Cusack also displayed the pin for Emi. But that was another matter. Right now, he wondered what to tell her about Litton. He already knew how their exchange would play out.
Emi: “Did you have a good day, sweetie?”
Cusack: “I talked with Smitty about our mortgage.”
Emi: “Is there a problem?”
It would be that quick. Emi’s face would cloud over, and she would press for details. Cusack always tried to protect her. She always sniffed out his bullshit, which triggered strategy sessions worthy of NATO.
I’m glad she’s not a spender.
For all the summers on Martha’s Vineyard and the weekends in Bermuda, Emi was a trash-and-treasure gal. Her idea of fun was rummaging for Prada at TJ Maxx on Saturdays. Cusack toyed with the two-star pin, his ever-present reminder, Emi’s too.
The two would sit down, and she would organize. He could almost hear Emi say, “We cut here, here, and here. We sell the condo. We plant St. Joseph upside down in one of the ficus pots. That’s what Catholics do, right?”
Emi had expressed her misgivings the first time they spotted their condominium in New York’s trendy Meatpacking District. “We can’t afford it.”
Jimmy had driven the $3 million mistake, partly from pride and partly from ambition. He refused to live anywhere resembling his childhood. The wooden floors of Helen’s home creaked something fierce, even now after being redone. And the steam pipes hissed all night during Boston’s bitter, gray winters.
“What’s wrong with a little racket?” Emi argued. “Steam pipes give New England character.”
In the end Cusack prevailed on the condo, but only after he conceded on the Beemer. “We don’t need a new car, James. Not until we pay down our mortgage.”
Since they bought the condo three years ago, their blue BMW had gone downhill. The engine seldom cranked the first time. It turned over and over, never firing until the key found just the right angle in the ignition cylinder. Or until Cusack gritted his teeth and groused, “Another adventure in precision physics.” Once the haggard engine choked to life, the rusty old clunker spewed great plumes of blue-black smoke and rattled like a ghost from the sleek phenom tooled a decade earlier. But at least there were no car payments, the Beemer’s only saving grace.
Pulling into Greenwich, Cusack rubbed his two-star pin one last time. Not so much for luck. The gesture was more of a tribute to his brothers, recognition of their different paths. Jude and Jack had excelled in school. Both were a step faster than him on the playing fields. Had things been different, had there been more money growing up, had his parents given either one of them the nudge, Jude or Jack could be the ones interviewing today.
Cusack’s crooked grin returned, radiant and unrelenting. He was far from wistful. The thought of his brothers fortified him. Jude and Jack faced tougher challenges than he would ever know in finance.
So did Emi. Maybe that was why Cusack never opened up to his wife completely. There was no need to upset her. Or perhaps he hid his thoughts from force of habit. He maintained his guard during the day, self-defense in an industry where everybody sported brass knuckles. Cusack was confident without being cocky. But he shut the door. His head was off-limits.
Same thing at night. For as much as Jimmy loved Emi, he never revealed his worries down deep. He never burdened her with his misgivings. He wanted a job, partly to avoid discussion of their money problems.
A face-to-face confession reminded him too much of the black-and-whites from parochial school. They were the nuns who still wore traditional habits, not the squad cars favored by the Boston police. Every Tuesday, the good sisters marched his classroom full of heathens off to see the priests for another round of absolution. That was not the kind of relationship he wanted with his wife.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE INTERVIEW …
Greenwich, Connecticut, home to 62,000 people, is the ceremonial capital of Hedgistan. At first the community looks like many other wealthy seaside towns in New England. During sultry summer days, heat rises off the sidewalks like the double helix vapors from burning cigarettes. And convertibles become the hair dryers of choice. Towheaded kids with the occasional freckle wear faded designer colors, Nantucket red or lagoon blue, and they all look like sailors whether or not they take lessons at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club on Steamboat Road.
The town pays attention to details, perhaps nowhere more evident than Greenwich Avenue. Careful topiaries, the kind groomed with nail files, sit outside spotless shops with brands ranging from Prada to Lacoste. When the weather grows hot, baskets of pomegranate begonias hang from black lampposts that look like exclamation points for everything perfect. The street is squeaky clean and lined with hunter-green trash cans that contain one slot for recycling and one for everything else. It is the town’s soul, inviting and wide enough for a two-columned parade on the Fourth of July.
