The Gods of Greenwich

by Norb Vonnegut

  “Greek olives?”

  Shannon held up Cusack’s pen. “I found it at Nikki’s desk.”

  “Thanks,” Jimmy replied, sounding happy.

  The big man said nothing. Mack face. Cold eyes. No smile. Shannon’s callous expression reminded Cusack what he already knew. Digging Cy’s computer out of Nikki’s files would not be easy. The head of security was there every step of the way.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  LEEWELL CAPITAL AFTER DARK …

  A flicker of light, the distant bang of a backfire, and even the passage of time all contribute to the basic problem of breaking and entering. Every change, no matter what or how minute, drills the senses like a do-it-yourself root canal. It is impossible to escape the anticipation of getting caught, especially when you have no practice rummaging through locked files and fishing out a video with your sad-sack puss mushed against four naked lap dancers from the Foxy Lady.

  * * *

  Cusack shifted uncomfortably on his Aeron chair. He pretended to answer e-mails. He pretended like he gave a damn the market lost nineteen points today. He had been pretending for the last hour. The waiting, the vigilance, and the erring on the side of caution were all wearing thin. He was sick of pretending.

  LeeWell Capital was far from silent, even at 8:20 P.M. on a Wednesday night. There were fifteen flat-screen televisions, each one ranging from forty to fifty-two inches, all tuned to the talking heads. CNBC and Fox Business were still dissecting the day’s trades, still warring over airwaves to win the hearts and minds of investors everywhere. And no one, no one, was there to listen.

  No one except Cusack.

  Nikki had been the last person to leave. That was forty minutes ago. Cusack stood and began walking through LeeWell. He peeked inside every office. He inspected the kitchen and found the screaming eagle atop the cappuccino maker right where it belonged. He checked the pool room. He even inspected the sauna to ensure the coast was clear.

  Cusack eyed Nikki’s filing cabinets, each with three drawers. He pulled out the three keys from Greenwich Hardware and unlocked the first file. Pushing the meticulous folders left and right and checking over his shoulder all the while, he probed for the Mac laptop with the Foxy Lady video. No luck.

  He rifled the second file, showering each drawer with alpha waves as though the power of positive thinking would lead him to the Holy Grail. Nikki kept a few extra pairs of shoes and an unopened pair of stockings in one drawer, the only clutter among the otherwise pristine organization. But no computer, nothing.

  The Mac was not in the third filing cabinet, either. Cusack cursed his luck and stared blankly at the green hanging files, one after another. Each one packed with fat sheaves of paper. Soon, Nikki would need another lateral file just to hold all the papers. Cusack closed the drawer and stared at the keys.

  What a waste.

  His sprint to the hardware store was a bust. So were the pizzas. The Foxy Lady video was still out there, still likely to surface at the most inopportune time. That’s when an image triggered in his brain. Something inside the last file. Something he saw.

  Cusack opened the last drawer and inspected the contents. There were a total of eight sections, approximately six inches each. Every section contained records for one person. And there it was. There was the connection that sparked a second look.

  “Barnes, Conrad” was the first file tab.

  Cy Leeser was helping a widow with her husband’s estate. But last week, he had dismissed the importance of the business relationship. “Barnes and I had business dealings from time to time.”

  Six inches of carefully labeled paperwork felt like more than “business dealings from time to time.” For the moment, Cusack forgot all about a Mac laptop and the ambient sounds from the after hours. His curiosity took over.

  * * *

  Jimmy scanned seven other names in the drawer. Conrad Barnes was the only one he recognized. All eight names contained the same three tabs: UNDERWRITING; PURCHASE AND SALE; and CERTIFICATES. Nikki had arranged her files with perfectionist care, labels typed, consistent divisions for each person.

  “Underwriting” conjured up investment banking transactions. So did “Purchase and Sale.” Cusack peered at the drawer for what seemed a month of Sundays. And then he understood.

