The Gods of Greenwich (45 page)

“I’m back,” Victor announced inside the trading room, eyeing the Windex streaks on his terminal. “I’m bigger and fucking better than ever.”

*   *   *

“Let me drive you to the emergency room?” offered Shannon.

“No thanks,” said Cusack. “I’m fine. We’ll grab a cab.”

“What about your car, Jimmy?”

“There’s a tow truck coming.”

“What will happen to LeeWell Capital?” asked Emi.

“Who knows?” replied Shannon. “It’ll shut down. Insurance companies will sue. And families of the victims will file civil lawsuits.”

“Like the ones against O.J.,” observed Emi.

“Exactly,” the big man replied. He smiled to reveal the gap between his teeth. In that moment Emi and Cusack forgot the fierce expression super-glued to his face.

“You should smile more often,” observed Emi.

“And why’s that?” asked Shannon, looking perplexed rather than fierce.

“Because I’ll never forget your face for as long as I live.”

“And that’s saying something,” observed Cusack. Both Emi and he laughed.

“What?” asked Shannon, confused.

“It’s a long story,” explained Cusack. “Are you coming into the office tomorrow?”

“Probably. Assuming the police let us in.”

“See you there.”

Emi kissed Shannon good-bye with a monster peck on the cheek and said, “Thanks.”

When Cusack and Emi were alone, she asked, “Why are you going into the office tomorrow?”

“The clients know me. It’s my reputation. I’ve got to clean up this mess before moving on. And I’ve done it before.”

“I wish you’d forget about Cusack Capital.”

“That’s what your dad says.”

“See. He’s not all bad,” Emi added impishly.

“I know. I know,” Cusack acknowledged. “I need to speak with Graham Durkin, too.”

“Why?”

“We have a good rapport, and he’s always asking for market advice.”

“What are you going to tell him, James?”

“To put his money under a mattress.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I have another idea, Em.”

“You can tell me while we’re on the way to the emergency room.”

*   *   *

It was dark in Reykjavik. Siggi was sitting at his desk, getting ready to close the shop. He stared at the small line drawing by Picasso, the one from Leeser’s office. Soon, probably Thursday or Friday, the other paintings would arrive. All 427 of them. All crated, labeled, and sealed for the journey to Iceland.

The phone rang. It was Ólafur. He had stayed behind in New York. “Did you hear what happened?”

“Settle down, cousin. And take it from the top,” commanded Siggi.

“Leeser was arrested today. Something happened at the Bronx Zoo. Apparently, he tried to push a pregnant woman into the polar bear pen. But someone else fell instead and got eaten.” The ex-banker spoke fast, really fast.

“Slow down, Ólafur. And tell me what you’re talking about.”

“That’s all I know. You should ask Bianca. She was awfully sweet last Friday.”

“Good idea,” said Siggi. “I hope she’s okay.”

“What I don’t understand is why she’s selling all her paintings through you.”

“What do you mean, cousin?”

“For one, Cy is your client,” explained Ólafur.

“Was,” the gallery owner corrected. “Which, quite frankly, is what I told Bianca.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Ólafur persisted in a humble voice, “why you? Why not a dealer in the USA?”

“I have a Web presence.”

“So does Sotheby’s.”

“I have Russian clients.”

“So does Sotheby’s.”

“But Sotheby’s is in the USA. Leeser’s wife is divorcing him. She wants everything out of the country. Gives her more leverage in the settlement.”

“Now you’re talking, Siggi. Wish I were there to toast you.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Not for a while,” the ex-banker sighed, sounding down and despondent but not completely out. “Chairman Guðjohnsen is about to sacrifice me to the authorities.”

“The FME suspended trading on our stock market today.”

“I heard,” said Siggi, thinking FME was an odd acronym for Iceland’s Financial Supervisory Authority.

“Parliament seized control of Landsbanki. Glitner will fall next and then Kaupthing. It’s only a matter of time before Hafnarbanki goes.”

“How does this affect you, Ólafur?”

“The regulators want blood, cousin. And Guðjohnsen will give them me.”

“What about your lawyers? What do they say?”

“That Guðjohnsen’s powerful. That he owns half of Parliament. That I’m fucked.”

“What can you do?” asked Siggi.

