The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  “It’s great what Cy and you have done for MoMA,” congratulated one.

  “Your hair looks fabulous,” said another.

  “What a cute dress, girl.”

  Bianca sighted her husband working the crowd across the great room, dazzling and smooth with no apparent worries about the market and with Nikki always nearby. His assistant wore a ruby red stud in her nose tonight, the stone subtle but the perfect foil to her shimmery black gown.

  Martini glass in hand, Bianca watched Cy and wondered what happened to her marriage. “Our girls deserve better,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “What’s that?” asked Lady Dana.

  “Nothing,” replied Bianca, bright and sassy and thoroughly heartbroken.

  * * *

  With the crowd noise gaining volume, Victor stood alone near the bar. He drained his green-apple cosmopolitan and wondered, for a brief second, why anybody bothered with scotch. Mercifully, the Dow had rallied over 400 points during trading hours. He ordered another cosmo, not from relief and certainly not to celebrate a market rebound. This cocktail was all about resolve—his.

  It was time for LeeWell Capital to man up, take its losses, and go to cash. Lee decided the dickhead Cusack had been right about Bentwing. The stock was a piece of shit, regardless of today’s yawn-inducing rebound. The only issues were how to convince Cy, and, of course, how to execute the trades.

  “What brings you here?” a woman asked.

  Victor turned to find a tall, striking, golden-haired woman: late twenties, brown eyes, and a silk dress that fit like duct tape. The woman turned heads. She wore black stockings with seams running down the back of each leg. No doubt her lineage traced back to Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty who pulled double duty as the patron of prostitutes.

  “Cy’s my boss,” he replied. “I’m Victor Lee.”

  “Well, Victor,” she said in a voice reverse-engineered for seduction, “why don’t you buy me a drink?” She took his arm, assuming they would storm the bar.

  Her touch surprised Victor. He missed the cues, the sexy voice. He was still engrossed in her back-seamed stockings. “Drinks are free.”

  “I’d like a glass of white wine,” the golden-haired beauty replied, “and for you to tell me something delicious.”

  “What for?” Victor asked without thinking.

  “Oh, a challenge,” the woman observed, brushing up against him. “I like that.”

  Victor, surprised by the contact, missed her cues and said, “You sure about the wine. You seem a little shaky.”

  “It’s okay if you forget my name,” the golden-haired woman said, blinking, turning, her face a confused sneer. She left Victor with his thoughts about Bentwing and the seams of her black stockings.

  * * *

  It was drizzling outside.

  Across town Emi Cusack rushed through the gates. She wore an Isabella Oliver gown, black trench coat, and red sneakers. She carried an umbrella in one hand and extra-large purse in the other, white pearls and black high heels buried deep inside. Emi invited attention racing out of the zoo and into the Bronx, showing six months and searching everywhere for a cab.

  Her presentation, the last one before maternity leave, ran past five into the early evening. There had been no choice but to change at work. She could not race home, clean up, and return to MoMA in time to hug her dad and put on a good show for James. New York’s traffic was a bear at this hour.

  The mist morphed into rain as Emi stood on the street. Looking north and looking south, she scanned Southern Boulevard to no avail. There were no cabs anywhere. Nothing. Just Emi losing time, rain gaining strength, and night turning black.

  Conrad Barnes never met Emi Cusack before. He knew trouble when he saw it, though, a pregnant woman alone in the Bronx. He doubted her red tennis shoes would help much. Ever the gentleman, Barnes marched to her side, momentarily leaving his younger companion behind.

  “May I help you find a cab?”

  Marge was in Florida, and Conrad was in heaven. He loved their Thursdays at the zoo, preferred them to senior Olympics inside the Westchester Mall with other walkers. But everything was different today, including the fact he had parked on Southern Boulevard because Parking Lot B was full.

  Barnes had befriended a young nurse near Tiger Mountain—never would have happened with Marge around. They were eating out in a few minutes. Jumping in his car and driving into Manhattan for dinner, probably someplace on Avenue A. They would never run into Bronxville friends at one of the discreet haunts on the Lower East Side.

