Greedy Heart, page 25
“I’m subletting from her,” I said. “Temporarily.”
“I wish you were here to stay.” She sipped her coffee. “I don’t have many friends.”
“Me either.”
Viviane hesitated as if she thought she might be going too far. She was sweet, if more than a little eccentric. I felt strange talking with her about friendship—of a kind clearly meant to lack quotation marks—knowing I had designs on her spoon jar.
I decided to be straightforward with Viviane. It was a big step for her to invite me into her home, so I was not inclined to be underhanded. This impulse was also a novel one for me: the insider-trader and mother of economy-destroying big shorts. But, at the moment, I really didn’t have any underhanded ideas.
“Listen, I want to ask you about something.”
“My spoon jar?”
“How did you know?”
“I figured Judith would talk to you eventually.”
“Did you know she would give you two hundred grand?”
“I knew it was very valuable.” I never saw such a sum of money make so little impact on anyone in my life.
“Well it is.”
“It must be really important.”
“It was part of a famous shipload of treasure. It was supposed to go to a temple to save a city. But there was a shipwreck.”
“Oh.” Viviane looked out the window toward the bird and my apartment. I didn’t tell her Priest’s story about the people from his island hiding artifacts to prevent further looting. That seemed the wrong message for Viviane just now.
“Where did you get it?”
“Some grandkids selling their grandmother’s stuff.” Just as Judith said. “I guess they didn’t know what it was. I end up with a lot of nice things that way.”
“I bet you do. Are you willing to sell it?”
“The thing is I get…attached to things. You mentioned about a shipwreck. It’s kind of like that.”
“Doesn’t sound very auspicious.”
Viviane laughed. The tone was like bells. “Actually, it’s lovely. You know, when a ship goes down? After a while, little amoeba or whatever stick onto it, and eventually, it becomes a coral reef. That’s how things are to me. They get important that way.” Viviane looked over the stacks, all different heights, like a mini skyline of Manhattan, or, yes, like a coral reef. “Of course, I have to sell things because of my business. Which keeps me—” she paused “—in practice. But certain things I just want to keep.” It struck me Viviane could as soon have cut off a limb as sell a possession she was attached to. “Some things aren’t about the money,” she said with finality.
“I understand.” In the past, this statement would have felt like an utter absurdity. Now, I felt the most infinitesimal glimmer of comprehension.
“And anyway, what would I do with that kind of cash?”
What a strange question. “Use it to buy a nice apartment? One that could really be yours.”
“This apartment is mine.” Viviane put her cup down with force. I saw a glint of what Judith described, the difficulty of dislodging a hoarder from her nest.
“What if someone offers you a buyout? You know, a sum of money to leave?”
“I won’t take it.”
“It could be as much as the spoon jar.”
“Absolutely not.” Viviane started to look agitated, wringing her hands. “I can make them let me stay here. Because of my circumstances.”
“The way you live,” I euphemized.
“Yes. Like how they let Judith stay at the old hotel. People with certain circumstances are protected.”
All you had to do was substitute “hoarding disorder” for “circumstances.” She was right up to the edge now of admitting her problem. I didn’t push her any more. With her veil starting to fall, I could see Viviane’s state of mind was itself as fragile as a coral reef. If I persisted, she would suck back into herself as rapidly as a sea anemone. The blinds would zzzip down and I would never see her again.
I left without the spoon jar.
*
I went home, feeling discouraged. The spoon jar was a long shot, but I had held out hope. In the background, Aunt Kathleen’s battery-powered radio was broadcasting a finance program. These days the news reported constantly on joblessness at 10 percent and surging foreclosure statistics. Today someone was saying, “The massive de-leveraging of Southern Europe will continue, possibly for decades.”
I went to flick it off. My hand on the button, I heard the accent of fishing nets and pistachios. Peter Priest was commenting on the situation in Greece.
“It is catastrophic. All self-induced, as is our situation here in the United States. But the reality in Greece is of pensioners who will no longer have enough to live on, and of young people who will never find a job. We will lose a generation. Perhaps two.”
“The Greek papers say you are advising the government to sell off property,” the host said.