“That’s why I’m calling. I need to speak with Bianca.”

Their conversation ended ten minutes later. Siggi hung up with Ólafur, pleased by the discussion. “My cousin’s back. And he’s meaner than ever.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

MONDAY
,
NOVEMBER
10
BENTWING AT
$19.81

Leeser lounged on his bed, bare feet bolstered by an extra pillow. He read Friday’s
Wall Street Journal,
which had arrived only one hour ago. He cursed the late delivery. He cursed his six-by-ten room—two cots, toilet, concrete floor, and a monstrous roommate named Babe, who could block moonlight from the window had there been one. Leeser’s closets in Greenwich were bigger than this cell. He cursed his 19,000-square-foot house, too.

A trunk, approved by the prison bulls, sat at the foot of his bed. Inside the trunk were cartons and a few beat-up cigar boxes. And inside the cartons and the boxes were cigarettes, lots of cigarettes, every brand, every taste imaginable. Filtered. Unfiltered. Camels. Even a few 120 mm Virginia Slims.

Cy Leeser hated cigarettes. Never smoked one in his life. He would rather eat dirt and run his nails down a chalkboard. Cigarettes were, however, the currency of choice inside prison.

“Fucking lawyers,” he cursed, not caring whether his roommate replied.

The judge, a woman, refused bail. Called Leeser a “flight risk.” He regarded her as the antithesis of intelligent life. Be that as it may, she was the one in control. His trial would not start until sometime next year.

The bed over him sagged under Babe’s enormous bulk. Someday, Cy feared, the mattress would give way. It would come crashing down, all three hundred pounds of padding and fat ass smothering the life out of his lungs.

“Hey, Cy.”

“Yeah, Babe.”

“I bet you a carton of cigarettes the Patriots whip the Jets on Thursday.”

“Where are you going to lay your hands on a carton of cigarettes?”

“My old lady is bringing them.”

“What kind of odds, Babe.”

“What do you mean, ‘odds’?”

“The Pats whipped them last time.”

“So.”

“So if the Jets win,” said Leeser, “you should pay me three cigarettes for every two. If the Pats win, I’ll pay you one for one. Sound fair?”

“I don’t know.” Babe shifted his bulk as he wrestled with the decision. “I don’t know shit about no odds.” He tossed and turned, and the cot groaned.

“That’s fine. No odds. No bet.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.”

“Some things never change,” mumbled Leeser.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cy had plenty of time to explain.

*   *   *

Back in Greenwich, Victor eyed his three LCD screens. He saw a stock tick upward and immediately punched the speed-dial button to Merrill or whatever they called themselves these days.

“Short another ten thousand Bank of America at nineteen.”

“Thanks a lot,” groused Numb Nuts. “You sure?”

“I’ll take a report,” Victor said, “when you’re done.” He expected the trader to sell the shares and call back with the execution price.

“Short ten thousand Bank of America at nineteen,” the trader from Merrill confirmed and clicked off.

Victor eyed the rows of desks across the trading floor. His office at Greenwich Plaza no longer looked like LeeWell Capital. The snooker table was gone. So was the screaming-eagle coffee machine. Only the sauna remained. And the office temperature was set to seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

Victor Lee Capital.

Lee liked the sound of his firm’s name. Everything had come together so quickly: paperwork, his team of traders, even $200 million of funds to manage. He had called every one of LeeWell’s investors, saying, “I’m your best chance to stop further losses.” Some bit in the worst market he had ever seen. Victor Lee Capital was the fastest hedge fund of all time.

Sally Williams shot Victor the bird.

He shot one back.

Gwen Dickinson thought it was funny. She shot each of them the bird. Back to back. Boom. Boom.

Victor smiled and waved the three-fingered salute in a circle.

Edie Smothers hated to be left out. She smoothed each of her eyebrows—first the left, then the right—with the bird.

Victor laughed at his team, with his team. They all laughed. Their portfolio was short everything, already up eight percent on the month.

“You ladies are adorable.”

Lee reached into his drawer that served as a burial ground for extension cords. He rooted round and round all the wires until he found his hammer. It took a while to untangle the mess. But at last, when the hammer was free and clear, he tossed it into the trash basket—confident about one unassailable truth.