  “You are so sweet,” Emi replied. Tall and white-haired, Conrad looked like a walking billboard for madras-gone-wild videos taken at local country clubs. He also sported the most unruly unibrow Emi had ever seen. “But I’ll be fine.”

  Barnes refused to leave. He raised his left hand and whistled between his teeth, his lower jaw thrust forward like a shopping cart. From the north end of the street, a yellow cab appeared.

  “How’d you do that?” asked Emi.

  “I’m on a roll,” Barnes said, flashing the closer’s smile that had propelled his career in pharmaceuticals. He held the taxi door open just as his young companion joined them.

  The twenty-something woman was buxom and athletic. She was dressed in white with a cute figure and perfect auburn hair. Emi noticed a scar on the back of her left hand, puffy and damaged. The woman—Emi thought she might be the older man’s daughter—wore a nondescript shade of lipstick. Her vibrant eyes shone Atlantic blue with help from tinted contacts.

  Emi pulled her umbrella shut, threw her monster bag into the backseat of the cab, and said to Conrad, “Thank you so much.” She fixed on the woman’s ocean blues and almost said, “Take care of your dad,” but thought better of it. There was something about the younger woman’s body language.

  A few minutes later as Rachel ducked into Conrad’s sedan, she worried about the pregnant woman. The way she had looked at Rachel. The recognition in her eyes. That was the thing about face blindness. Few people know anything about it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MOMA …

  “It’s been a long time,” Cusack told his father-in-law.

  “Too long, James. That’s what our dynamic duo says.” Caleb’s corrugated forehead made him look like a man with galvanized opinions and one option—his.

  “Anne and Emi?” asked Cusack, referring to mother and daughter.

  “The same.”

  At five foot nine Phelps was neither short nor tall. His curly hair was neither black nor gray but still trying to decide. And his face was neither friendly nor hostile but clearly resolute.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Cusack as the band rumbled “But it’s gonna take money,” the refrain from a George Harrison song.

  “Actually, you’re not,” Caleb started. “I know you’re still pissed from December. I’ve had nine months to think about things, nine months to discuss our phone call with my daughter. And there are some things I should have done differently.”

  “Forget it.” Cusack was unsure whether he meant his words or not. But it was the ambassadorial thing to say, one of those lessons drilled into his psyche during childhood.

  “I’m buying the division of a public company. I slip one time, and the SEC stretches me across the rack until I’m six-four. Particularly because I’m announcing my candidacy in January.” Phelps struggled with his words. He was not a man who apologized often, if ever. He held Cusack’s eyes with his steely gaze.

  “Why get your lawyers? A simple phone call would have done the trick.”

  “I listened to gunslingers, James, and made the mistake of not going with my gut. The only way to explain the lawyers, and this doesn’t make it right, is I can’t have public slips. Not even one.”

  “We all make mistakes,” replied Cusack. “There’s not a minute that goes by when I don’t regret losing your money.”

  “Sunk cost,” Caleb declared, and reached to shake Cusack’s hand. “I�
�m glad you landed on your feet. Now, it’s time for me to earn your trust.”

  Phelps believed the Berlin Wall had just collapsed, a fitting end to the family feud. Cusack felt the bricks crash down hard. He was buried up to his neck in secrets and other rubble.

  * * *

  “You must be Caleb Phelps,” a voice boomed above MoMA’s din, as the in-law peace negotiations came to a close.

  “I am.”

  “Cy Leeser. I’ve heard so much about you.” He sipped a single malt with his left hand and extended his right to shake.

  “You’re the man of the hour,” replied Phelps, once again the politician.

  “And I hear you’re ready to announce your candidacy for governor of Massachusetts.”

  “It’s not a well-kept secret,” Caleb admitted.

  Leeser shot Cusack a knowing glance and said, “I’ve gotta tell you, Caleb. I’m lucky to have your son-in-law on my team.”

  Cusack smiled crookedly, uncertain what to say but thinking his boss could skip rope better than tarantulas.

  “My daughter’s lucky to have him.”

