Read Online The Gods of Greenwich by Norb Vonnegut - Free Book Online
Authors: Norb Vonnegut
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
