The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  “I don’t need a script for one piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?” asked Leeser, taunting Cusack and inviting him to take his best shot. Shannon watched impassively.

  “For you to wake up. The phone is ringing off the hook. Your investors are scared stiff.”

  “Forget the investors,” ordered Leeser, “and tell me why you’re freelancing.” He swept back his long black hair with both hands and reclined in his chair, at ease after landing a knockout punch.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Providence last month.”

  “I saw Graham Durkin. You know that.”

  “What else were you doing, Jimmy?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m the one asking questions,” barked Leeser. “Who’s Dimitris Georgiou?”

  “A classmate from Wharton.”

  “What does he know about LeeWell Capital?”

  “The market’s melting down and you’re asking about a guy named Geek?” Cusack glanced at Shannon. His head had gone from noose to garrote, his expression taut, tight, and plenty keen to get the job done.

  “The shorts are circling,” explained Cy. “We’re down over a hundred million on Bentwing. And you’ve been hanging out with that clown since day one.”

  “How do you think I found out about the Qataris?”

  “Now you tell me,” scoffed Leeser. “Remember what you said three weeks ago, when I asked about your source?”

  “No,” said Cusack.

  “You said, ‘What difference does it make.’”

  “Yeah, and I still mean it. You know who’s attacking us. Geek is immaterial.”

  “I’m losing money, Jimmy. You haven’t invested one dollar in my fund. And now you’re blowing it with prospects. It makes me wonder whether you’re a plant for our friend Dimitris.”

  “That’s crazy. Money is tight in my home. That’s why I haven’t invested.”

  “You the bagman for Dimitris?”

  “I haven’t spoken with him since Providence.”

  “Selling out cures cash flow problems every time,” persisted Leeser.

  “You want deception?” asked Cusack rhetorically. “Bianca said you lost your ass on that zombie movie. Night of the Living Dead Heads is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Jimmy regretted the outburst at once. His job was gone. There was no doubt. He had also dropped the mother of all husband-wife quarrels onto Bianca’s lap. It was a dumb mistake.

  Shannon watched intently. He was waiting for a ringside bell to send the men to their corners. No such luck. Leeser continued to throw combos. “My wife is a plagiarist and a drunk. Her bedside table is better stocked than most of the bars around town. She has no idea when or how we make money.”

  “Plagiarist?”

  “Stick with ‘drunk.’ Bianca doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Your movie was a flop,” argued Cusack “I Googled it.”

  “We’ll discuss your disaster movie in a second, Jimmy. Who paid for your room at Foxwoods?”

  “It was comped. And what do you mean, my ‘disaster movie’?”

  “Dimitris paid,” translated Cy. He ignored Jimmy’s question. “Who paid for meals?”

  “Geek.”

  “Just as I thought,” blasted Leeser. “Your friend financed the whole damn affair.”

  “You don’t understand,” Cusack protested.

  “Why are you protecting Dimitris?”

  “Geek is immaterial, Cy. I told you about the Qataris the next day.”

  “It’s been three weeks since this guy plied you with a faceful of tits and who knows what else.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you fuck me in Providence?” screamed Leeser. He shotgunned accusations faster than Cusack could return fire.

  “I prospected a billionaire.”

  “You didn’t close Durkin. We had forty million in the bag with New Jersey Sheet Metal. And you fucking blew it.”

  “Graham’s a businessman. He’s been around the block too many times to invest after one meeting.”

  “I pay you to bring in assets, Jimmy. Not to make excuses.”

  “Graham’s attending your party at MoMA. And we’re meeting him on Friday. What more do you want?”

  “Close some business. Or maybe you’re killing time at LeeWell until you get a better offer from Burger King.”

  “Nobody’s putting new money to work unless it’s a sure thing. Which is why I keep asking you about the hedges.”

  Leeser glared at Cusack. Then he glared at Shannon. For a moment, Jimmy believed Cy had run out of gas. He was wrong.

