New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The evening ended pleasantly, and one could tell the guests had enjoyed themselves. As he said good-bye to the last of them and went back into the living room to face John Vorpal, Gorham felt almost friendly toward him. There was just Vorpal—his wife had gone back to their apartment.

  “Okay, Gorham,” Vorpal said, pulling out the papers, “7B.”

  Gorham was sorry that the people in 7B were leaving, but a big job opportunity was taking them to California, so 7B was on the market. A good offer had been made. They wanted to take it. But of course, the prospective purchasers had to go before the board. Or to be precise, a committee of the board. This was the first time an apartment had been sold since Vorpal became chairman. The committee was due to meet, and then interview the applicants, that coming Wednesday. So if Vorpal wanted to talk to him now, that could only mean one thing. Trouble.

  Maggie came into the room.

  “May I join you?”

  Gorham frowned. It was he who was on the board, not her. This was an unwarranted interference. But Vorpal looked up, and smiled.

  “I wish you would.” Vorpal liked Maggie. He supposed that, as a partner in Branch & Cabell, she’d agree with him, whereas he considered Gorham to be a little unreliable. He passed her a copy of the application. “I think we may have a problem with this. Jim Bandersnatch thinks so too.”

  “Dr. Caruso?” said Maggie.

  “I think I’d better tell you that we know this man,” said Gorham. “He delivered all three of our children. We like him.”

  Vorpal’s face fell.

  “Not,” said Maggie quietly, “that Gorham would let that influence him in considering Dr. Caruso’s suitability for this building.”

  Gorham stared at her. This was a deliberate undermining of his position. He kept his temper, however. He must remain calm.

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked.

  “He lives on West End Avenue,” said Vorpal.

  “He has for years. Lots of good people live on West End.”

  “I’d have preferred Central Park West.”

  “There are some quite exclusive buildings on West End, you know.”

  “His isn’t one of them,” said Vorpal drily.

  “His references look all right. Here’s one from a trustee of Mount Sinai—those are very important people. This guy Anderson’s a big hitter.”

  “Yes. As a professional reference, excellent. But as a social reference, not so good.”

  “Why?”

  “Anderson lives in a town house. And Caruso’s other social reference comes from out of town.” Vorpal shook his head. “What we like to see is a reference from someone who lives in, and is preferably on the board of, a very good building. A building like ours. Someone who has the same fit.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m looking for clubs, Gorham, for people with a significant social presence in the city, for big charitable donations. And I don’t see them—I don’t see them at all. I don’t even see a country club. This application lacks …” he searched for a word, “substance.”

  “I could write him a reference,” said Gorham wickedly.

  Vorpal’s face suggested that, in his private estimation, that might not have been enough. But his answer was more clever.

  “I find it significant that he didn’t ask you, or one of his many patients like you, to do so.”

  “Anything else?” asked Master.

  “There is the question of money.”

  “Okay.”

  “We have always been an all-cash building, of course.”

  Many buildings allowed you to have a mortgage for half the price of your apartment. That wasn’t a bad idea. Financial stability was good. Lesser buildings might allow sixty or even seventy percent mortgages. By the time you got to ninety percent debt, you were really trash. But the top buildings, the ruthless enclaves, didn’t allow any debt at all. If you needed to borrow money to buy your apartment, then you didn’t belong. Go and take out a mortgage on your country house if that was the kind of thing you liked to do.

  “There seems to be no problem with cash. The Carusos have plenty—I happen to know that his wife inherited money some years ago. Actually, their financial disclosures look pretty good.”

  As well as the usual bank references and tax returns, the co-op demanded more than usually detailed statements of assets. Prospective buyers couldn’t fake them out. All the good co-op boards left applicants exposed when it came to their personal finances, but Vorpal and Bandersnatch wanted them totally naked.

  “Hmm. Pretty good, but maybe not good enough. As you know, Gorham, the building has always looked for a comfortable margin here. On the basic level, we want to be quite sure there won’t be any difficulty with the monthly maintenance, which for Caruso’s apartment runs six thousand a month now, or with any assessments the board may need to impose. But we like evidence of solidness. We have for a long time now required that people can prove assets of maybe two or three times the value of the apartment they’re buying.”

  “I’ve always thought that a little harsh.”

  “Well, I think, and Jim thinks, that in the current climate we can do a little better.”

  “Better?”

  “What we’re really looking for here is five times assets.”

  “You want Caruso to have twenty-five million dollars?”

  “I think we can get that.”

  “Hell, John, I don’t have twenty-five million dollars.”

  “Your family’s been here seventy years. We like that.”

  “But you want the new people to have that kind of money?”

  “Those are the kind of people we want.”

  “Do you have twenty-five million dollars, John?”

  Maggie gave him a warning look. This question was a bad idea. But Gorham wasn’t going to back down.

  “John, do you know what Groucho Marx said about clubs? ‘I don’t want to belong to a club that takes people like me.’ Are you sure we’re not straying into Groucho Marx territory here?”

