Two share prices were my only hint about Charlie’s last acts while alive. I had nothing but gut instinct. Perhaps the Kelemen Group had invested in MRI Capital. Maybe not. But clearly, Romanov and Kelemen had been discussing something prior to that night in the New England Aquarium.
What do they mean, 31.12 and 30.11?
I dialed MRI Capital and ordered the receptionist to put Romanov on the phone.
“He’s in a meeting.”
“Fish him out.”
“I can’t do that,” she resisted.
“Suit yourself. But don’t blame me when he gets all pissy.”
Broker 101. Make the gatekeeper doubt the screen.
Thirty seconds later the Mad Russian took my call. “What’s so important, Grover?” His words sounded like he might crush the receiver.
“I need to see you.”
“I’ll get my secretary to schedule something,” he replied, his exasperation obvious.
“Now.”
“I’m busy.”
“Perfect. Let’s say the Harvard Club for a drink.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re right. Four o’clock is too early. We’ll make it four forty-five.”
“Grover, I don’t know what your game is,” he replied. “But it’s Friday, and I have plans.”
“So does half your neighborhood if you don’t show.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can join me for a drink. Or you can listen to my party on your doorstep all weekend. I’m posting an invitation for free pizza and beer on craigslist. A few kegs and people will be pissing all over your poach. Wonder what the neighbors will say.”
“Poach?”
“Charleston for “porch.’ ”
No might could there.
“One drink,” he finally acquiesced.
After we hung up, Annie said, “Hey, Boss, it’s okay with me if you scoot out early this afternoon.” No doubt she had listened to my half of the conversation.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, Boss,” she persisted.
“Yeah.”
“As long as you’re taking off early, mind if I scoot out, too?”
“See ya.”
“Who’s better than you?” she said, and packed up.
For the first time in a great long while, I had no interest in speculating about Annie’s weekend. I wanted answers about two prices, MRI’s connection to the Kelemen Group, and why Charlie had forged my name on that damn letter.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Harvard Club on West Forty-fourth Street gave me home-court advantage and served my pettier need to one-up Romanov. The Mad Russian was not a member. Nor would he ever be a member. His boasts about “triple-digit returns” irked me no end. But he would never sign the neat little chits printed in crimson.
Turn up the South,
I told myself.
Less aggression. More courtesy. It’s the only way to sniff out info.
Romanov arrived at 4:45. He wore a beige linen suit, wrinkle free even though the day had run its course. His white shirt still looked taut and fresh against a black silk tie and gold cuff links. I almost asked him not to spill any starch on the crimson rugs and polished floors beneath us.
The Mad Russian was no metrosexual. Still, I wondered how anyone so aggressive could wear French cuffs. He boxed on the weekends. He raced a Porsche. He belonged in sweats, not Ferragamo. I had no explanation for the contradiction and knew little about Romanov’s life prior to Wall Street. There were rumors he had driven a cab to pay for college.
Google him later
.
We headed for a corner, where Romanov came out swinging: “What’s
this about, Grover?” The
r
’s in my name rolled off his tongue, creamy rich and buttery smooth, not quite basso profundo, but close. Bottling his voice would put chocolate out of business.
“You tell me.”
“I don’t have time for games, Grove.” His hands looked like massive battering rams, all sinew and knuckles.
Bet I can take him
.
“I’ve been trying to help Sam Kelemen.”
“I know,” he observed impatiently. “Will you get to the point? CNN version please?”
“We’re liquidating Charlie’s fund of funds. She needs the money. She’s tapped out.” There was no need to tell him about my $75,000 wire. “Did Charlie invest in MRI Capital?”
That fast enough for you?
If Romanov answered “Yes,” it would be my first positive step toward freeing all the assets locked inside the fund of funds. The flow of money would solve plenty of issues. Sam would not worry about rent. Betty would not worry about Fred. Lila would not worry about $11.25 million. And I would not worry about a letter with my forged signature.
Who says money doesn’t buy happiness?
“No,” Romanov replied, looking at his fingernails, split and gnarly from action inside the ring. “Charlie asked me to take his money. I said no.”
Damn,
I thought.
“Why?”
“Too unreliable. The minute there’s a bad year, a fund of funds heads for the doors. No loyalty.”
One down year and you’re toast, pal. Wealthy investors will leave you just as fast.
“The Kelemen Group’s interest in MRI strikes me as odd.”
“How so?”
“Charlie compiled a large file on MRI. It looked like due diligence.”
“Oh?”
“He had a list of your stocks as well as your offering memorandum.” The Mad Russian, I suddenly realized, had taken control of our conversation. I was the one volunteering all the information.
The surrounding talismans of the Harvard Club had failed me. I looked at the great warthog hanging on the wall. Its tusks could no longer gore tofu on salad greens, let alone beasts of the wild.
Serves you right.
Romanov spoke, and it sounded as if he were playing a bass violin of vowels and verbs. “Charlie was interested in my companies. Everybody is,” he observed as though stating a mathematical truth. “How do you know Charlie had a list of stocks?”
Another question
, I observed silently.
He’s wringing me for information.
“I told you. I have his folder.”
“I see.” Romanov folded his hands and laced his fingers halfway between “here’s the church” and “here’s the steeple” from the kids’ game. He looked tougher than a bag of ball-peen hammers. Those brutish hands. Those split nails. “Grover,” he said finally, “why are you telling me all this?”
“Charlie was screwing around.” I immediately regretted my choice of words. “I’m not sure what he was doing. But he sucked me into a mess that I’m trying to sort out.” The words dissolved into the Harvard Club’s rarified air. “I was speaking with Lila Priouleau—”
“The perfect second wife,” Romanov interrupted. His eyes flared lasciviously, communicating the feral lust that unites all men. He meant his words to be some kind of common ground—the brotherhood of lechery.