  “There will be a day,” Leeser started, “when your three-million-dollar mortgage seems like chump change.”

  When I sell the condo.

  “But if you ever cross me again,” Leeser continued with mounting anger, “I’ll cram your teabag up your nostrils.”

  “Damn,” Jimmy uttered without thinking. There had been countless threats back in Somerville. This one was new.

  “I insist on confidentiality,” Leeser bellowed, his anger gaining momentum. “Shannon, show Jimmy his ‘disaster movie.’”

  The chief of security opened a Mac laptop on the corner of Cy’s desk. Knee-deep in hostilities, the office a rancorous morgue and the paintings all headstones—Cusack missed the computer earlier during the meeting. Shannon said nothing, clicked the track pad several times, and waited for a movie to start. The images flashed fuzzy at first, the sound scratchy from voices and a heavy beat in the background.

  It was the Foxy Lady, the strip club in Providence.

  No one said anything. The three men huddled over the fifteen-inch LCD screen. The camera zoomed through the crowd, grainy images growing clearer by the second.

  There was Cusack, surrounded by four topless women. One of them pulled his head into her heavy breasts. And the twisted smile, the one that could be mistaken for a smirk or something more lurid, crossed his features in one spectacular splash of implants.

  Shannon clicked the touch pad, and the movie froze. The frame caught Cusack’s smile. It caught him in all his glory, plunging nose first into the stripper’s breasts.

  “What the fuck, Cy. Where’d you get that?”

  Shannon said nothing.

  “There are all kinds of surprises in my wheelhouse, Jimmy. Be a shame if Emi saw this.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Cusack asked again, seething. “Send her a copy. She won’t care.”

  “Maybe not,” smirked Leeser, “but Caleb’s coming tomorrow. I wonder what he thinks. His daughter is pregnant, and you’re at the Foxy Lady?”

  Cusack looked at Shannon, who said nothing. But he smiled for the first time, flashing the big gap between his two front teeth. That’s when Leeser landed the final blow:

  “My journalist buddies say Caleb may run for governor. Kind of a public thing. Clean living. Family values. You know the drill. You think the tit video will help Caleb Phelps or your marriage?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “We win this year by surviving, Jimmy. You survive by delivering Phelps. And I’m getting to next year with or without you. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  * * *

  Alone in his office, Leeser wondered when Bentwing would hit the twenties. The next three months would be tough. Two separate beat-downs, first Siggi and then Cusack, had been the only bright spots in his day.

  They were exactly what he needed to clear his head. They might even get things back on track. Ólafuck would buy Bentwing if he had half a brain. And Jimmy would deliver his father-in-law pronto.

  The kid’s a bonehead, thought Leeser, alone, gloating in his office, surrounded by paintings and other trophies from past financial victories. The video from the Foxy Lady would never see the light of day. Cy would never undermine Caleb Phelps, either his gubernatorial campaign or his business interests. He needed the Bostonian too much. />
  “But Cusack won’t call my bluff,” Leeser said aloud, confiding to the photo on his desk, the one of his twin daughters before grade school. Irrational behavior is a beautiful thing, he decided. Volatility, lack of restraint, all the screaming and threatening until others cower and cave—nobody really knows when a madman will pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THAT NIGHT IN NEW YORK CITY …

  Cusack was lying in bed. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts bouncing from outrage to disbelief over a threat that bordered on the surreal. He struggled to avoid revenge fantasies that were almost Pavlovian, like cranking Leeser’s head in a shop vise until his boss coughed up the video.

  Emi was asleep, no surprise there. She could hibernate through heavy metal concerts. She found comfort in dreams, however distorted or Tim Burton they might be. Dreams were the one place where Emi recognized everyone.

  There were no dreams to comfort Cusack. Not that night. He had already told Emi so much. Maybe too much. But he held back on some info, and now he wondered if the omissions had been a mistake. The thing about confessing to priests is that you can feed them a little at a time. He was unsure whether the same strategy worked with his wife.