Women make better traders.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

THURSDAY
,
NOVEMBER
13
BENTWING AT
$22.75

There was a knock. Freddy and Ginger, the dachshund dance duo, sensed trouble. They ripped to the front door and barked at the menace, trembling with all the ferocity their eleven-pound bodies could muster. Or perhaps they were yapping at him for being late. Freddy and Ginger knew who it was.

So did Bianca. These days the mailman arrived every afternoon between four-thirty and five. He always brought four biscuits, two for each dog, and delivered at least three dozen letters.

The snail mail paled relative to Bianca’s e-mails. She received about a thousand every day. They arrived at all hours. Some were short and to the point. Others were long, rambling diatribes that included the occasional picture or two.

“Hi, Mark,” she said. “More letters?”

“More letters,” he confirmed, handing mail to Bianca and biscuits to Freddy and Ginger. “Your fans must love you, Mrs. Leeser.”

“I know two dachshunds that love you,” she said, as the mailman returned to his delivery truck. It was parked in the driveway behind Leeser’s Bentley, which she planned to sell.

Bianca looked at all the letters and smiled uneasily. She relished her new direction. She regretted, however, the driving force behind her newfound success. There were just too many miserable marriages out there, like hers.

The cavernous home was empty now. The paintings were gone. So was most of the furniture, either sold or placed in storage. Soon she would be gone, a new resident of Manhattan. Her life had grown so complicated since Cy’s arrest.

The evening of October 6, Bianca drove to Andover and worked the phones. She called therapists the first half of the trip. Her primary objective was to protect her girls.

Afterward, Bianca called her lawyers. Then she called real-estate agents. She wanted out of that house in Greenwich. She was not concerned about the bad market or whether she could keep proceeds from the sale. The thought of Cy Leeser, what he had become, made her sick. Bianca called her literary agent from fifteen years ago, and after listening for thirty seconds he said, “Here’s what we need to do.”

The effort paid off day one. Bianca never expected, however, the incoming call from Siggi’s cousin and Cy’s nemesis. Ólafur had been a stroke of luck. He offered to tell her everything about the feud between Hafnarbanki and LeeWell Capital.

Sure, he wanted revenge for the short that took down his bank. More important, he wanted to expose the role of Chairman Guðjohnsen in print through a bestselling, international novelist. But Ólafur had no idea about Bianca’s discussions with her agent when he called.

*   *   *

Bianca’s Web site, “Trophy Wife Revenge,” was not a hit. It was a sensation, generating 359,000 visits every day. Her blog mixed revenge fantasies with nuts-and-bolts advice about how to avoid verbal abuse. The forum was becoming a way of life for women toiling in loveless marriages.

She embedded her infamous YouTube video on the home page. She invited guest bloggers to submit techniques for her online column, “Getting Even With a Scumbag Husband.” And she even posted her recipe for spaghetti Bolognese, made with ’61 Chateau Latour, and included a picture of Freddy and Ginger with their testimonial, “We love it.”

Next came a two-book deal. Bianca’s agent advised her to forget romance novels for the time being. Sure, she could make a living. Her ten novels, sizzling and steamy, still sold today. But the publishers wanted nonfiction. They wanted a memoir worthy of an Oprah interview. They wanted research. They wanted a tell-all, unrivaled in the history of modern literature. Cousin Ólafur, his willingness to help, offered an interesting angle to say the least.

The public yearned to read everything about Cyrus Leeser, the man who made Enron’s execs look like saints. Her memoir would no doubt become an instant bestseller, an exposé of greed without conscience. She had signed the contract yesterday. It came with a six-figure advance and the requirement she tell everything about her life among the hedge funds.

Who are these gods of Greenwich?

Bianca sat in a leather chair, one of the few items remaining in her living room. She looked at the massive fireplace, reached down on the floor, and grabbed the remote control. She clicked once, and the gas-fired logs burst to life.

The fake logs were Cy’s idea. Bianca hated them most days. But this evening, she savored their warmth. She grabbed her Mac—brand-new because Cusack pressed her for the old one—and decided it was time to begin the memoir.

“My husband is Cyrus Leeser,” she typed. “He will soon be my ex-husband. But he is everything the late Dorothy Parker desired in a man. Cy is ‘handsome, ruthless, and stupid.’”