Closing Costs

by Seth Margolis

  “Let’s have Kashkin into the office when the MyJob deal is announced,” he said.

  “If it’s announced.”

  “Right.” He picked up the ringing phone, grateful for the distraction.

  “It’s Lucinda Wells. Are you sitting down? The Gimmels came back with a counteroffer. Two-point-two-five. I think we have a deal.”

  “Let’s split the difference,” he said. “Two-point-two.” He was gratified to see Henry’s eyebrows arch disapprovingly.

  “It’s a plan,” Lucinda said. “We’ll need to move fast. This market is white hot.”

  “At least something is.” He clicked on his browser’s Refresh button. In less than a second Positano’s updated stock price appeared. Down another eighth. How refreshing.

  “How quickly can you arrange financing?”

  “Goldman has given me their complete assurance that I can have the necessary financing in twenty-four hours. I don’t anticipate any problems.” He invariably lapsed into starched syntax when talking about Goldman Sachs. Henry crossed and uncrossed his legs.

  “I’ll call the Gimmels ASAP. Let me have your cell.”

  He gave it to her despite strong misgivings—Lucinda Wells was clearly a person to whom one didn’t give one’s cell number lightly.

  A while later, restless, he wandered into the cafeteria, not particularly hungry, though it was almost lunchtime. The Positano cafeteria had been painstakingly designed to resemble an old-fashioned diner, complete with round, vinyl-covered stools lined up along a counter, booths with jukeboxes, and a blackboard that listed the blue plate special in colored chalk. It was amazingly authentic, down to the kitschy uniforms on the servers, and had cost a small fortune (another use of proceeds). But prospective employees loved it, back when they were still hiring and you needed every edge possible to lure talented people. Free coffee and sodas? Of course. Subsidized lunches? Definitely. Ping-Pong and foosball? Jacks for openers in Internet land. Stock options? Duh. A cheery replica of a fifties diner? Now you’re talking. This place is way cool, so retro it’s cutting edge.

  About a dozen employees were in the diner when Guy entered. Most were staring up at the television suspended in a corner of the room. He knew without looking that it was tuned to CNBC, the business channel. A TV in the cafeteria tuned silently to CNBC was another thing you had to have to attract and keep talented people.

  Of course, everyone in the room knew who he was, the CEO. They looked at him, briefly, smiled deferentially, and turned back to CNBC. The way they stared up at the silent box, faces paralyzed with concern, reminded him of his parents watching their black-and-white RCA after Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were shot, that same bottomless sadness tinged with dread. A fellowship of anxiety. Well, the NASDAQ was down another twenty-four points.

  His cell vibrated. He slipped it out of its belt harness.

  “Guy speaking,” he said.

  “It’s Lucinda. We have a deal.”

  A collective moan erupted.

  He glanced up at the TV in time to see “POSI” glide off the right side of the screen trailing a red “-⅜.”

  Six

  Barnett hunkered down in the study the moment he got home from jail.

  “Don’t you want to shower?” Lily asked him. Rinsing off would top her to-do list after spending most of the day at Rikers Island. But Barnett merely removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, which he’d kept resolutely knotted all night, asked Consuela for a cup of coffee, and turned on his computer. He seemed disinclined to discuss the situation. Well, he wasn’t much for discussing things in the best of circumstances.

  She allowed him an hour of privacy before joining him in the study. He was on the phone, nodding more than talking. Though he made no gesture of encouragement, she took a seat in front of the mahogany desk and waited. Lack of sleep had darkened the soft flesh beneath his eyes, and his hair had acquired a murky sheen overnight. He’d never been what you’d call handsome, but Lily had always found his confidence and self-possession attractive. He seemed to need nothing that he couldn’t provide for himself, which was appealing to her—she, who had always looked to others for satisfaction. He’d been raised in Greenwich, the son of a lawyer who was himself the son of a famous investor, Ben “Sell ’Em” Grantham, who, on the eve of the 1929 stock market crash, had not only liquidated his entire portfolio but sold short, thus making an obscenely huge fortune just when everyone else was losing their shirts. Gradually, however, the “Sell ’Em” Grantham fortune dissipated, and during his sophomore year at Trinity College in Hartford, Barnett was forced to apply for a scholarship, a terrible humiliation for the scion of an illustrious if notoriously opportunistic dynasty. After a quick MBA from Wharton, Barnett began to make his mark on Wall Street, eventually cofounding Grantham, Wiley & Zelma with two friends from b-school. Lily had met him, at a share house party in East Hampton, just as the firm was beginning to flourish. At the time, he lived in a soulless one-bedroom apartment in a Second Avenue high-rise: white walls, framed art posters, dhurrie rugs, a giant “entertainment center” housing an unfathomable tangle of audio and video equipment, and, opposite the platform bed, a large photograph of blue-blazered, bow-tied Sell ’Em holding aloft his baby grandson. She lasted there for a year following their marriage, then they bought the place at 913 Park.

