victor, for one,” she replied.

“Another hammer attack?” asked Cusack, suddenly alarmed.

“Nothing like that. He’s changing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He notices everything. And you know how his pants are always too short?”

“Waders,” Jimmy confirmed.

“He pays attention to what he wears now. A friend of mine works at Randolphs. She told me Victor is living in the men’s department.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Cusack did not see the problem.

“I’m not sure. If Rod Stewart were a girl, Victor would look like her.”

“I’ll ask Cy if he’s concerned.”

“He’s not in today,” she reported.

“Why not?”

“He’s taking the day off. Things are bad with Bianca. I heard that all his clothes ended up on the lawn again.”

“We’ll get through this, Nikki.”

*   *   *

Up 369 points on Friday, the Dow plummeted 373 points by the close. LeeWell’s investors overwhelmed the phone lines. Cusack forgot the Foxy Lady video and his own financial concerns as the fund’s panicky limited partners shotgunned questions with no right answers:

“Is my money safe?”

“Should we double up?”

“Is ten thousand eight hundred the market bottom?”

It was not until 7:43
P.M.
when Cusack packed up to head home. He was exhausted. His mouth tasted like a sewer from all the caffeine. He had been speaking twelve hours nonstop, twelve hours of slugging down coffee, chocolate, and soft drinks, twelve hours of regurgitating the same empty words: