The Gods of Greenwich (7 page)

“Cy’s personal assistant,” she answered while dialing.

Behind the receptionist was a large black-and-white photo, two men shaking hands and hamming for the camera. Jimmy identified Leeser at once. Everyone on Wall Street recognized the long-haired hedge fund manager, who resembled a forty-something Tommy Lee Jones. But Cusack had never seen the other man—bald, blubbery, and bespectacled.

“Who’s in the photo with Mr. Leeser?” he asked after the receptionist clicked off the phone.

“Byron Stockwell. He cofounded our firm.”

“Of course.”

“Hey, and here’s a little hint,” the receptionist added. “Lose the Leeser.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Cy around the office.”

“Gotcha. And thanks, Amanda.”

At that instant a tall African-American man, military bearing and Ranger eyes, stepped through a glass door to the right of the receptionist. He surveyed Cusack, inspected the two-star pin on his lapel, and stuck out an enormous hand.

“I’m Shannon.”

At six foot four and 240 pounds, the big black man looked three parts human and one part Mack truck. His deep voice blared like the bass horn of an eighteen-wheeler. The wide gap between his front teeth resembled an ornate grille. And his clean-shaven head gleamed brighter than any chrome bumper ever produced in Detroit.

“I’m Jimmy Cusack.”

“I can see that. I’ll get Nikki.” With that the big man turned and disappeared into the inner sanctum of LeeWell Capital.

I can see that?

Cusack turned back to the receptionist. “Who’s Nikki?”

“Cy’s secretary.”

“I thought Shannon—”

“No,” she explained, “Cy’s ‘personal assistant,’ as in driver and bodyguard.”

“It’s okay,” Cusack teased. “I’m not packing.” He was still trying to connect with the receptionist.

“Don’t mind Shannon. It’s his job to check everybody out. And he’s a teddy bear once you know him.”

The glass door opened again. A short woman, no more than five foot two, with bobbed black hair, extended her hand and said, “I’m Nikki. Thanks for meeting on such short notice.” She appeared to be in her early thirties, spoke with a voice raspy from phones or Thursday-night cosmopolitans, and wore a diamond chip in her nose.

The small stud glimmered ever so discreetly under the fluorescent lights of LeeWell Capital. It almost looked elegant paired with Nikki’s trim black suit. But the jewelry was the last thing he expected to see on any CEO’s secretary—even here deep inside Hedgistan.

“I’m glad to be here, Nikki.”

“Cy has back-to-back meetings through the end of the month,” she explained. “It was either today or late May. As it was, he canceled on his architect to speak with you.”

“How long do we have?” asked Jimmy.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” she said. “Cy wants to see you right away.”

*   *   *

Gut reaction: LeeWell Capital confused Cusack as he trailed after Nikki. He liked the photo tribute to Cy’s cofounder as well as the receptionist’s hints about a casual work environment. He appreciated Nikki’s nose stud, a personal statement that would never survive inside most of the starched-collar corridors of finance.

The chill temperature and the iceberg-sized bodyguard—they were another matter. It was like the corporate yin and yang lacked equilibrium. Cusack puzzled over what to expect during the next fifteen minutes.

Cy’s office opened yet another world. There was no sports memorabilia. There were no photos of family, save for one absolute ripper on the desk. Two tanned and tousle-haired twins, three, maybe four years old at the most, screamed little-girl happy in the mother of all Kodak moments. There were four LCD panels on a credenza behind Leeser’s desk, but the room hardly looked like an office.

Paintings and line drawings, dozens, maybe even hundreds, overwhelmed the walls. This was not the office of a money Mensa who made snap decisions, buying and selling complex securities at mind-numbing speed. It was an art museum, a curator’s whimsy, a vast expanse of portraits and landscapes fighting abstracts for space anywhere.

Cusack could not differentiate between expressionism and impressionism. But judging from the sheer number of works, he thought every “ism” in the history of Western civilization might be present. He assumed any one of the pieces would satisfy his $17,507.19 mortgage payment every month, probably with cash in return.

Jimmy had read the press about Cyrus Leeser: tough kid from Hell’s Kitchen, now a regular at Sotheby’s auctions. The art community respected Leeser’s knack for recognizing and identifying new talent. Hedgistan admired the way he made money. Cusack wished he had taken art history, even one course, anything to bridge the worlds of finance and taste. Instead, he had focused on math and economics and saved English literature courses for the occasional treat.

“I’m Cy,” Leeser said, extending his hand.

“Jimmy Cusack.”

The two men appraised each other in person for the first time. Jimmy reminded Cy of the Irish Catholics from his old neighborhood, except that Mickey and the other guys never worked in finance. They were either dead or stamping license plates inside prisons.

Cusack had no idea how to interpret Leeser’s magnetic smile. He expected a test. Cy would look for an Achilles’ heel, a crack in self-confidence, anything to determine how Jimmy handled pressure. He expected Cy to zero in on the little fiasco known as Cusack Capital.

*   *   *

“Ginger or Mary Ann?”

“Excuse me?” asked Cusack as he sank into a cappuccino-colored guest chair. The leather seat, supple with the worn patina of old money, eased under his weight. He forgot all about the temperature set to sixty-six.

“You heard. Ginger or Mary Ann?”

“Mary Ann.” Cusack wondered if Leeser expected something more cerebral.

“I’m a Ginger man,” laughed Cy. “And there’s nothing deep about
Gilligan’s Island.
”

Cusack smiled, so wide and winning that deep creases replaced all the crookedness around his lips. “I expected you to go the quant-terror route on me.”

“That shit puts people on edge,” Leeser said. “You don’t get inside their heads.”

“I like your art,” Cusack ventured, warming to Leeser and taking charge of the interview. That was the other advice inside all the how-to books: control the discussion.

“Are you a collector?”

“No. But I know you command great respect in the art world.”

“Stevie Cohen is the one who commands respect,” replied Cy. “I’d give anything for his Edvard Munch.” Leeser spoke with the unmistakable inflection of New York’s streets, a staccato rhythm like double-punching a speed bag. “Anything catch your eye?”

“Your daughters are beautiful.” Cusack pointed to the photo of the twin four-year-olds.

“That’s how I think of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re teenagers now, but they’ll always be my little girls.”

He’d pass Emi’s smell test.

“So, Jimmy,” Leeser began, “why’d you go to Columbia instead of Harvard?”

“Because the People’s Republic of Cambridge is seven square miles surrounded by reality. At least, that’s what we believe in Somerville.”

“I like that,” said Leeser. “Tell me about your hedge fund.”

Cusack shifted uncomfortably, and his heart beat faster.

“But before you answer, Jimmy, let’s put one thing on the table.”

“Okay?”

“I almost blew up in 2000. The experience consumed me, and I bet it’s consuming you.”

“The fast track was a crowded trade at Goldman,” replied Cusack, selling and spinning, hiding from personal revelations. “I founded my company to break from the pack.”

He knew the real answer. The ghost of Cusack Capital was eating him every minute of every day. But playing it safe would have haunted his thoughts forever. Cusack could almost hear his dad, the way Liam described plumbing. “I run my own business, Jimmy. You should do the same. It’s not whether you win or lose. It’s whether you go for it.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Cusack continued with Leeser. “Goldman is the Parris Island of finance. Great training.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Cy leaned back in his chair, hands behind his long black hair, unimpressed by the boot camp analogy. “What buried your fund?”

“Bank investments. I was down thirty percent, when my investors bailed.”

“Our shop is good at one thing.” Leeser’s bloodless smile would send competitors reaching for their necks. “That’s making money. I hire people who can’t
afford
to lose.”

Leaning forward, Cusack replied, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you reboot?”

“What do you mean?”

“Start over. John Meriwether blew up at Long-Term Capital.”

“Now he’s managing three billion down the road from here,” Jimmy acknowledged.

“Where else can you lose four billion and stick the landing?” whooped Leeser.

“Deep pockets help.”

“How much did you lose, Jimmy?”

“About sixty million. That’s why I can’t afford to lose.”

Especially when my father-in-law was the lead investor.

*   *   *

It was Caleb Digby Phelps III. And it was Caleb, not Cal. In the tradition of Phelps men, Caleb attended Harvard and joined the Porcellian—an exclusive club of Y chromosomes where the members blackballed Franklin D. Roosevelt years earlier. It was there, knee deep among the elite and the effete, that Caleb honed the savage business instincts of a Grim Reaper-in-law.

According to urban legend, “Porkers” took up collections for club members who had not amassed one million dollars by age forty. Caleb never needed the help. And not because he inherited a dusty fortune dating back to the family’s rum-running days during the 1700s. He was a business animal.

Caleb multiplied his trust at least ten times. He bought a nothing-special insurance business and injected new life. Phelps Financial was New England’s largest insurance agency, a cash cow that funded real estate investments. The family owned properties throughout downtown Boston, including several harbor sites bordering the New England Aquarium. Caleb’s losses at Cusack Capital, while significant, were modest relative to the family’s holdings.

*   *   *

“Why should I hire you?” Cy peered at Jimmy and waited for an answer.

It was the movie scene where Hollywood cops scream, “Take the shot!” It was the moment Cusack had rehearsed a thousand times in front of a mirror and during other interviews.

“Because nobody like me will ever walk through your front door, Cy.”

Leeser cocked an eyebrow and stared at Cusack. He waited and said nothing, but his body language spoke volumes. “This better be good.”

Take the shot.

“Because this market is about to flush itself. There will be chaos, Cy. And while others are sucking their thumbs and hiding behind spreadsheets, I’ll already have a plan. Because my bank investments buried me. And that will never happen again. Never. I can see the warning signs now, and frankly, I don’t like what’s on the horizon. Because I’ll turn the lights on every morning and turn them off every night, and there’s only one thing on my mind while I’m breathing. That’s making money. Because the hedge funds that survive are coming out stronger and tougher on the other side, and they’re taking market share. Mark my words. There won’t be a bank big enough to hold all their cash. Because I want to get rich. And if I increase your net worth ten times, it’ll be the happiest day of my life, assuming a few shekels drop on my lap. Because I’ll do what it takes.”

“You mean that?”

“Every word.” Cusack projected the unwavering cool of an old pro. It was his turn to wait.

Cy gave no hint what he was thinking. His face was inscrutable: coal emotionless eyes, rutted brow, no smile and no frown. “What do you know about the way we invest?”

“Not much.”

“Good—”

“You focus,” Cusack continued, surprising Leeser, “on companies worth less than two billion. Public filings show you own a huge chunk in Bentwing Energy, where you sit on the board and are something of an activist.”

“What do you think about Bentwing?”

“Some estimates say the world will run out of oil in forty years,” replied Cusack. “What’s not to like about alternative energy?”

“Keep going.”

“I doubt you borrow much money.”

“Why’s that?” asked Leeser.

“Because it’s too risky, and your returns are too consistent.”

Leeser’s eyes glimmered for the first time. “You’ve done your homework for a guy we called two hours ago.”

“I keep my ear close to the ground.”

“What don’t you know about my firm?”

“How you hedge,” Cusack answered. “You must invest in some asset, some kind of insurance to protect against losses.”

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.” Every trader in the business used that line at least once.

“Do you short?” Cusack pressed.

“You don’t give up,” Cy observed, not in an angry way but abrupt and factual.

“Force of habit from the old neighborhood.”

“I like that, Jimmy. Before we discuss my hedging model, two things need to happen.”

“Okay?”

“First, you sign a noncompete.”

Is this a job offer?

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t ask for one, Cy.”

“Good. Second, you need to apprentice for a while. I won’t disclose our secret sauce to just anybody.”

“Secret sauce—I like that.” Cusack repeated Leeser’s words by instinct, an old trick among finance pros.

Cy picked up the phone and instructed Nikki, “Cancel my appointments.” Then he turned and said, “Let me explain why you’re here, Jimmy.”

*   *   *

Back in New York City, a different kind of interview was taking place. “I require twenty-five thousand dollars to proceed.” The electronic voice changer turned Rachel’s honey Texan tones into something robotic over the phone, impossible to determine whether male or female.

“No problem,” the man countered in a diplomat’s voice worthy of UN peace negotiations. “When do you need the money?”

Rachel sensed trouble. The prospect was too easy. Nobody said yes just like that. “I need fives and tens,” she said, testing him. “Nothing bigger.”