  It was ironic, really, that Barnett had been arrested at a charity dinner. He hated those events, despised any venue that involved the display of wealth, and high-end charity functions were nothing if not opportunities to flaunt one’s assets. He liked making money for its own sake, for the dick-stiffening thrill of outearning his colleagues on the Street by a percentage point or two—and perhaps there was the goal of restoring stock-picking luster to the Grantham name. His idea of a fun evening was helping the kids with their math homework, then reading a stack of investment research reports in bed, impenetrable documents cluttered with zigzagging graphs and bar charts marching ever upward to the right. Once a week, usually a Monday night, when they were least likely to have plans, he’d toss aside his investment reports and place a firm hand on her right breast, indicating that sex was desired. He wasn’t an adventurous or particularly passionate lover, but, as with investing, he was perceptive and determined and squarely focused on long-term results, which was a good thing, as Lily was slow to warm up.

  She was the one who’d launched them on the charity circuit. She’d spread around Barnett’s money judiciously, at first latching on to less popular causes where she could make a quick splash—a charity that spayed stray cats (tickets to dog events were more coveted), an organization that offered scholarships to needy culinary students. It wasn’t until she’d reached the highest echelons of the charity world (major art museums, opera and ballet companies, cancer of non-icky organs) that she stopped to wonder why it had been so important to her. And the answer came to her at once: She desperately needed to be popular, to feel accepted. All her life, from elementary school at P.S. 87 through Mount Holyoke, she’d homed in on the most popular group and then set about infiltrating it like a CIA mole. New York Society, as it was called, was just one more clique for her to pry open with her winning smile and protean conversational skills and Barnett’s growing pile of money. Why she’d felt the need to run with the popular set was something she never understood, not even after two forays at analysis, the first with a harsh Freudian on Central Park West who sent her fleeing after only a few months, the second with a more user-friendly Jungian over on Lexington with whom she’d remained for nearly two years. Neither had managed to penetrate her need to be popular, let alone alleviate it. In fact, winning over the second analyst, convincing him that she was more than a shallow socialite, perhaps even attaining the status of Most Favored Patient, had been an almost obsessive goal. How she’d studied his face each time he opened the door for her, searching for some indication in his expression or his flat “Come in, please” that now, at last, after hours spent listening to the dreary, uninteresting probl
ems of dreary, uninteresting people, his Most Favored Patient had arrived, his day was made, an entire career—perhaps an existence—justified. Even therapy, for her, was a popularity contest.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she asked Barnett.

  “I didn’t take any money,” he growled.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “However,” he added slowly, and her stomach heaved, “there is money missing, about three million dollars. Our auditors discovered the gap a few months ago.”

  “Did they tell you about it?”

  “They told Wiley and Zelma. Who told the Feds.”

  “But why not you?”

  “Apparently my signature appears on certain unspecified documents having to do with the unauthorized withdrawal of funds from various unspecified investment accounts.”

  The lawyerly diction was not a good sign.

  “What?”

  “It’s ludicrous. Why would I steal money from my own firm?”

  Because it isn’t really your money, she didn’t say. It’s money that people have given you to turn into more money, which you haven’t been particularly successful at lately.

  “The thing is…” She steeled herself. “The thing is, the Feds have frozen all of our accounts. You see, they haven’t been able to locate the missing three million dollars. They know it’s not where it should be, but they haven’t found out where it actually is. They think I have it stashed somewhere, and that by denying me access to any other funds, I’ll eventually have no choice but to use the stolen money, at which point they’ll pounce.”

  “When you say ‘frozen our accounts’…”

  “We can’t withdraw from our brokerage or savings accounts.” He jabbed a key on his computer and a pattern of numbers appeared on the screen. “Not that there’s much to freeze, not these days,” he said in a quietly bitter voice.

  “What?”

  “You may not have noticed, darling, but this hasn’t exactly been a great time in the market.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Even Sophie was aware of that. “But we never invested in Internet stocks,” she said. “You avoided them like the plague.” She swallowed. “Right?”

  “Well, I did avoid them like the plague, but eventually the pressure got to me. Every day another investor calling to ask why Grantham, Wiley & Zelma was making a pitiful twelve percent a year when investment houses run by teenagers with pierced eyebrows were pulling in three times that…”

  “But that’s the firm’s money,” she said quietly. “Our money—”

  “Is invested with the firm. You can’t expect me to invest my clients’ money one way and ours another, can you, Lily?”

  “I guess not,” she whispered. “But the bubble burst a while ago…haven’t you been on the rebound since them?”

  “No one’s rebounded, no matter what you hear. No one’s making money in this market. I’ve been suspended from the firm, without pay. The children’s tuition is paid up for the rest of year, thank God, though we have to make a down payment for next year soon, and we have enough in checking to cover the maintenance on this place for a few months…”

  “A few months?”

  “We’ll rent out the house, which should cover the mortgage on it and the taxes and leave a bit for household expenses. Apparently the rental market in the Hamptons is still strong. At least something is. As for the mortgage on this place…”

  “Since when is this place mortgaged?”

