by Adam Gittlin
“It is. For headaches—Rugby.”
“Really,” she replies with a cute giggle, “and let me guess what rugged Dutch men do for a sore throat—you gargle Tabasco.”
“Nope—but close. We swallow sand.”
More giggling.
“Nice.”
The flash drive.
I need to know what’s on it.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Julia, as I throw back the lion’s share of my remaining cocktail. “I need to look at something before I forget. I’ll only be a minute. Perhaps you can order me another?”
“You got it,” Julia says, knocking back some rosé champagne.
I jump up from the table.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I say to Cobus as I place a hand on his shoulder.
I lean in to Arnon, who is nose deep in his glass of Chianti.
“Arnon—you have your laptop handy? I need to access our cloud. There’s a piece of language in the Purchase Agreement with regard to the retail I’d like to double-check…”
The perfect excuse for Cobus’s ears to perk up, considering the discussion we’d just had. Arnon, who’s been working like a dog to get this deal handled, didn’t even look at me. He was enjoying his glass of wine too much, no doubt pondering what he was going to eat for dinner. Without a word, he handed me his coat-check ticket, his way of telling me to get his laptop from his checked briefcase.
I enter the bathroom. Big restaurants call for big restrooms. I grab a stall and close the door behind me. I sit on the toilet and boot the computer. Then I attach the flash drive.
I have no idea what to expect—but certainly not this. There’s nothing but audio files on the drive. Shit. The last thing I can do, having no idea what I’m about to hear, is let it rip in a crowded bathroom with steady traffic.
Something I saw on my way in pops into my brain. I unlock the black metal door and poke my head out. At the end of the row of sinks, by the wall, there’s an iPod with Apple earbuds wrapped around it. I walk over to the attendant, an old-timer who probably envisioned a beach sipping piña coladas for this period of his life, not wearing a tux to hand paper towels to the entitled for their dripping hands.
“Might I borrow your earphones?” I ask, gesturing to the iPod with a twenty. “I don’t even need to leave the bathroom, and I’ll only be a few minutes.”
I close the stall door again and retake my seat on the toilet. I’m hesitant about the thought of putting this guy’s earphones in my ears, but don’t have much choice. With toilet paper I do the best cleaning I can of them, then stick the proper end in the machine and the buds into my ears. The files I notice are cataloged by dates, the farthest one out only six weeks earlier. I play the first one.
“Yes, yes, of course—but that’s all irrelevant,” says a guy with an Italian accent. “The issue is not if back taxes are required, it is how much. And we’re not talking seven digits. More likely eight.”
“Eight digits as in ten million or as in ninety million?” a second voice responds.
I recognize voice number two.
Ryan Brand.
“Not ninety. But not ten. Either way, it isn’t exactly the kind of unforeseen line item that we can just absorb without serious consequences.”
“When will you know the damage?”
“We don’t know. We haven’t gotten that far yet. The full forensic process still has a couple weeks to go. After that, we’ll be given the bill.”
There’s a pause.
“Look, I understand your predicament. I do. But you need to realize we have serious financial considerations here as well,” Brand comes back. “Our portfolio has its strong points, but it also has projects such as the Waterpoint that happens to be a one-point-five-million-square-foot financial district property that’s bleeding. Lately, it seems that for every Five Eleven Madison Avenue—one of our best—there’s a Seven Fifty-Eight Third Avenue, a building I have dreams about blowing up myself. We’re all running businesses here. In every case, it’s a give and take.”
A little more banter and this call ended. I move on to the next.
“So—any word?”
“Not yet. But seems like we’ve been spending every waking second feeding them documents and records. Between appeasing them and trying to actually run a business—anyway—shouldn’t be much longer.”
Brand and the mystery Italian again.
Pretty benign conversation, until: “You know, I heard this tax thing isn’t your only current problem,” Brand says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if we’re going to do this dance, we need to be up-front with one another. There’s a way for both of us to get where we need to go here.”
“I am nothing but up-front with you, Ryan.”
“Right. So there’s nothing to the potential civil suit aimed at you swirling in your circles. That all your employees—not just in Manhattan but in your other cities as well—are looking to come at you for—”
“There won’t be any civil suit. I’d be careful of listening to everything you hear, especially when it comes to me. People love to talk, make shit up. You know that.”
“My sources seem—”
“Sources, please. Pffft. Sources, sources, please. What fucking sources? Someone like Soto? I know you two—”
“Not Soto.”
“Then who?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that—what matters, like I said, is that we work together here. And that means being honest with one another.”
Fuck.
Who’s the mystery Italian?
The next conversation is worthless. I look at my watch. It’s been about six minutes. I move to number four. Also more of nothing. Next is number five.
“They’ve completed the audit. Not pretty,” says the Italian.
“How much?” asks Brand.
“Twenty-nine million.”
Brand sighs.
“Wow.”
“Sorry, Ryan, but I don’t think I’ll be able to dance with you this go-round.”
“Now let’s just relax for a second, Enzo.”