  * * *

  “Are you crazy?” Emi never lost her temper. “You want to tell my father?”

  “That video can blindside him.”

  “Make sure it never surfaces,” she warned.

  “Nothing happened.”

  No one said anything. Cusack looked at Emi. She looked at him. The seconds passed like a kidney stone. And he finally said, uncertain how to make things right, “I was leaving the Foxy Lady.”

  “You planted your face in a lap dance.”

  “She grabbed my head, Em.”

  “I’ve been struggling since December to bring you chowderheads together. You hold grudges, James. And I get over your hard feelings, because in your core, you’re kind. And you’re honest. And you always screw up doing the right thing. Your messes are why I love you. But guess what. My father’s grudges date back to the Mayflower. Lose his money—he’ll get over it. Botch his politics—he’ll never forgive you.”

  Hands on hips and belly thrusting forward, Emi stared a hole through her husband’s forehead. She added, “Our child won’t grow up in a divided home. You make peace with my dad.”

  For the second time that evening, Cusack said nothing. Not at first. The silence was his place to think, more of a demilitarized zone than Weapon of Marriage Destruction. During the pause Cusack considered Leeser’s creepy fascination with Caleb Phelps. He considered personal finances on the brink, problems still hidden from his wife. He smiled crookedly and finally said, “I know what to do, Emi.”

  “Don’t play games.”

  “You’re looking at LeeWell Capital’s model employee.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I worked hard before. I work harder now. I suck up and say all the right things, to Shannon, who gives migraines a good name. To Nikki and Amanda. Even to that whack job Victor.”

  Emi double-checked the two-star pin.

  Cusack noticed the glance. “It’s me, Emi. I support Cy and say yes whenever his ego needs a backrub. Even if it makes me barf later. I become a knight at Cy Leeser’s round table of goons.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “I keep my eyes open until I find and destroy that video from Foxwoods. And once it’s gone through a digital shredder twice, I’m out of this monkey house.”

  “You need to find that Mac computer?”

  “I need to find the video and all the copies, wherever they are.”

  Emi’s hands relaxed from her hips. She rubbed the two-star pin on his jacket lapel, before resting her hands on his shoulders. “Where do we start?”

  “Tomorrow night at MoMA.”

  “I’ll meet you there. I’m working a little later than usual,” she said.

  “What about Caleb?”

  “Same thing. He has a full day.”

  For a moment the two said nothing. Emi broke the silence and asked, “Remember when you landed the job with LeeWell Capital?”

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  “You were happy. The markets were better.”

  “Markets aren’t the problem,” Cusack said, shaking his head. “I discovered the difference between my office and hell.”

  “Which is what?” she asked.

  “We have Bloomberg terminals.”

  “Wait here for a moment. I have something for you.”

  Emi disappeared into their guest bedroom, which doubled as an office. He could hear her rifling through papers, but just for a moment. She returned with a printout, black and grainy on a single sheet of paper.

  “Is that what I think?” asked Cusack.

  “Put Yaz up in your office,” she confirmed, handing him the sonogram. “He’ll help you through the days, the way he helps me.”

  “He?” Cusack forgot LeeWell. Emi always claimed their baby was a girl.

  “I peeked during my ultrasound.”

  Jimmy looked at Emi’s swollen belly. At Yaz. At his wife’s kind face. Gently, he touched her cheek with his right hand and kissed her full on the lips.

  “Does that mean we still like each other?” asked Emi. She added coquettishly, “I’m fatter than a walrus, you know.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Just do me a favor,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “Next time I ask, suck up to my dad in Bermuda.”