  “I unlocked a portion of our equity in the apartment six months ago.”

  “Unlocked? Barnett, this is our home.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like your mother.”

  “Who happens to be selling her apartment for two-point-two million dollars,” she said, beginning to shout. “Free and clear!”

  “All of this is temporary, Lily, we just need to ride it out,” he said in the voice you’d use to tell a child that the ride to Grandma’s house would be over soon. “Once the charges are dropped, I’ll be back on salary, and by then the market should be on the rebound.”

  “By then? When exactly is this expected to be resolved?”

  “All I need to do is find the missing money.” Stupidly, they both glanced around the room, as if stacks of hundred-dollar bills might be stashed behind the sofa, the wing chairs, the yards of leather-bound books on the burled-walnut shelves.

  She wished she could be more sympathetic, but the truth was, Barnett never seemed to want sympathy or support…or anything much from her. True, she’d always liked that about him, but now she didn’t know quite how to behave.

  “How long, Barnett? I mean, how long can we hold on with no income coming in, with all our expenses piling—”

  Nanny appeared in the doorway, as if to remind them of one significant monthly expense.

  “Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” she said in a tone that lacked all remorse. “If you don’t need me, I thought I’d run a few errands and then pick up Sophie on the way back.”

  “Fine,” Lily said.

  “We don’t need her anymore,” she said as soon as Nanny left. “We haven’t needed a nanny for years. We could let her go.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Who would make sure the children got off to school on time, who would…pick them up from school…who would…” He shrugged, out of ideas.

  “I would.”

  He smiled indulgently. “We’re not that desperate yet.” He clicked the Refresh button on his browser and sighed—rather despondently, she thought—at the updated market statistics. “They’ve blocked my access to the firm’s intranet. I can’t see how our portfolios are doing, I have no way to monitor inflows and outflows.”

  “We could have a part-time sitter, then,” Lily said.

  “We can’t give up Nanny, especially now. It’s important that we disrupt our lives as little as possible, especially where the children are concerned.” He swiveled in his chair to face her. “And that includes you, Lily.” He gestured for her to bend over and combed back her hair with his fingers. “I think we can still afford an appointment at the hairdresser.”

  Later, in the park, she discovered a bird’s nest in an oak tree on the eastern edge of the Rambles. She waited several minutes for the female to return, a plump towhee, rather drab, its feathers dusky grays and browns. The towhee settled into the nest after a few wing flexes and then all but disappeared into the surrounding twigs and fluff, as nature had intended when she gave the males the showy plumage, the women the dreary housedresses.

  While the towhee warmed her eggs, Lily tried to concentrate on what was happening in her life, sensing the need to formulate a plan of action, but she found she couldn’t get very far. What if Barnett didn’t get his position back? What if he went to jail? Apparently most of their wealth had disappeared a while back with the Internet bubble. What then? She could go back to work…but at what? As what? She’d raised millions of dollars for hospitals and museums and animal shelters in the past ten years, but she couldn’t very well throw a charity ball for herself and the children. She felt quite useless, forty-two years old and unable to help herself or her family.

  You’re a very lucky girl.

  Barnett’s mother, Grace, had uttered those words in the library of the Granthams’ enormous but deteriorating Greenwich home shortly after Barnett proposed. Grace, who’d succumbed to heart failure several years later, was a stout, large-breasted matron whose white hair, piggy-pink complexion, and bosomy warmth concealed an encyclopedia of prejudices: blacks, Jews, Hispanics, the poor in general, the newly rich, foreigners who weren’t British, immigrants, Democrats, homosexuals, chemo patients who eschewed wigs, cabdrivers. To spend time with Grace was to discover entirely new categories of despisable people. “Barnett and I are both lucky to have found each other,” Lily had managed to say, then found Barnett in the backyard chipping golf balls. She repeated Grace’s comment and started to cry, causing Barnett to shank a Titleist into the crumbling swimming pool. “You’re rich and Protestant and y
ou come from…from…this…” She waved at the twenty-room Georgian Colonial, ignoring the peeling paint on the black shutters and the overgrown shrubbery and the cracked flagstones on the terrace. Inside, the deterioration had progressed to within six months of Miss Havisham territory. But even the seedy decline seemed classy to her Upper West Side sensibility, like the slight fading on old Oriental rugs. “I’m the lucky one,” Barnett said. “You’re all I ever wanted.”

  How had he avoided all of Grace’s prejudices? she’d long wondered. But lately she’d begun to think that Barnett wasn’t so much free of prejudice as uninterested in or perhaps unaware of the qualities that differentiated people. Companies, to him, were distinct, some to be embraced, others shunned. People were all of a piece, not equal so much as indistinguishable.

  The towhee twitched her head from side to side, taking stock, and, feeling secure, retracted it. Lily lowered the binoculars, stood up, and began to head for home. But after a few steps she stopped and came to a quick decision. She turned around and headed west.