Not interested, pal. I have my ass to save.
“Lila gave me a reference letter with my signature,” I explained, not taking Romanov’s bait. “Charlie guaranteed her family’s investment, and they asked him for credit references.”
“You vouched for the Kelemen Group?” he asked, modestly surprised. “That’s just it. I didn’t write the letter.” “Then there’s no problem,” he concluded flippantly. “Charlie forged my name. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it means. I don’t expect anything good.”
“That’s a problem,” Romanov admitted.
“Great, isn’t it?”
“What does this have to do with me?” he asked with the ambassadorial sensitivity of a rogue fart adrift in the UN.
“Probably nothing. I thought you might have some info. There’s one other thing, too.”
“Which is?”
“Charlie scribbled some notes next to one of your portfolio companies.”
“Which one?”
“Rugged Computers.”
“What kind of notes?”
“Nothing much. He wrote ‘thirty-one-point-twelve’ and ‘thirty-point-eleven.’ They look like price targets.”
“Price targets!” Romanov scoffed. “If Rugged Computers hits anything north of twenty dollars, I’ll own Bermuda.”
“The whole thing?”
“And then some.”
“Nice.”
“Did you bring his notes with you?” Romanov asked.
“No.”
“Can you drop his file off on Monday? I’d like to see it.”
“Of course.”
Romanov rose from the chair, the movement his unilateral declaration that our meeting was over. “If you don’t mind, my weekend is waiting.”
“Understood. Thanks for meeting.”
Thanks for the third degree, chump
.
“Grover,” he replied, and waited at the front door.
“Yes.”
“If I were you, I’d be a seller of intimidation.” Fast as any boxer, he patted my cheek with his open palm, short of a slap but enough to sting ever so slightly. “Some people don’t back off. Are we clear?”
The doorman gestured to the exit. He was anxious to see us leave the Harvard Club. He had seen the Mad Russian’s not-so-friendly pat.
You won’t last three rounds, bubba.
We left. Romanov headed to Fifth. I headed to Sixth. There was still time to join my cycling club. During the summers, we rode every Friday night. I did my best thinking on a bike. All the pain in my legs and lungs wouldn’t be enough that evening to mask what really irked me.
My face stung all night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Saturday morning, and the July sun drenched my sheets. It beamed across the wooden floors of my bedroom. The bright rays pried open my eyes and toasted my body. Boxers and beard, I scratched my stomach and stretched awake. Just feeling. Not thinking. Savoring the end of warm slumber. Drifting languorously into the day.
Not a chance. Three names ricocheted inside my head. They caromed every which way.
Charlie Kelemen. Alex Romanov. Patty Gershon.
There was no time to lounge in bed. I salvaged a faded polo and khaki shorts from the hamper, camouflaged my bed head with a baseball cap, and hurried over to a Starbucks on Broadway, computer in tow. The line was short, and I armed myself with the barrel-sized café mocha. Staying away from SKC seemed a sound strategy. Gershon often worked in our office over weekends.
Who takes care of her kids?
The “Investors” spreadsheet, now on my portable, had piqued my curiosity from the start. But markets, clients, and Gershon’s play for Jumping JJ kept interrupting all week. They diverted my attention. They prevented me
from dissecting cells and discovering the truth. I had no explanation why Charlie had forged my name. I had no proof.
My day job might get me fired.
You can’t snort Ritalin. But breathing at Starbucks came close. The air mixed one part oxygen with two parts caffeine, my preferred cocktail for concentration. There had been countless distractions at the office. No doubt I overlooked something important on the “Investors” spreadsheet. Excel allowed users, for example, to hide rows and columns inside spreadsheets. This feature simplified visuals, made presentations better. Or it hid clues to Charlie’s monkey business. Something would surface. It was there. Whatever “it” was.
There was just one problem. Alex Romanov dominated all my thoughts. It was that way at the Harvard Club. It was that way while cycling last night. It was that way now. Except for his gnarled hands the Mad Russian had no outward flaws—sartorial grace, chocolate voice, and triple-digit returns. He reminded me of Scully, never a hair out of place. My instincts screamed for me to probe further.
Danger, Will Robinson.
Romanov’s smug attitude roused my suspicions. Nobody could sustain triple-digit returns forever. Peter Lynch, Warren Buffett, and other legends of money management second-guessed themselves. The markets made everyone look foolish at some point, even the wizards.
Maybe it was my ego driving. Romanov’s pregnant tap still bugged the shit out of me. Had we been outside the Harvard Club, that little exchange would have escalated. One thing was certain. Time was running out. Nothing good would come from Kurtz’s decision to turn Lila’s letter over to the lawyers.
The
l
word.
Evelyn was forever saying, “Figure out what bothers you, and deal with it.” I took her advice and Googled Alexander Romanov and MRI Capital. Charlie’s skeletons could wait a few minutes more.
The Mad Russian’s family had immigrated to the United States when he was five. He grew up in Brighton Beach, the New York neighborhood affectionately known as Little Odessa. His father worked as a cobbler, and the whole
family toiled over shoe leather in the modest store. Alex broke free of his immigrant shackles through hard work and education. He graduated magna cum laude from UCLA before obtaining his MBA from the University of Chicago.
Romanov now ranked among the next generation of finance superstars. He had delivered awesome returns. Investors clamored for entry into MRI, and he usually declined with some flip comment: “No room at the inn.” According to Alex, he had blackballed the Kelemen Group just like the others.