  Or at least he had a hunch. He was staring at the secret sauce. He was staring at answers that had eluded him ever since day one at LeeWell Capital, ever since he gagged on the 30 percent concentration in Bentwing Energy. Cy’s fanatic secrecy, his indifference to Qatari shorts and his strange preoccupation with Caleb Phelps—it was all there in front of him. Why some creep was stalking his wife. Why Leeser was holding him hostage with video clips, not to mention an overleveraged condo in the Meatpacking District. Why Shannon was a dick. Maybe Victor, too. Why Leeser had lied about Night of the Living Dead Heads. And why some cloak-and-dagger Samaritan named “Daryle Lamonica” was warning him to get the hell out of Dodge and “beware the Greek.”

  Cy Leeser, Jimmy decided, hedged risk through private deals. He solved the age-old problem of stock tickers, which reported bad decisions with the cold consistency of Chinese drip torture that repeats, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” every second, every trade. Private deals were less transparent and took more time to value. At last there were answers, all wrapped up in tidy files courtesy of Nikki.

  Cusack found a pad in Nikki’s middle desk drawer. He scribbled down seven names—he knew Conrad Barnes by heart—and made a mental note to Google them later. His watch read 9:10 P.M.

  Jimmy reached for Conrad’s Underwriting file. But he heard a muffled noise. Or was it his imagination, fear wrapping his senses like an octopus handshake?

  Cusack yanked six inches of paperwork from the middle of the drawer and closed it. He never checked the name. Anyone would do, anyone other than Conrad Barnes. Leeser might dig through the records any day to help the widow.

  First one key. Then another. The last one. Jimmy locked all three lateral files. The rustling grew louder. The noise was real.

  Cusack grabbed his list of seven names. He double-checked Nikki’s desk one more time. No way he’d repeat his earlier mistake with the pen. He scooted across the hall into his office and dropped the six inches of paper underneath the desk. He grabbed his briefcase and turned to his door.

  Cleaning crew?

  Not a chance. Jimmy Cusack glanced up to find his worst nightmare. Shannon. The big man closed fast, his eyes blazing, his perma-scowl angry and contentious. Cusack braced for the long-simmering confrontation.

  * * *

  “We gotta talk, Kemosabe.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Have you been watching CNBC? I about strangled on my heart today.”

  “You can’t watch the market. It’ll drive you nuts.”

  “But, Kemosabe,” Rachel persisted, “this reminds me of when Daddy told me Santa got killed in the war.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  * * *

  Shannon thundered across the floor. He screeched to a stop, blocking Cusack’s exit from the office. The big man’s bald head, brighter than the chrome bumper of any eighteen-wheeler, gleamed under fluorescent lights that showered fatigue from the long day. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Going home.” Cusack smiled crookedly. He yawned, struggling to stay calm, and stepped around Shannon.

  The big man shifted and blocked Cusack’s path. Old-school intimidation.

  “Is there a problem here?” Jimmy demanded.

  “Security is twenty-four/seven,” Shannon announced, cocky and self-important with drill-sergeant swagger, like he was smelling his own musk.

  “So is prospecting. But for the record, I feel safer knowing you have an eye on things.”

  “You got a smart mouth, rich boy.” Shannon stepped closer, violating Cusack’s body space, inviting him to push his way through. Any closer, and it was a rugby scrum.

  “Why don’t you join me for a beer and
a crash course in personality?” Cusack taunted, smiling crookedly, not flinching, not backing off.

  Shannon did not advance. Or give any ground. “What were you doing at Nikki’s desk today?”

  “Buying pizza for the office. You got a problem with that?”

  “What were you doing at Nikki’s desk tonight?”

  “Walking past it. You got a problem with that?”

  “Let me clue—”

  “No, Shannon. Shut up and follow me.” Cusack turned and stormed back to his office. He dumped the entire contents of his briefcase, satchel construction, onto his desk. From the corner of his eye, Cusack saw that the six-inch file had slid into view underneath his desk chair.

