The Gods of Greenwich (31 page)

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.” Leeser 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.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Cy was standing next to Victor Lee and Graham Durkin. Caleb was there, too, but he was speaking with a reporter from the
New York Post
. Cusack joined them just in time to watch a train wreck take out his biggest prospect.

Graham: “It’s not my business, Cy. But is Bianca okay?”

Cy: “Sure. Why?”

Graham: “You humiliated her.”

Cy: “I complimented her courage and grit.”

Graham: “You implied she got kicked out of college for plagiarism.”

Cy: “You’re kidding, right?”

Victor drew close and whispered into Leeser’s ear, “Maybe Nikki should check on Bianca.”

Lee’s interruption was exactly what Durkin needed. Using the band’s booming rhythm as cover, the billionaire turned Cusack away from the group. “I need to cancel our meeting.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Your boss is tone-deaf, Jimmy.”

Cusack needed to do something, say anything that would salvage tomorrow’s presentation. His biggest prospect was slipping away. When Cy discovered the cancellation, he would be pissed.

“The smartest people in my industry sometimes miss cues,” explained Cusack, measuring his words. “They get too wrapped up in the markets. And tonight Cy blew it big time. But focus is what makes people good at managing money.”

“Your boss can’t focus,” countered Graham, “until he sorts things out with his wife. You can take that to the bank.”

“I’d love to show you our shop, the trading floor, our offices in Greenwich.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Then, turning to shake Caleb’s hand, Durkin said over his shoulder, “Just make sure to get me your father-in-law’s coordinates.”

“You got it, Graham.”

“And I’ll make sure we talk family values with your brother-in-law,” Caleb added.

“You want to grab dinner with us?” Cusack asked, trying to salvage time with Durkin.

“No. I’m taking off,” the billionaire replied. “Pass on my apologies to Emi.”

“Should I get a car for you?” Jimmy asked.

“Got it covered,” Durkin replied. He turned and walked out of MoMA’s atrium.

Caleb turned to Cusack and said, “I don’t know how to thank you, after tonight, after December. This introduction may be the best thing that ever happens to my campaign. Dinner is on me when Emi gets back. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

*   *   *

The rain ended the same time as MoMA’s festivities. The freshly bathed air was invigorating. It breathed new life into Manhattan’s grime, a fine respite from the mandatory showers at the end of every day. Cool, clean, crisp—it was a perfect night to joyride with a seventy-something guy.

Rachel held the steering wheel with her right hand and fussed auburn hair with her left. She mashed down on the gas pedal, eighty, ninety, one hundred miles per hour, somewhat surprised by the car’s acceleration on the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. She looked at Conrad and laughed, her white teeth glistening and radiant underneath the overhead lights of the bridge.

Conrad looked skeletal. Like he was about to die, face ashen, his knuckles pressed hard against the dashboard. He was a bundle of nerves, every limb in his body rigid from Rachel’s driving. His Mercedes, leather trim and fully loaded, closed like a cruise missile on an eighteen-wheeler.

“Pull over,” he demanded.

“What’s wrong, lover?” she asked, slowing, slowing, slowing in the middle of the George Washington.

“Don’t stop here,” Conrad screamed, cars honking and whizzing past. “I want to drive.”

“Oh, puhlease,” she said, sounding bored, as though she drove high-performance cars every day.

“I hate your driving,” Conrad announced, too scared to measure his words, and unnerved by his wife’s absence. “I need to go home.”

“Bronxville can wait for what I have,” she replied, winking at him, ignoring the road and hurtling to within five inches of a Saab’s bumper before backing off. She weaved the fingers of her right hand through her hair.

“Would you keep your hands on the wheel?” stuttered Barnes.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, pulling off the auburn wig, throwing it toward the Hudson, shaking her blond hair free.

“I’d kill for a speeding ticket,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Where are we going?” asked Barnes.

“To the Meadowlands.”

“What for?”

“So you can check out my jets.”

Conrad loved Marge. He cursed his mistake, the big adventure with this cross between a flirt and a nutcase. Barnes had no idea Rachel would snuff his fuse in forty-five minutes.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

FRIDAY
,
SEPTEMBER
19
BENTWING AT
$32.27

Nikki walked into Leeser’s office and placed an overnight package on his desk. The sides of the envelope bowed out half an inch. The contents were not heavy. Nor were they large. They were shaped irregularly—evident from the bend in the package. Something other than paper was inside.

Cusack, sitting in front of his boss, appreciated Nikki’s interruption. Leeser had started the day in an absolute snit. He glanced at the package and thundered, “What do you mean Durkin canceled?”

“He told me last night,” replied Jimmy, calm on the surface and an angry mess inside.

“Because of what happened with Bianca?”

Suck up. Bide my time. Get the video.

“Graham still wants to meet.” Jimmy struggled to hide the white lie. “He had a fire drill back in Providence.”

Leeser’s shoulders relaxed. The storm clouds passed. “Your father-in-law won big.”

“You bet.”

“Did Caleb say anything about Bianca?”

“That she was upset,” Cusack replied.

“Caleb doesn’t blame me, does he?”

“No.”

“She drinks too much. She’s been drinking too much for sixteen years. Last night was just another example.”

“Bianca looked sober,” replied Cusack.

“Let me tell you something, Jimmy. A twelve-step program won’t work for my wife. Bianca needs twenty-four. Now get out of here and schedule a meeting with your father-in-law.”

After Cusack left, Leeser inspected the overnight package on his desk. It came from Hafnarbanki and was marked
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
. The return address showed the name Ólafur Vigfusson.

“Well, Ólafuck,” gloated Leeser, as he opened the envelope. “I’m glad you know when to capitulate.”

*   *   *

Back in his office, Cusack toiled with the time sink otherwise known as Microsoft Outlook. He answered a few e-mails but deleted most. He never called Caleb, who was in meetings all day. Instead, he considered the videotape and speculated about the risks to his father-in-law:

Will Cy threaten Caleb?

After ten minutes of withering self-flagellation, Cusack phoned his real estate broker for more of the same. “Any nibbles on the condo?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t closed a sale in three months.”

“I can’t drop the asking price.”

“I doubt it makes any difference,” Robby said.

“Thanks for the encouragement, smiley.”

Jimmy called Sydney next, his ex-assistant from Goldman Sachs and Cusack Capital. “How are you?”

“Been better,” she replied with the kind of voice that says, “You don’t want to know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Jean Bertrand’s running around with his teeth set like a stubborn mule.”

“You almost sound like him,” observed Cusack.

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” she confided. “‘Sydney, I need this.’ Or ‘Sydney, I need that.’ And when his door’s closed, he’s always, I mean always, screaming at some woman, ‘Fuck you, darling.’”

“He talks to you like that?”

“No. I’m ‘sugar.’”

“You want me to rough him up?” teased Cusack, trying to lighten her mood.

“Don’t call him,” she said, deadly serious. “He’ll take it out on me.”

“What for?”

“He’s a freak about secrets.”

“Plenty of that going around.”

“Jean Bertrand blames me for everything.”

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” said Cusack, twisting in his chair. “But has he lost any clients?”

“Not that I know of. The guy’s a world-class bullshitter. He lies about everything.”

“Bullshitters know how to survive,” Cusack observed philosophically. “Which means you have a job until we figure out what’s next.”

“I gotta go,” she announced, suddenly busy.

“Can I buy you lunch?”

“Just get me out of here.”

*   *   *

“May I come in?”

Bianca Leeser stood in Jimmy’s office doorway. She wore white cords, a blue oxford with one button open, and a battered Yankees cap. She looked different, but Cusack could not explain why.