  “That’s an interesting deal you struck with Hartford,” Leeser said. “I think we can do some business together.”

  “We think that division fits our operations like a glove.”

  “From what I hear,” Leeser continued, “you’re the heat on Boston’s waterfront.”

  “We own a few properties around the New England Aquarium.”

  “I’d love to get the personal tour.”

  “Let’s set something up,” Caleb offered. “Middle of next month?”

  “Done. The sooner, the better.”

  Shit.

  “Hey, Cy, Caleb. There’s Graham Durkin,” Jimmy said. “I want you to meet him.”

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes Cyrus Leeser, Graham Durkin, and Caleb Phelps became new best friends. It was like the party stopped, and no one else in the atrium mattered. Cy wanted to do business with Caleb. Caleb wanted to cultivate Graham, as an out-of-state patron for his gubernatorial campaign. And Graham wanted to learn more about MoMA from Leeser, who said, “We can use somebody like you on the board.”

  “You made Cy’s day,” Nikki told Cusack.

  The two had drifted to the side, one of those spontaneous cocktail sidebars. Nikki remained attentive, however, in case her boss needed anything. For the last hour he mostly needed single malts.

  “You know, Caleb,” the billionaire said, “my brother-in-law can be helpful.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s the president of the Massachusetts Police Association.”

  “That sounds like a good excuse for a speaking engagement,” Leeser offered Phelps, jumping at the connection. “I’d be happy to host a dinner in Boston.”

  “That’s awfully kind,” Caleb replied, sounding more and more like a politician every minute.

  “But one thing,” Graham said. “I know my brother-in-law. There are only two words that get his attention.”

  “And they are?” Caleb beckoned.

  “‘Family values.’”

  “If you guys know my son-in-law,” Caleb said, “you probably know where I stand on decency and ethics.”

  The three men turned toward Jimmy and Nikki, both standing on the periphery. Almost on cue Emi joined the group. She was relieved to spot her husband’s two-star pin amid the sea of black ties and faceless strangers.

  “How are you, honey?” greeted Caleb, who hugged his daughter. Patting her stomach with a dad’s affection, he added, “See what I mean about ‘family values’?”

  “Did I miss something?” asked Emi, kissing her husband square on the lips.

  “We missed you,” Jimmy replied.

  Leeser watched, eyes aglow, sipping his drink. He enjoyed the minireunion of father, daughter, and porn star. He was in command, surrounded by hundreds of admirers. His plan was working. It was only a matter of time before Caleb Phelps stepped up to the plate and solved the problem with his stupid hedges.

  Cy had no idea the next thirty minutes would shake his control of Cusack. That help would come from Bianca—and at her expense. That his wife, for all her time and effort venerating Cy Leeser with help from the rich and famous, still took counsel from Dorothy Parker on most everything:

  “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  FIFTEEN MINUTES …

  After the emcee’s introduction, Cy embraced the microphone like a hungry lover. The paparazzi and three, maybe four hundred from society’s crème de la crème whooped and cheered in his honor. Savoring the moment, Leeser waited for their applause to fade. He showed the patience of a peacock on full display.

  You’d think Leeser walks on water, one of the journalists scribbled on her pad.

  No one watched more closely than Bianca, bestselling author, mother, and the hurricane force behind the festivities. She clapped among throngs of the rich and the stunning, surrounded by the usual suspects of fashion from Armani to Narciso Rodriguez.

  Cy was on display, but everyone knew Bianca owned the night. She had done the heavy lifting, the rustling of papers, and the hustling of pocketbooks. The truth was, Mrs. Cyrus Leeser no longer understood why she bothered.

  Last night Cy scoffed at Bianca. She had floated the notion of resurrecting her career as an author. “You think the world wants romance,” sneered Leeser, “from a broken-down plagiarist who hasn’t published in sixteen years?”