Holy shit.
Enzo Alessi.
World-famous restaurateur.
Annex tenant.
“You can’t just bail out on—”
“It doesn’t work like that, Ryan. With all due respect, I like you. You’re a nice guy. But you don’t exactly know as much as you think you do. Especially when it comes to things like how I operate.”
“What the fuck does that mean? You realize how much I’ve been covering for you?”
“Don’t disrespect me with bullshit. You’ve been covering your own ass. If there wasn’t something you needed from all this as well, none of these conversations would even exist. We both know you need Alessi to make this new lease. We both know what this does to you if we walk while—”
“Look, Enzo, let’s just take a deep breath. There’s no need to rush right here without thinking all of this through. How long has the government given you?”
“They haven’t let us know yet. They’ll be giving us the drop-dead date at the end of the week.”
“Then let’s wait and talk then. Okay? Can you do that?”
No response.
“I need some time, Enzo. We both know your securing this lease for me is a small gesture in the big picture.”
Another pause, then: “I don’t know, Ryan. I will certainly think on all this further. But I can’t make any promises.”
“I need to unload this building, Enzo. Your lease helps me do that. Whether you plan on honoring it or not.”
Fucking fuck fuck.
What did we walk into?
Why couldn’t Green go to the police? Or to Spencer himself—someone, anyone?
Why’d he kill himself? Why’d he trust me?
I look at my watch again. I need to get back.
After dropping Arnon’s laptop back in his briefcase with the coat check, I return to my seat. As I do,
my cocktail is being set down. Cobus and Arnon are locked in conversation. Julia is in the process of taking the last sip of sparkling rosé from her flute as a fresh one is placed in front of her.
“Bread?” she asks me.
Julia leans forward and grabs a piece of focaccia. When she does, I see down her neckline at the right half of her satin and lace bra—same color as her dress—and the top half of the breast it’s holding. My eyes move back to her face. Still leaning forward, hand on the bread, her eyes are waiting for mine. They now, along with her chin, drop for a split second as she processes what must be my line of vision, then bounces back up and join me again. A faint, sexy smile comes to her lips as she quickly glances around while sitting back.
“No thanks,” I respond, picking up my fresh cocktail.
Julia sits back. She tears a piece of bread, puts it in her mouth. I’m staring deep into her eyes, but my thoughts are consumed with the phone conversations I just listened to in the bathroom. And the conversations I haven’t yet gotten to.
“What’s the story with Enzo Alessi?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what kind of place does he run? Is he really the restaurateur commoners like me read about?”
“You fancy yourself a commoner, do you?”
“I fancy myself a guy much like you—someone who likes to do his homework.”
“Is that what this is? Homework?”
“Alessi is a major tenant in a property we’re buying. You look just like the young contemporary hotshot who frequents his places. Smart, successful, cosmopolitan, ambitious.”
“Is that right?”
“Is it not?”
She tears another piece of bread, drops it on the bread plate, and opts for her flute. She tosses a sip back.
“Enzo Alessi is top of the line. You’re right—I do know the hotspots and, more importantly, the people behind them.”
“Why do the Alessis stand out? I mean, there are a number of hospitality groups with multiple locations in some of the world’s most important cities. The Alessis always seem to be at the top of the list, on the tip of everyone’s tongues. Why?”
Julia thinks for a second.
“Penthouse balance.”
Not often I’m stumped when talking business.
“Excuse me?”
“Penthouse balance,” she repeats. “Some people in life, business, whatever, are really good at making things work for themselves or others via balance. For example, a woman who juggles career, parenting, a little yoga here and there—balance. Or, take a small company that decides to sell quality clothes at reasonable prices and mix in fantastic customer service that one day becomes The Gap—balance.”
She lifts the flute to her glossed lips and lets a bit of the sparkling pink juice slide through.
“And?” I prod.
“And—likewise—the Alessis are all about balance. Only on a level that a select few get to experience—albeit a select few willing to seriously throw down for an awesome night on the town. World class, white-gloved service. The menu? Both inventive and staple dishes with only the finest ingredients. Best paper-thin, flash-fried zucchini and spaghetti Bolognese of your life. Yet often specials include aspects that have to be flown in from exotic locales around the world. Perhaps an appetizer might be reindeer pâté from Sweden or dessert is a sorbet of mangosteens from southern India. Ambiance? Borderline scientific. Uptown for the older, more established old-money sorts and power crowd you’ve got the perfect blend of dark, glossed wood surroundings, crystal chandeliers, and Old World art on the walls. Downtown, in contrast, the target is a much more chic crowd. More rustic surroundings, brighter colors, and walls adorned with cutting-edge nouveau art. The hottest music from Ipanema to Monte Carlo pumps from the speakers. As the hours grow later, the music gets stronger.”
She stops to take a sip of her drink.
“They hire you to handle their PR while I was in the bathroom?”
“Ask, and ye shall receive—Commoner.”
“You know a lot about them.”