  “Knock yourself out,” boomed Cusack, pulling his bottom desk drawer wide open for effect, “so I can do my job.” The file drawer obscured Shannon’s view of the paperwork and the all-caps label that read HENRIETTA HEDGECOCK. Cusack swept his arm, big-time flourish inviting the head of security to poke around.

  “You finished?”

  “No. I’m just getting started. And I wish you’d leave my family and me the fuck alone. I don’t care about Cy’s trade secrets.”

  Shannon blinked. His scowl faded, and his face turned sly. He picked up the list of seven names Cusack had scribbled. “Who are these people?”

  “Prospects,” Cusack snapped.

  “You always take notes on Nikki’s stationery?”

  Shannon smiled wide, not friendly, but a gap-toothed semi-gloat. He held out the letterhead like a banner. It read, From Nikki’s desk.

  “You know Nikki. She’s always there with a piece of paper when I have a moment of brilliance.”

  “Not much action there, Cusack.”

  “Nice shot. Why don’t you inspect my office and make sure all your bugs are working, so I can go home.”

  “Pack your bag, rich boy.”

  Cusack loaded the sprawl from his desk back into his briefcase. He left his file drawer open. “You need anything else before I go?”

  “Just doing my job,” returned Shannon.

  “Whatever.”

  “By the way,” Shannon added, “you might consider what to tell the boss.”

  “That I’m staying late and busting my ass to bring in dollars.”

  “I hope he buys it,” Shannon said, doubting, shaking his head from left to right. “He knows you’ve been looking through office files.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “See that dome?”

  Cusack eyed a reddish dome on the ceiling. He’d thought the fixture was a smoke detector. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he suddenly grasped the big man’s meaning.

  “Say cheese, Cusack. That’s our eye in the sky. Cy has a new video for his collection.”

  “An empty office makes for riveting footage,” Jimmy bluffed.

  “Hah.” Shannon sneered. “First porn, now Cy has you stealing trade secrets.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 2

  BENTWING AT $26.80

  Siggi leaned over and clinked glasses with Ólafur. They were sitting on Icelandair 613, destination JFK Airport. The two men drank Diet Coke as they waited to take off for New York City.

  The gallery owner had long dreamed of a big score, a sure thing. Now it was within reach. And it would make him richer than he ever thought possible, though not so rich as Ólafur once thought. Those long bleak days from childhood, Siggi and Ólafur mending torn fishing nets for their fathers, were fading from memory.

  Siggi drifted back to the Nordic chic bar inside Hverfisgata’s 101 Hotel, the place that made this windfall possible, the place where Icelandair 613 really originated. He wondered what Cy Leeser and his friends were thinking the night they all met in Reykjavik. But the moment passed.

  “You packed everything, Ólafur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Black tennis shoes, black workout clothes, and dark sunglasses. Your suits won’t do any good where we’re going.”

  “Everything’s in my carry-on bag,” Ólafur confirmed.

  “Get some sleep on the plane. I’ve arranged for the truck to meet us at the airport.”

  “Are you sure I can’t return to Iceland with you?” The banker looked at Siggi hopefully, as though asking for permission.

  “With your legal problems? I think it’s best for you to wait until things cool off.”

  “Okay,” Ólafur agreed, his bluster long gone.

  “Good. Not another peep, cousin, until we reach Greenwich.”

  * * *

  Eight A.M. Cusack’s eyes burned bright red from tossing and turning all night. His sandy hair resembled a plate of spaghetti. News stories scrolled across his thirty-inch LCD screen, promising another grim day for investors. And here he was, ready to walk the plank.

  Leeser would arrive soon. He would check his e-mails or voice mails and find the inevitable report from Shannon. That’s all it would take, Cusack imagined, for war to erupt inside LeeWell Capital.

  Cy: “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Cy: “You owe me three million bucks.”

  Cy: “Breaking news on Caleb Phelps. Porn star son-in-law accused of stealing trade secrets. Film at eleven.”

  Cusack could not return the stack of paperwork under his desk. Not with Nikki sitting at her workstation. And what difference did it make? Leeser possessed a second video—the head of sales snooping through filing cabinets and stealing trade secrets.