  “Other buildings are the same, Gorham. You’re out of date. There’s at least one building on this avenue that insists on ten times assets.”

  “You mean, you’d need fifty million dollars before they let you in?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. You should know that, Gorham.”

  Gorham said nothing. Actually, he did have some idea how things were going, though in fact he’d heard a story the other day of a grand building where things had gone the other way. Some twenty-five-year-old whiz kid from Wall Street had applied to a building and stated his newly earned assets. The chairman of the board was so furious that the kid was already so much richer than he was, that he turned him down. When asked why, he answered: “We’re looking for old money here.”

  But he didn’t remind Vorpal of that story.

  “I hear what you say, John, and I’ll think hard about it.”

  “I hope you will.” Vorpal turned to Maggie. “Thank you for a lovely meal.” And he was gone.

  “I want Caruso in this building,” Gorham said to Maggie.

  Her face was a mask. “I’m not sure it can be done.”

  “Aside from Vorpal and Bandersnatch, there are two more members of the committee. I’ll get to them.”

  “So will he.”

  “Thank you,” he said drily, “for your support.” And he turned away from her without another word.

  Early the next morning, he went up to the house in North Salem. The fencing needed fixing, to keep out the deer. He didn’t return until evening.

  The Towers

  September 10, 2001

  MAGGIE LEFT THE apartment early on Monday morning. Gorham stayed long enough to see the kids leave for the school bus. He was just about to go himself when Katie Keller came up the service elevator to the kitchen door with one of her crew. After a weekend dinner, she usually preferred to swing by first thing on Monday to pick up the containers and trays she’d left neatly stacked in one cor
ner of the kitchen.

  “Any big parties coming up?” he asked.

  “Better than that, maybe,” she said. “There’s a company talking about a contract for a bunch of corporate entertaining—that could make a huge difference if I get it. I’m going to see them early tomorrow morning. They have offices downtown, in the Financial District.”

  “That’s great. Good luck,” he said.

  Then he went to his office. He had a busy day ahead of him.

  During the day on Sunday, he’d managed to speak to one of the other committee members about Dr. Caruso and had stressed to him that Caruso was a distinguished man. Not rich, admittedly, but financially solid, totally respectable. “Maggie and I have known him for nearly twenty years.” A slight exaggeration. As soon as he got to his office, he tracked down the other member who promised: “We’ll see him.”

  That at least was something. But he wondered whether to let Caruso know that there could be a problem. It might be a kindness. But there was probably no need. Vorpal would already have let the current owners of 7B know that he wasn’t happy, and the realtor too, in the hope that he could kill the deal in advance. Better leave it alone. The business still offended him though.

  The call from the headhunter came through at ten thirty. It only took a couple of minutes, and after it was over, Gorham canceled his midday meeting and told his assistant that he’d be out for lunch. Then, in some excitement, he closed the door of his office, and sat staring out of the window.

  At 12:20, he left the office and took a taxi downtown. He did not get back until three in the afternoon.

  It was four o’clock when he remembered the old lady. He silently cursed himself for promising to call her that day, but a promise was a promise, and besides, the days ahead were likely to be so filled that he’d better get his business with her over as soon as possible. He called the number of the gallery.

  She sounded delighted to hear from him. “I was afraid you would forget to call.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I have something for you. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he told her. The interruption from the headhunter had left him with a backlog of work to clear. She sounded disappointed.

  “I had a call from my daughter today. She needs me to come and help her later this week, and then I’m on holiday with my husband. I always believe in doing things at once, so that they don’t get forgotten. Don’t you agree?”

  He thought wryly of the thirty-three years that he had now been holding on to the Motherwell drawing for her.

  “I certainly do,” he said.

  “Do you get up early?” she asked.

  “Quite often.”

  “I have a meeting tomorrow morning,” she said. “But we could have an early breakfast, if you like.”

  “I have an eight thirty meeting myself, I’m afraid.”

  “Perfect—that’s when my meeting is, too. Shall we say seven? They serve breakfast from seven at the Regency on Park. That’s not far from your apartment, is it?”

  He didn’t know what to say. A woman in her seventies was hustling him into a breakfast at some ungodly hour, and she’d already cornered him. He could see how she ran her gallery.

  “That would be fine,” he heard himself saying.

  He worked until six thirty, then gave Maggie a call to find out what time she’d be home. She said seven fifteen.

  “After supper,” he told her, “I need to talk to you alone.”

  “Oh?” She sounded tense. “What about?”

  “Business,” he said. “I can’t tell you over the phone. Something’s come up.”

  They ate with the children as usual and got them started on their homework. It was nine o’clock before they went into the bedroom and closed the door. Maggie was watching him cautiously, her face set.

  “Okay,” he said, “I got a call from a headhunter I know today. I went downtown to see him at lunchtime. There’s a chance I could be offered a job.”

  “What sort of job?” She wasn’t giving anything away.