“I’m responsible for all the leasing in the building. It’s my job to know them.”
“A brand built on catering to the upper-crust. Each phase of the game, top to bottom, they’ve got figured out,” I deduce out loud.
“The list goes on and on. Take the staff. Bartenders uptown are old-school in braces and bow ties. Downtown, the bartenders are all gigantic, rail-thin women wearing next to nothing.”
“Who handles the day-to-day?” I ask. “I mean—we’re talking about a serious operation here. They have multiple venues in this city alone, and I know the patriarch of the family has been sick for years.”
“Enzo, of course, spends a significant amount of time in Manhattan each year. Outside of Rome, New York City is their biggest presence. But you’re right, he could never handle this without an amazing team. The management both organizationally as well as with respect to each individual venue has been with the Alessi family for many years in most cases. They are a very dedicated, loyal group. Which, in my opinion, must come from how they have been treated all these years. That said, it always comes back to the same person.”
“Enzo himself.”
“Enzo himself,” Julia concurs. “It might be a decision that affects the future of the organization, it might be a color for replacing the bathroom tiles in one of the restaurants’ bathrooms. Enzo always makes the final call. Because he’s obsessed with staying on top.”
I look past Julia’s shoulder at the watch on the wrist of her neighbor.
Eight twenty-five p.m.
Two days left.
“So what was it?” Cobus asks me in the Escalade on the way back to the hotel.
I turn to him.
“What was what?”
“The language you wanted to check in the Purchase Agreement? Pertaining to the retail?”
“Ah—just wanted to confirm that the language is explicit in terms of our being able to engage a new leasing agent for the retail and not having to stay with the GlassWell leasing arm,” I explain before changing direction. “Where does Feuerbach Turm stand?”
Feuerbach Turm. The office building on Leipziger Strasse we passed on in Berlin’s central business district.
“Still looking like Gruden and Wayfield are going to land it?”
“Looks solid, I believe, even though Latham mentioned to me Vienna Shanks has come in to make a last ditch play on it. Why?”
“No reason,” I shrug. “Just found myself thinking about it tonight at dinner as some of the discussion moved to the tower tenants. The mix of firms, years remaining on the respective leases, who has what option made me compare the tenant roster to that of Feuerbach again in my head.”
I turn back to the window. Manhattan, dark made even darker by the tinted windows, glides silently by. Only streetlights and headlights pop from the black beyond the glass, like Christmas lights thrown up aimlessly in a nighttime sky.
“Until our deal is done I won’t stop comparing it to others,” I go on. “Especially, other properties with real intrinsic strength.”
“Not like you to second-guess yourself,” Cobus says.
Second-guessing? More like planting a seed.
I keep my eyes calmly where they are.
“Not second guessing. Merely doing exactly what you pay me to do. Evaluate. Constantly.”
Again, I turn to Cobus.
I remember the lessons of my father and of my mentor, Tommy Wingate.
“Until I see ink, I see nothing.”
Just after ten p.m. I enter my hotel room. I pull my MacBook Air from my briefcase, place it on the little round table glowing in the night light coming through the window, and boot it up. I sit down in one of the two chairs next to the table and insert the flash drive.
I pick it up at the next conversation. Not much to this one; more back-and-forth concerning timing updates, more stalemate conversation about putting the lease in place. The next one ge
ts more interesting.
“We’ve discussed it. Can’t happen.”
Enzo.
“Can’t or won’t? I don’t buy can’t.”
Brand.
“How much time has the government actually given you?” Brand goes on.
“Irrelevant,” Enzo responds. “We have already been having the necessary discussions about how our operation—adjusts—to this financial matter. Unfortunately, taking this space can’t work for us. It simply makes no sense. If—”
“Ah, so the plan is a little restructuring. Some fine-tuning in order to repay the U.S. government while streamlining the operation. Perhaps even scaling down a bit in the short term,” Brand cuts him off.
“Precisely.”
“So there’s nothing to a little something I heard about the Alessi family compound in Punta del Este?”
Punta del Este. Resort town. Uruguay.
“An interesting little nugget about an addition to the family mansion taking place right now? A story that includes an underground vault with stacks of cash and all sorts of interesting documents inside? It’s located on the southeast—no, wait—the southwest portion of the property if I’m not mistaken. Right by—”
“How fucking dare you!” Enzo barks.
“How fucking dare I? You blatantly rip my country off, an act that now seriously threatens the well-being of both of our firms, and how fucking dare I? How fucking dare you!”
“This is not a game you want to play, Ryan.”
“News flash, Enzo. We’re already playing. I need Alessi signing a lease for the Annex. I simply can’t take no for an answer. Very, very few tenants make sense for this space. You know that. And I need a lease in place in order to unload the property. Something my firm is counting on me to do.”
“I will slit your fucking—”
“You know, something else interesting I just learned. Turns out the word is your father, who—I truly am sorry he’s so ill—has no idea what you’ve done; what kind of trouble you’ve embroiled the company in he spent his entire life building up.”