  Nikki was so organized, so methodical. Cusack assumed Henrietta Hedgecock’s paperwork was a template, more or less, for the files of all eight people and the secret sauce. It was also evidence, all the excuse Cy needed to fire his ass. Maybe even sue.

  Jimmy checked his office door. Nobody was looking, not yet anyway, not that he cared. It was the principle. Curiosity about the secret had consumed Cusack since April. And even though his short stint at LeeWell Capital was screeching to an end—any minute now—there were answers at his fingertips. Cusack needed to know.

  He pulled out the folder marked CERTIFICATES. The paperwork contained the usual collection of sedatives made from tree pulp: notarized signatures, instructions for where to deliver documents, and a note from some company named Wealth Solutions LLC based near Times Square.

  Underneath the note, Cusack found a death certificate for Henrietta Hedgecock. Again, the details were cold and clinical.

  Manner of Death: Accidental drowning.

  Surviving Spouse: None.

  Medical Examiner/Coroner: Peter von Maur had signed the death certificate.

  Cusack grabbed the Purchase and Sale file and found more mind-numbing documents—purchase price, schedule of payments from LeeWell Capital, and wire instructions. He leafed through the stack of papers, his eyes darting to the door every so often. He hoped to answer one question:

  What are we buying?

  When Cusack picked up the Underwriting folder, he found his answer. It was not what he expected. Nor did it make any sense. Jimmy dialed the one person he never expected to ask for help.

  * * *

  “Phelps here.”

  There was a time when Jimmy Cusack hated his father-in-law’s voice. After the December ambush, Jimmy carped to Emi, “Your father sounds like a flat EKG.”

  Not now. Not since the night at MoMA. Not since Emi Cusack brokered a peace with her mother’s support. Those two words, “Phelps here,” boomed sweeter than Roy Orbison.

  “I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong, James? You sound like hell.”

  “Up late.” Cusack glanced at Henrietta Hedgecock’s file. “What do you know about life settlements?”

  “It’s an evolving industry.”

  “What do you mean?” Cusack checked the door.

  “‘Life settlements’ are when owners sell life insurance policies—ones already in place—to third parties. Usually to people they don’t know. The practice gained notoriety in the 1980s with AIDS patients, who needed cash to pay the
high cost of medical care.”

  “Viaticals.”

  “Right,” Caleb acknowledged. “Treatment for AIDS has improved, and the terminally ill aren’t much of a market these days. But the practice of selling life insurance policies—from owners to people they don’t know—caught on. And life settlements are flourishing.”

  “Who sells the policies?”

  “Anybody who needs cash.”

  “But insurance policies have cash values,” continued Cusack. “Why not withdraw the money and keep the life insurance?”

  “When people reach their seventies,” Caleb explained, “it’s possible to sell existing policies for more than their cash value.”

  “Got it.”

  “Sometimes families buy more insurance than they need,” Phelps continued. “Rather than allowing policies to expire worthless, brokers arrange sales on behalf of their clients. Larry King sold two or three policies with death benefits totaling fifteen million.”

  “Why would he sell them?”

  “Nobody turns down free money, James. Not even Larry King.”

  “Who buys life settlements?” asked Cusack.

  “Hedge funds. Warren Buffett. Anybody who wants a return.”

  “Are you in that business?”

  “We originate more life insurance in New England,” Caleb replied, “than our three biggest competitors combined. But I won’t sell insurance on my life to people I don’t know. And I won’t do it for clients.”

  “Question,” said Cusack, checking the door again for Leeser, “do hedge funds invest in life settlements to protect their downside?”

  “It’s insurance, not alchemy. You can lose money.”

  “How?” objected Cusack. “Everybody dies, right?”

  “If somebody lives too long, you might pay more for the policy than what you get in death benefits. First, there’s the down payment for the policy. Then, there are the annual premiums that can go on and on.”

  “Oh, of course.” Cusack flipped through the Certificates folder. “And the average life expectancy is what, eighty-six?”