  “As COO of a bank, actually. A smaller bank, of course. But they have a very attractive package to offer me. Effectively, they’d buy me out of my bank, and offer me a very attractive performance-related contract. It could be worth quite a lot of money.” He paused. The idea is that in three or four years I would take over as CEO. They think I have the experience to build it up into a much more significant operation. From what I’ve learned, I think they’re right.”

  But she’d already seen where this was going.

  “Where’s the bank?”

  “Boston. I’d commute weekly. It could work.”

  “So we’d see you at weekends.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’d be here weekends.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I’d rather it was here in New York, obviously. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. Professionally, this is what I’ve always wanted.”

  “But you have three children who need you. Are you really going to walk out on them, on me?”

  “That is totally unfair. I wouldn’t want to walk out on them, on you, and this would not be doing so.”

  “Maybe not in theory, not in your own mind as you see things now. But in practice that is exactly what you would be doing.”

  “It’s not ‘as I see things,’ Maggie. There’s no need to patronize me.”

  “Okay, I won’t patronize you. If this was absolutely necessary, if this was the only way you could make a living to support us, that would be different. But it is totally unnecessary. We’re fine as we are, and yet you are planning to walk out on your wife and family.”

  “I’m not fine as I am, Maggie. I have the chance to run a bank.”

  It was too much. She lost her temper.

  “Big deal, Gorham. Great for your ego. Whether you would be so happy doing it is another matter. I’m not sure you actually like being a banker, if you really want to know.”

  “You mean I’m not that good at it.”

  “I guess you’re okay at it.” She was stepping into dangerous territory—she had to know that—but she was angry now. “I think you just have a vision of yourself as a banker. That isn’t quite the same thing.”

  “Well, tomorrow morning I have a meeting down at the World Trade Center—that’s where the headhunter’s office is—with the chairman of the bank. If that goes well, and we sense a good fit, I’ll be going up to Boston to meet a few more people early next week. And if I think it’s a good idea to take that job, then that’s what I’ll be doing.”

  “And I’ll also be considering what I’m going to do, Gorham. Because I think you may be putting just a little more strain on this marriage than it can bear. Maybe you’d like to think about that, too.”

  “You want to wreck our marriage? You want to do that to the children?”

  “That’s out of order.”

  “Is it? I wonder, Maggie. You’ve got the career and the lifestyle and the kids. Maybe you don’t really need a husband now. You can take my place on the board of the building with John Vorpal, and live happily ever after.”

  “Spare me the more pathetic aspects of your midlife crisis.”

  “You know what, Maggie? You’re right. You’re always right. You are the perfect Branch & Cabell lawyer who always knows best. Maybe I should just enjoy my midlife crisis by myself. You never know, having a midlife crisis might even be something I have a real talent for. Perhaps it will make me a pile of money.”

  “I think this conversation should end.”

  “There we can agree.”

  Tuesday began as a clear, bright September day. Dr. Caruso left his apartment on West End Avenue early.

  He’d heard that there might be trouble with the board at Park Avenue, and was a little hurt. “Is it because I have an Italian name?” he’d asked the realtor. The memories of his childhood were still quite keen.


  “Absolutely not,” she assured him. “They might have liked more social references, but there’s a money issue, too. The new board chairman wants richer people.”

  Well, if that was all, Caruso wasn’t too dismayed. At least, not for himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have his wife humiliated and embarrassed, though. He’d thought of speaking to the Masters about it, but he didn’t want to put them in an awkward position.

  “I think we should go to the interview,” he said to his wife. “I’ll ask them what it is they want, and if they don’t like us then fine, I shall tell them straight out that we don’t want to be in the building. Politely of course. But I’m not going to take any crap from them.”

  He felt better after he said that.

  Anyway, this morning he had a meeting scheduled with his insurance agent. There was an old term policy that the agent had been bugging him for years to convert. Finally he’d agreed to do it. Term policies were cheaper when you started, but the guy was right, they got expensive as time went on. He had an early meeting arranged so that he could still get back uptown to his surgery at the usual time.

  It was a fine day. The insurance offices were quite a way up the World Trade Center’s South Tower. The view from up there would be spectacular.

  Katie Keller was quietly confident. You had to admit, her presentation book was fantastic. Maybe some of Theodore Keller’s artistic genes had found their way down to her. Pictures of dinner parties and banquets, corporate lunches and buffets, beautifully displayed with menus and letters of thanks. She even had a shot showing a well-known financier giving a presentation with a table of her refreshments discreetly visible to one side.

  She had photographs of the various teams, including one corporate lunch where she’d had to provide a dozen waiters and waitresses—actually the cast of an Off-Broadway musical. That had been a blast. And there were shots of her kitchen, looking almost unbelievably metallic. Okay, some of that was faked.

  Oh, and the flower arrangements were also fantastic.

  She had price lists, and bar charts, and a graph showing how her costs were rising just under those of the prevailing competition. The corporate accounts loved that kind of thing.