  Bianca’s eyes grew moist as she thought about their twins, wondering how to shield them. One of her Pilates buddies noticed the tears and handed Bianca a handkerchief. “I’m so proud of you, girl.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Bianca eyed her martini as her husband savored his fifteen minutes. Leeser extolled MoMA and the gods of Greenwich, naming people in the crowd who donated six figures in the name of good taste. He discussed the challenges of a train-wreck market, and at times, his speech vacillated between a pep rally for Hedgistan and a call to action:

  “We’re hurting. The markets are suffering this month. Some people blame us. They say hedge funds created the subprime mortgage fiasco. They say we gave birth to toxic assets.”

  To Cusack’s ear, Leeser sounded like a Sunday morning televangelist with twenty lines open and operators standing by to take calls. Fire and brimstone. Full of shit.

  “They talk about our greed. They blame us for the fall of Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers. They say we’re to blame for the financial troubles that face our country.”

  Bianca pretended to smile.

  “Well, I’m here to tell you,” Leeser roared, “it’s hedge funds that make capital markets more efficient. It’s hedge funds that rein in greed and force companies to work harder. We’re America’s watchdogs. We’re the ones that insist on quality. And we’re the reason this country is prospering.”

  The crowd hollered for Cy to continue. They nursed their cocktails and nodded their heads in agreement. They had no idea whether LeeWell Capital was making money or not. Only limited partners knew the value in their accounts, and even their knowledge was limited to the one-line statements mailed at the end of each quarter.

  “Sure, we make a few bucks,” Leeser acknowledged, “but hedge funds give back to society. And tonight, I challenge every person in this room to join me in giving more to MoMA.”

  A thunderous ovation rocked the building. Even Bianca cheered. But for all the things Leeser said that night, only one mattered. He began what sounded like a sweet tribute from husband to wife:

  “You know, there’s a good woman behind every successful man.”

  Bianca’s ears perked up and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. For a moment, she fantasized things were okay. Wives turned and nodded in her direction. Husbands flashed her the big thumbs-up.

  “We’re here tonight,” Cy continued, “because of my wife’s Herculean effort. And I want to brag about her.” Lees
er paused to sip from his scotch.

  Bianca blushed.

  “This is an election year.” Cy toasted a glass in his wife’s direction. “We all know about Joe Biden’s problems at Syracuse. And don’t forget Teddy Kennedy at Harvard. He took two years off after that little episode with his Spanish exam.”

  The crowd hushed. To a man and to a woman, they wondered where Leeser was going. Bianca shook her head, however, first to the left and then to the right. She knew. She knew exactly what to expect, and in that moment she would have traded her Heidi Weisel formal for a tortoise shell.

  “Most of you know my wife loves Dorothy Parker. Maybe too much given that Bianca never finished college. It was more of a borrow than a steal, if you ask me.”

  Cy sipped his single malt, peaking in glory. The crowd gulped their drinks, watching in disbelief. Bianca gave her martini to a passing waiter and closed her eyes, praying her husband would stop.

  “You can talk about Biden and Kennedy—the way they came back,” Leeser continued in his staccato rhythm. “Those guys have nothing on my wife, who wrote ten bestselling novels. And tonight I’m pleased to report Bianca is two credits away from earning her degree at NYU.”

  Cusack nudged Emi, who nudged Caleb. The three clapped at the word “NYU,” thinking it was the only way to salvage the dignity of a bestselling author outed for plagiarism. The crowd joined, relieved by instructions for what to do.

  When the applause stopped Leeser said, “Honey, this is for you.” He pulled out half-frame glasses and read from Dorothy Parker:

  Some men tear your heart in two.

  Some men flirt and flatter,

  Some men never look at you,

  And that clears up the matter.

  “Bianca, we’re all looking at you tonight,” Cy boomed from the podium. Raising his cocktail glass, he said, “Let’s give it up for my wife.” Cy clapped, and people joined him. But the applause was muted, troubled rather than jubilant, eyes horror-show wide throughout the room.

  Emi whispered to Cusack, “Talk about insensitive.”

  Bianca flashed a wan smile at socialites and reporters. Emi noted the tears welling in her eyes, however, and rushed to the stricken woman’s side with a quickness that defied six months. She put her arms around Bianca and used Yaz as a battering ram all the way to the ladies’ room.