Greenwich could be Nantucket or Kennebunkport. It could be Newport or Marblehead. Town shuttles offer an early clue, however, that this place is different. So do a handful of black SUVs. They are more likely to carry the names of hedge funds than the logos from Holiday Inn, Hilton, or other hotels.
Somewhere around a hundred hedge funds are headquartered in Greenwich, just thirty-seven minutes from New York City by express train. And many hedge fund billionaires live in the tony community, even if they operate their empires somewhere else. There is Stevie Cohen, who runs SAC Capital a few exits up I-95 in Stamford. Ray Dalio is another. He lives in Greenwich and manages Bridgewater Associates in nearby Westport.
The Greenwich-based funds whip around $100 billion-plus in assets. They include the investment world’s nouveau elite, firms like Tudor, ESL, and AQR. Whether at the Greenwich train station or watering holes after work, there are always clusters of finance jocks swapping ideas and trading stories about payouts, spectacular divorces, or investments that returned many times their capital. Anything about money.
* * *
LeeWell Capital operated from Greenwich Plaza, part of a two-building complex that once housed lawyers, shippers, and manufacturing headquarters. In those days the two suburban buildings hardly ever bubbled with commercial frenzy. The activity, such as it was, resembled the rapid eye movement of an afternoon nap. The center stirred twice every day, when tenants strolled in around nine A.M. and when they rushed home at four P.M. That was before the hedge funds arrived.
They rolled in, and Greenwich Plaza mutated into the Mount Olympus of Hedgistan—a title subject to dispute in all fairness. Rivals might argue that 55 Railroad Avenue is the real home of the gods. “Fifty-five” sits across from the train station and is conveniently located next to a Rolls-Royce dealership that also sells classic Ferraris, Aston Martins, and other four-wheeled Viagra. Or maybe Pickwick Plaza is the epicenter of hedge funds. That’s the problem when everybody wants to be Zeus. There’s no consensus.
The superpowers at Greenwich Plaza included global macro, convertible arbitrage, and other obscure-sounding investment disciplines. The hedge funds stormed the building with Bloombergs and BlackBerrys and their Bluetooth headsets. They brought proprietary trading models and governed the capital markets with the proverbial two-and-twenty: 2 percent annual fees and 20 percent cuts of investment returns.
True to form, these gods of Greenwich used long-short disciplines to manage their waistlines. They installed wine cellars in their offices and amassed take-out menus. Requisite stuff to work late and get long a few extra pounds. They reserved space for elliptical trainers and stationary bikes, whatever it took to short fat and stay trim.
They arrived in limousines, chauffeured by full-time drivers in Lincoln Town Cars or full-time spouses in BMWs, Mercedes, and the occasional Lexus SUV. Or they drove performance cars of every size, shape, and color. Their Maseratis and Ferraris would never see action on the switchbacks of Monte Carlo. But the six-figure autos looked great, nesting discreetly in the parking lots underneath the two buildings of Greenwich Plaza.
Arm
ed with fierce checkbooks, the hedge funds drove rents up and the old guard out. Only one resolute law firm remained. And now, a cryptic god patois dominated every corner of the two buildings.
Elevator bank: “I’m short volatility.”
Watercooler: “We thought we were buying alpha. Got beta instead.”
Men’s urinal: “We flushed synthetic CDOs long ago.”
Lobby: “Orthogonal GARCH is so fucked.”
It was here at Greenwich Plaza that LeeWell Capital had cranked out positive returns every year since 2000. Most years, the hedge fund was up 20 to 30 percent or more. Even during the frightful bear market from 2000 to 2002, when the Dow plunged three straight years, LeeWell made money.
Cusack parked his beat-up BMW next to a glacier-white Bentley convertible. Here at Greenwich Plaza, he sought a job, stable cash flow, and a little relief from Litton, Alex Krause, and all the other creditors standing in line.
