“Keep looking,” Jimmy replied to his real estate broker. “Somebody out there is dying to buy our condo.”
“I’m telling you. It won’t sell.”
“And I’m telling you, Robby, forget about dropping the price. I’m not taking a check to the closing.”
Cy replied, via e-mail: You’re a fucking Whartonite stud. New Jersey will be our biggest client.
Thanks, Cy. I think, thought Cusack.
“What do you mean, ‘a check to the closing’?” asked Robby.
“Document stamps, real estate taxes, lawyers, your commission, and of course, the mortgage—they all add up.”
“How much did you borrow?”
“Three point one,” replied Cusack.
He typed: FedExing docs overnight. New Jersey wants in as soon as possible.
“‘Three point one,’” Robby echoed. “How do you live with that?”
“I cut a great deal.”
“How great can it be if you’re on the hook for that kind of money?”
“Interest only and one payment a year—”
“But at five percent,” Robby interrupted, “you pay at least one hundred and fifty thousand a year. Is that comfortable?”
A second e-mail arrived from Cy: Great fucking work.
“It’s comfortable if I get a bonus,” Cusack replied.
“I don’t get how you live with the pressure.” Robby sounded skeptical.
“Keep my head down.”
“So do ostriches,” Robby said. “Is LeeWell making money this year?”
“Put away your abacus,” replied Cusack, drawing the line, “and sell my condo.”
Victor Lee sent an e-mail: Nice work, dickhead.
Cusack typed back: Don’t lose it.
“Well, I hope you get a bonus,” Robby persisted. “You’re gonna need it, because this market sucks.”
“I won’t drop the listing price.”
“You got monster nads.” The real estate broker whistled under his breath.
“Do you think,” snapped Jimmy, “that LeeWell Capital will foreclose on my condo?” He was growing tired of his broker’s pushback.
“It happens.”
“I talk to our clients every day.”
“Well, that’s pretty damn ruthless,” Robby observed.
“The last thing Cy needs is to lose his head of sales.” Cusack regretted his words immediately. The money had not even arrived, and the forty million win was going to his head.
At that precise instant, a third e-mail arrived from Cy. Get me in front of your father-in-law, and we declare victory this month.
“Monster nads, Cusack,” Robby repeated with clear admiration. “But there’s only one way to raise the price on your condo.”
“Which is?”
“Spring for a new master bathroom, something nice, no expense spared. You know what I mean.”
BEG ticked down to $59.60.
* * *
“That’s better than solving P versus NP,” said Geek.
He was referring to a famous problem from computer science. In 1971 Stephen Cook posed a question that no one has been able to solve, even though there is a $1 million reward for the right answer: If computers can verify solutions quickly, can they also compute these solutions quickly?
Cusack had just told Geek about the $40 million commitment, without disclosing the name of New Jersey Sheet Metal. Best friends or not, the two were still competitors. They discussed business situations in general terms and steered clear of the details. Discretion was the only way to protect their relationship, which is why Geek’s follow-up comments came as a surprise: “You’re just in time, too.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Asymptotic implied volatility of the second order.”
“You’re killing me,” said Cusack. “Translation please.”
“Danger under every rock. I hear things about Bentwing.”
“Like what?”
“How much you own,” replied Geek. “Potential problems with the company.”
“What can I say?” Cusack refused to discuss LeeWell Capital’s concentration in the stock. “Alternative energy is the world’s future.”
“We’ve been friends a long time, Jimmy.”
“Ever since Wharton.”
“I’d use this win to maximize your leverage with Leeser. Time for you to get your arms around how he hedges.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” asked Cusack, feeling his stress rise.
“Nothing that’s public,” replied Geek, using the one word guaranteed to stop further discussion—public. “Do yourself a favor. Snoop around the office. Keep your ear to the ground. Anything to get the full picture.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Then, with astonishing clarity for a guy who sprinkled “jump-diffusion” references into everyday conversation, Geek blackened Cusack’s mood with a single warning:
“Don’t get stuck on stupid.”
FRIDAY, JUNE 13
BENTWING AT $59.30
Following the big win, Victor treated the entire office to “Lunch on Lee” from Greenwich Pizza. The big show of team success was the trader thing to do. Caffeine, cholesterol, comfort food—sacrificing arteries warded off bad markets. And with the Dow off about 8.4 percent halfway through the year, there was no better time to indulge.
No one needed a reprieve more than Lee. He cheered as assets grew to $897 million by mid-May. He grimaced as they pulled back to $800 million, making LeeWell Capital flat on the year. No gain. No loss. The retreat spawned Victor’s cancerous funk, which slowly metastasized throughout the office. He was ready to embrace good news, any hint of a market rebound and better times ahead.
Surrounded by pepperoni and mushrooms, the conference room air glorious from victory and garlic, Victor almost sounded affectionate when he praised Cusack’s big win with New Jersey Sheet Metal. “Our dickhead does good work.”
“Thanks. I think,” replied Cusack, which made everybody laugh.