  * * *

  Cusack listened to the rhythmic sounds of Emi’s sleep. He watched Yaz rise and fall with every breath. He wondered whether his wife would be so forgiving once she grasped the depth of their financial problems. Strike one was borrowing $3 million to buy a condo that might be worth $2.5 million in this market. Strike two was thinking he could support his mother and brothers at the same time. He had no interest in whiffing at whatever happened next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 18

  BENTWING AT $31.33

  By 6:45 P.M. MoMA’s atrium buzzed from a curious mix of celebration and consternation. The fifteen-piece band rocked all eight levels of the museum, their upbeat tempo belting into every corner, every crevice. The crowd was ready to swing and let their hair down. Ready to drink and talk moneyman trash amid Monet and all the greats. They had come to fête Cyrus Leeser for his many contributions to the world of art. They were ready to blow it out because one thing was sure. Every man and woman in the building sensed trouble on the horizon.

  “Is Harry Winston in bad taste these days?” a slender woman asked her friend. She sparkled in black sequins and a vintage necklace assembled from thirty-five emeralds, a mix of thirty-eight round or marquise diamonds, and all kinds of platinum elbow joints.

  “We got barbecue risk,” remarked a young money manager across the hall.

  “What the hell is that?” his buddy asked. That was the problem with jargon from the gods. Speakers needed to stay current on their metaphors.

  “Somebody always grills better. Same thing with investment performance. Somebody always has better returns.”

  “In my opinion,” a third god observed, “hedge funds are an endangered species.”

  “Hey, you masters of the universe,” bellowed the bandleader, three hundred pounds all powdered, pressed, and packed inside a black tie. He flirted with the crowd, held them rapt with bright eyes the size of silver dollars. “You say the markets are bad. You say times are tough. Well, here’s a little help from Jackson and Jefferson and maybe a Ben Franklin or two.” With that his laughter resonated through the cavernous atrium as the band played “Dead Presidents” by Willie Dixon.

  Inside the ladies’ room Bianca studied her reflection in the mirror. Not bad for forty-eight, she decided. She fussed several dark hairs into place, sipped from her martini, and swore never to go blond no matter how much Cy insisted. As her eyes drifted lower, Bianc
a examined the faint hint of lace and smiled at Dorothy Parker’s classic line: “Brevity is the soul of lingerie.”

  The evening had taken forever to arrange. The details consumed her: guest list, catering, gift bags, invitations, floral arrangements, sound systems, who would speak, who would emcee, what she would wear, what Cy would wear, who would come and how much they would pay, which would be a thousand dollars per head minimum no matter how much Brazilian whoop-ass required to shake loose donations in these tight, tight markets. The execution of perfection went on and on. April, the month she first tackled the project, seemed like yesterday.

  Bianca had no idea whether Cy noticed. He showed zero interest in her black Heidi Weisel off-the-shoulder jersey dress. He did not care about her long hours combing Bergdorf Goodman for their big night at MoMA. She could have done without all the preparations, the hobnobbing, and the gilded—or was it gelded—life of social philanthropy.

  Tonight was Cy’s thing, not hers. He wanted the acclaim. Bianca preferred a good book, comfortable pajamas, and popcorn in bed. She hated mascara and regarded most makeup as a total waste of daylight. She would trade Heidi Weisel for loose-fitting capris any time, anywhere. If only Cy paid attention. If only he agreed to a few rounds of counseling.

  A vigorous flush interrupted Bianca’s reverie, and Lady Dana of Deerfield Drive burst from the stall. She was not a Lady in the British sense of royalty. It was more of a hunting title conferred by Greenwich glitterati. A jogger sighted her in a tree one morning with crossbow and quiver full of arrows. In full hunting regalia, topped by a deerskin cap, she was waiting for the return of several does that ate $75,000 worth of plants on her property.

  “Damn, you look good, Bianca,” admired Lady Dana, snugging her Versace into place.

  The two women exited the bathroom and returned to the party, to Bianca reigning supreme among men and women in black, to the haut monde of New York, Greenwich, and London, to a crowd so elite, so nonpareil that Page Six of the New York Post sent three reporters to cover the event, each with a photographer in tow. Society sgarristas—not made men from the mob but women made to perfection—swarmed Bianca.