* * *
You can hang meat in this place.
Cusack noticed the temperature first thing. He ignored CNBC’s newscasters, who ranted about some company missing its numbers. He overlooked the tiger-maple walls all around him. It was chilly inside LeeWell Capital, icebox cold, because the air conditioner was cranking way too early for the season.
Jimmy strode up to the receptionist, who was wearing a cashmere sweater and holding a cup of tea to warm her hands. He had read dozens of the ace-your-interview books, and they all advised the same thing: “Your job starts at the front counter.”
“You need a parka,” Cusack observed, bright and agreeable.
The receptionist, rosy and brunette under a high-tech headset, reflected Cusack’s cordial smile with a hundred watts of her own. “Cy sets the temperature at sixty-six. Says the brain functions better in the cold.”
“I can already feel the power,” he replied. “I’m Jimmy Cusack.”
“Amanda. We’ve been expecting you. I’ll let Shannon know you’re here.”
“Shannon?”
“Cy’s personal assistant,” she answered while dialing.
Behind the receptionist was a large black-and-white photo, two men shaking hands and hamming for the camera. Jimmy identified Leeser at once. Everyone on Wall Street recognized the long-haired hedge fund manager, who resembled a forty-something Tommy Lee Jones. But Cusack had never seen the other man—bald, blubbery, and bespectacled.
“Who’s in the photo with Mr. Leeser?” he asked after the receptionist clicked off the phone.
“Byron Stockwell. He cofounded our firm.”
“Of course.”
“Hey, and here’s a little hint,” the receptionist added. “Lose the Leeser.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Cy around the office.”
“Gotcha. And thanks, Amanda.”
At that instant a tall African-American man, military bearing and Ranger eyes, stepped through a glass door to the right of the receptionist. He surveyed Cusack, inspected the two-star pin on his lapel, and stuck out an enormous hand.
“I’m Shannon.”
At six foot four and 240 pounds, the big black man looked three parts human and one part Mack truck. His deep voice blared like the bass horn of an eighteen-wheeler. The wide gap between his front teeth resembled an ornate grille. And his clean-shaven head gleamed brighter than any chrome bumper ever produced in Detroit.
“I’m Jimmy Cusack.”
“I can see that. I’ll get Nikki.” With that the big man turned and disappeared into the inner sanctum of LeeWell Capital.
I can see that?
Cusack turned back to the receptionist. “Who’s Nikki?”
“Cy’s secretary.”
“I thought Shannon—”
“No,” she explained, “Cy’s ‘personal assistant,’ as in driver and bodyguard.”
“It’s okay,” Cusack teased. “I’m not packing.” He was still trying to connect with the receptionist.
“Don’t mind Shannon. It’s his job to check everybody out. And he’s a teddy bear once you know him.”
The glass door opened again. A short woman, no more than five foot two, with bobbed black hair, extended her hand and said, “I’m Nikki. Thanks for meeting on such short notice.” She appeared to be in her early thirties, spoke with a voice raspy from phones or Thursday-night cosmopolitans, and wore a diamond chip in her nose.
The small stud glimmered ever so discreetly under the fluorescent lights of LeeWell Capital. It almost looked elegant paired with Nikki’s trim black suit. But the jewelry was the last thing he expected to see on any CEO’s secretary—even here deep inside Hedgistan.
“I’m glad to be here, Nikki.”
“Cy has back-to-back meetings through the end of the month,” she explained. “It was either today or late May. As it was, he canceled on his architect to speak with you.”
“How long do we have?” asked Jimmy.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” she said. “Cy wants to see you right away.”
* * *
Gut reaction: LeeWell Capital confused Cusack as he trailed after Nikki. He liked the photo tribute to Cy’s cofounder as well as the receptionist’s hints about a casual work environment. He appreciated Nikki’s nose stud, a personal statement that would never survive inside most of the starched-collar corridors of finance.
The chill temperature and the iceberg-sized bodyguard—they were another matter. It was like the corporate yin and yang lacked equilibrium. Cusack puzzled over what to expect during the next fifteen minutes.