During “Lunch on Lee,” the people of LeeWell Capital came together and rallied around the conference room table. From mouth to paper plate, every employee stretched cheesy strings three inches long. It was a tribal gathering, a ritual feast, except there were no grass skirts or belly dancers. Everyone wore sweaters, given the temperature was set to sixty-six degrees. Even Cy broke from a solitary lunch at his desk to join the troops.
Amanda the receptionist, sated from fresh mozzarella and Diet Coke, proposed the unthinkable. Not at first. She took her time and worked up to the ask. “Hey, Cy. This is a big deal. We’re celebrating Jimmy and his victory. And it’s true, I don’t know much about the portfolio. I answer phones.”
She paused for a moment, savoring all eyes, flirty and fully aware she was rosy and cute and blessed with a hundred-watt smile. A few people giggled. Nobody interrupted. Cusack could hear a pin drop.
“What I’m saying,” Amanda continued, “is that LeeWell Capital never loses money. Never. And I understand the markets are shaky, but I bet we make money this year. Big money, because we’re managing new money. So please, sir, I want more heat. Please, sir, maybe sixty-eight degrees, sir.”
Amanda pleaded with Oliver Twist eyes, half in jest, half in earnest. In that moment, she would have traded either porridge or pizza for two more degrees from Con Edison. She sometimes complained to Nikki in the ladies’ room about the temperature set to cold feet and goose bumps.
Nobody uttered a word. The employees of LeeWell Capital, expectant and full of good humor, eyed their boss. Cy Leeser always said the right thing. He always chose words that made employees redouble their efforts. And so far, he had always been successful, given the hedge fund’s unblemished investment returns. That Friday the thirteenth, fifteen employees waited in silent expectation for encouragement from their fearless leader, who would make everything better.
Leeser scanned the crowd, aware his company was waiting. He finally faced Amanda and said one wo
rd: “No.” He walked out of the room, with Shannon close behind. In their wake, the two men left behind the nervous silence of air hissing from a balloon. With that one word, “No,” Jimmy’s feel-good moment from a $40 million win ended. It was that fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MONDAY, JUNE 16
BENTWING AT $60.00
Shannon operated in one gear—snarl. The big man seldom revealed the gap between his front teeth, the grillwork smile without good humor. He just cleared rooms over and over to the point of annoyance, fat butting into Cusack’s business like a cross between Genghis Khan and an Orwellian Big Brother:
“What time are you leaving, Jimmy?”
“Who’s Geek and why does he call so much?”
“I need your list of prospects.”
“What for?” the head of sales demanded, hearing the last request.
“Background checks.”
The response put Cusack over the top. “He’ll scare off our prospects,” Cusack complained to Cy.
“I don’t care,” Leeser replied dismissively, almost yawning. He picked up the phone and said, “Nikki, I’d kill for a latte. Jimmy needs one, too.”
“You’re kidding,” Cusack snapped, wondering whether he heard right. “You don’t care?”
“No,” Cy answered, his voice cool. “You ever hear the expression ‘broker of the day’?”
“Rookie stockbrokers who get incoming calls. What’s this got to do—”
“Hear me out. When I was at Merrill, the receptionist put through a call from a guy named Sal DiLeonardo. He asked to meet and threw out numbers about his portfolio. Five million here. Ten million there.”
“I’m listening.”
“Big Sal was a member of the Gambino crime family,” explained Leeser. “Merrill connected the dots, and I canceled the appointment. DiLeonardo got the message.”
“You never met him?”
“No,” confirmed Leeser. “Years later, Big Sal turned state’s evidence. He’s either dead or in witness protection.”
“Our prospects don’t fit the profile.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” cautioned Leeser. “Nobody ever sees wise guys coming. And I don’t need mob goons seeping into my fund.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Good, because we’d be lost without Shannon. He’s a one-man dynamo when it comes to background checks or corporate espionage.”
“Sounds like Kroll in a box,” Cusack observed in a neutral tone, annoyed, referring to the company known as Wall Street’s private eye.
“Funny you say that. Shannon worked at Kroll.”
“How’d you find him?”
“He found us.”
“I’m surprised,” observed Cusack.
“Why’s that?”
“I thought he was a friend from way back.”
“He’s one hundred percent loyal,” said Leeser.
“How can you tell?”
“Remember my employment criteria—people who can’t afford to lose?”
“I’ll never forget.”
“Shannon can’t afford to lose.” Leeser’s expression showed absolute conviction.
Does he have mortgage problems, too?
“Why’s that?” asked Cusack.
“Kroll fired his ass for background omissions.”
“Such as?”
“Shannon’s brother has a fifty-eight-page rap sheet,” explained Leeser. “He’s doing time in ADX Florence for manslaughter.”
“How’s that affect Shannon?”
“He can’t get a job in security. Would Cusack Capital ever hire somebody with criminal links?”
“Not now,” Jimmy replied.
“You get my point,” said Leeser. “If you ask me, Shannon’s background makes him better at his job.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s an insider.”
“Great.”
“He knows the criminal mind-set.”
“Everybody’s friend on Facebook,” Cusack replied, unable to curb his sarcasm.
“You need to forget Shannon,” Leeser said, half command, half request. He leaned forward, his brown eyes burrowing into Cusack. “And concentrate on getting me in front of your father-in-law.”
“Just give me time, Cy.”
“Make it happen.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 17
BENTWING AT $60.22
It was Rachel’s last full day in Paris, and she was on a mission. Slouchy blazer, long tank, and loose shorts—at seven A.M. she was already dressed for the day. Chunky shoes and cute to beat all hell.
First, Rachel would eat breakfast at George Cinq’s sculpted French garden. She preferred it to the hotel’s indoor dining rooms, which were too rococo for her taste. Then a massage from Pierre. How was a Balzac body attached to such gifted hands? Afterward, she would hit the fashion houses, starting with Givenchy.
The cell phone rang as Rachel left her suite. She knew the number. She thought it odd her employer was calling. He generally waited until the afternoon. “I’m surprised to hear from you this early, Kemosabe.”
“My work is never done. How do you like George Cinq?”
“Overwhelming,” she admitted. “But I can get used to it.”
“Enjoy your last day, because I want you good and rested when you get back to the clinic.”
“I may never leave Paris.”
“Stick with me, and you’ll own Paris.”
Rachel’s ears pricked up. “How so, Kemosabe?”
Five minutes later, and Rachel got it: the risk, the opportunity, and the prevailing market conditions. She found it odd that people could make money whether a stock was going up or down. Time to keep her head down and focus on the new target, a guy named Conrad Barnes from Bronxville. She was still trying to understand the new tone in Kemosabe’s voice, a curious mix of salesmanship and unbridled fury.
I bet he’s wearing war paint, she thought.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18
BENTWING AT $61.22
“Cy, have you given any more thought to the Goncharova?”
Siggi was referring to a painting by Natalia Goncharova. A Russian painter, she lived from 1881 to 1962. The art dealer reckoned that his biggest client would appreciate her Cubist leanings.
“No, in all honesty,” replied Leeser. “Too busy running my business. You know how it is.”
“I totally understand. I don’t mean to pressure you.”
“Not at all,” Leeser said. “We’ve been dancing around this one for how long?”
“Two months. But it’s okay.”
“No, it’s time I make a decision.”
“It’s okay,” Siggi repeated.
Leeser’s eyes narrowed. He twirled his long black hair with an index finger. Was it desperation in the Icelander’s voice? Or was it opportunity? Cy detected something but could not tell what. “Will your seller take three million?”
“The estate is firm on four.”
“‘Estate.’ What do you mean?”
“I’ve said too much already.”
“You can tell me,” pressed Leeser, detecting a nervous timbre from the art dealer, or so he thought.
“The family patriarch was a good friend. And he’s turning over in his grave because the heirs are splitting up his collection.”
“It’s just business.”
“It’s the legacy of a man’s life,” argued Siggi, “which his kids don’t appreciate. They want to dump the Goncharova. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
“How come they won’t take three?” asked Leeser, ignoring the Icelander’s sick stomach.
“Because somebody else has an interest.”
Siggi leaned back in his chair. He waited for Reykjavik’s damp ocean breezes to whip through the open windows and rearrange the dust inside the tiny office of his gallery. Then he cast a line with enough live bait hanging from the hook to snag a big one.
“Somebody else with an interest in excess of four million.” He yawned, his voice qu
ivering ever so slightly. “Maybe as much as five.”
“What happens if I wire you four million in five minutes?” asked Cy.
“The Goncharova is yours.”
“You think I can flip it to the other buyer?”
“Probably an eighty percent chance,” replied Siggi, inspecting the half-moons of his fingernails.
“I’d love to make a quick buck.”
“It’s perfect for the other guy’s collection.”
“I’ll take it,” said Leeser, “under one condition.”
Siggi’s enthusiasm waned, his shoulders slumped, and his casual veneer disappeared. There was always a catch. “What do you mean?”
“I want a put option. You have one year to flip the Goncharova at a profit to me. Otherwise you buy it back at four million.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Commissions. First when you sell it to me and then when you flip it to the other buyer.”
The art dealer paused for a long moment. He said nothing, the silence between phones darker and deader than the middle of the night in central Iceland.
“Are you there, Siggi?”
“I’m thinking.”
“It’s okay if you can’t handle that kind of action,” Leeser said, baiting him back. “A four-million put option is a bunch of money for anybody.”
“I’m still thinking.”
“That’s the funny thing. When money is on the line, everything comes into focus.”
“Okay, Cy. We have a deal.”
* * *
Ólafur erupted when his cousin hung up. He raced around the art dealer’s desk and slapped his cousin on the back. “That was beautiful, Siggi. You belong on the stage. Better yet, why don’t you come work for us at Hafnarbanki?”
“Beautiful for you, cousin. See that piece?”
Siggi gestured toward a whimsical line drawing of a kneeling green figure. The corpulent belly jutted forward, a cocky, aggressive stance. Elbows akimbo, spindly arms lined in bold black, the figure had no head. A plume of wispy gray smoke billowed from the neck.
“I see it.”
“That’s how I feel right now—headless.”
“Are you kidding? Our plan is perfect.”
“Your plan,” Siggi corrected Ólafur. “You think the Qataris will pay five million for the Goncharova?”
The Gods of Greenwich Page 12