Cy’s office opened yet another world. There was no sports memorabilia. There were no photos of family, save for one absolute ripper on the desk. Two tanned and tousle-haired twins, three, maybe four years old at the most, screamed little-girl happy in the mother of all Kodak moments. There were four LCD panels on a credenza behind Leeser’s desk, but the room hardly looked like an office.
Paintings and line drawings, dozens, maybe even hundreds, overwhelmed the walls. This was not the office of a money Mensa who made snap decisions, buying and selling complex securities at mind-numbing speed. It was an art museum, a curator’s whimsy, a vast expanse of portraits and landscapes fighting abstracts for space anywhere.
Cusack could not differentiate between expressionism and impressionism. But judging from the sheer number of works, he thought every “ism” in the history of Western civilization might be present. He assumed any one of the pieces would satisfy his $17,507.19 mortgage payment every month, probably with cash in return.
Jimmy had read the press about Cyrus Leeser: tough kid from Hell’s Kitchen, now a regular at Sotheby’s auctions. The art community respected Leeser’s knack for recognizing and identifying new talent. Hedgistan admired the way he made money. Cusack wished he had taken art history, even one course, anything to bridge the worlds of finance and taste. Instead, he had focused on math and economics and saved English literature courses for the occasional treat.
“I’m Cy,” Leeser said, extending his hand.
“Jimmy Cusack.”
The two men appraised each other in person for the first time. Jimmy reminded Cy of the Irish Catholics from his old neighborhood, except that Mickey and the other guys never worked in finance. They were either dead or stamping license plates inside prisons.
Cusack had no idea how to interpret Leeser’s magnetic smile. He expected a test. Cy would look for an Achilles’ heel, a crack in self-confidence, anything to determine how Jimmy handled pressure. He expected Cy to zero in on the little fiasco known as Cusack Capital.
* * *
“Ginger or Mary Ann?”
“Excuse me?” asked Cusack as he sank into a cappuccino-colored guest chair. The leather seat, supple with the worn patina of old money, eased under his weight. He forgot all about the temperature set to sixty-six.
“You heard. Ginger or Mary Ann?”
“Mary Ann.” Cusack wondered if Leeser expected something more cerebral.
“I’m a Ginger man,” laughed C
y. “And there’s nothing deep about Gilligan’s Island.”
Cusack smiled, so wide and winning that deep creases replaced all the crookedness around his lips. “I expected you to go the quant-terror route on me.”
“That shit puts people on edge,” Leeser said. “You don’t get inside their heads.”
“I like your art,” Cusack ventured, warming to Leeser and taking charge of the interview. That was the other advice inside all the how-to books: control the discussion.
“Are you a collector?”
“No. But I know you command great respect in the art world.”
“Stevie Cohen is the one who commands respect,” replied Cy. “I’d give anything for his Edvard Munch.” Leeser spoke with the unmistakable inflection of New York’s streets, a staccato rhythm like double-punching a speed bag. “Anything catch your eye?”
“Your daughters are beautiful.” Cusack pointed to the photo of the twin four-year-olds.
“That’s how I think of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re teenagers now, but they’ll always be my little girls.”
He’d pass Emi’s smell test.
“So, Jimmy,” Leeser began, “why’d you go to Columbia instead of Harvard?”
“Because the People’s Republic of Cambridge is seven square miles surrounded by reality. At least, that’s what we believe in Somerville.”
“I like that,” said Leeser. “Tell me about your hedge fund.”
Cusack shifted uncomfortably, and his heart beat faster.
“But before you answer, Jimmy, let’s put one thing on the table.”
“Okay?”
“I almost blew up in 2000. The experience consumed me, and I bet it’s consuming you.”
“The fast track was a crowded trade at Goldman,” replied Cusack, selling and spinning, hiding from personal revelations. “I founded my company to break from the pack.”
He knew the real answer. The ghost of Cusack Capital was eating him every minute of every day. But playing it safe would have haunted his thoughts forever. Cusack could almost hear his dad, the way Liam described plumbing. “I run my own business, Jimmy. You should do the same. It’s not whether you win or lose. It’s whether you go for it.”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 5