“I am advising the government to consider the sale of assets, yes.” It seemed Priest was keeping himself busy after closing Odyssey.
“Are we talking about things like the Parthenon and the port of Piraeus?”
“The world will know what is for sale when it is for sale.”
“There are reports the Greek embassy in New York will soon be on the block and that you have been involved in the matter.”
I turned the volume up.
“The embassy building is in a prime location, and the diplomatic staff can take space in any number of office buildings in the city.”
“Can we consider that an announcement?”
“If you like.”
“All right. The famously tight-lipped Peter Priest. With no confirmation on the sale of the Parthenon, but acknowledging the Greek embassy in New York will soon be on the market. In other news…”
That’s why Priest was at the embassy the day I drove in with Whitey. My old mansion would soon be up for sale once again. I wondered if Rob Goodman knew, and if he didn’t, how long it would take him to find out.
Would the Deal of the Century happen for real this time, just twenty-three years later?
Chapter Thirty-Four
ἐν ταῖς ἀνάγκαις χρημάτων κρείττων φίλος.
(It is better in times of need to have friends rather than money.)
—Ancient Greek proverb
Thoughts of Minneapolis jobs and former mansions for sale had to be pushed aside as I arrived for duty at the NYPD mounted training facility at Pier 57. This job, in addition to providing some dearly needed cash, also neutralized the criminal charges against me.
Sergeant Rivera gave my hand a hearty shake, standing proudly outside of a stall inhabited by Whitey, his new mount. “Whatta horse!” he said. After our triumphant ride down Fifth Avenue, Whitey had definitively come over from the dark side and was allowing other riders, specifically Seamus Rivera, on board. “Moves like butter. Needs a little more street work. You gave him a great start.” Whitey had a new home, and reportedly the department paid handsomely for him. Eugene visited every few days with a bag of carrots.
“What the Czech fellow did was teach the feel,” Rivera said. “The feel. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” I said, because I could.
The class was six midlevel riders. Rivera joined out of curiosity. They all sat, reins too loose, hips cocked to one side in a way the Hungarian would not have tolerated for ten seconds. Except for Whitey, the horses looked sleepy.
They weren’t going to like this. The Hungarian’s method required weeks of plain walking, because Zee simple is zee hardest. I got them all going in a large circle. I asked them to call out their horses’ footfalls. “Right hind, right fore, left hind, left fore,” the six riders intoned, as they revolved around me like cuckoos on a Bavarian clock.
To keep their minds occupied, I said, “Let’s talk about no-man’s-land.”
*
Throughout June, my three-time-a-week riding instruction gave a rhythm to my life and a welcome distraction from the moving-to-Minneapolis sands draining quickly through the hourglass. Rivera’s class did well, and Whitey was thriving. I told them all the Hungarian’s stories—that they were part of a tradition of ancient soldiers—just as he told us Sorrows girls. It was probably all romantic notions, but it did inspire great riding.
“Ancient soldiers, huh? People think we’re just for parades,” Rivera said.
Frankie jungle-gymmed at my window one morning just after the Fourth of July. One long wing plume was broken after a recent rainstorm. I wondered if he were lonely and if a parakeet colony could happen here at Number N. It seemed unlikely. The Brooklyn flock escaped together from one pet-store shipment. Frankie would get a friend only if, by some crazy circumstance, another stray parakeet found its way to the back of Number N. Fat chance.
I left Frankie a cube of apple spread with peanut butter.
My cell phone rang, showing Angela Price. I didn’t spend as much time with Angela after I came to Number N. She didn’t like visiting me because she had to pass Norah in the lobby. And I was ashamed to enter the Grandhope, where the doormen looked at me questioningly and the other residents pretended they didn’t know me. Now Angela was in the Hamptons for the summer. As I picked up, I could hear surf in the background.
“I sent you a link. Did you see it?” she asked.
Angela was forever sending articles I didn’t want to read. Like “Six Ways to Deal with Curly Hair.” Or “How Thirty is the New Twenty.” The only links that had anything to do with what might be called the “real world” were articles about apartment prices.
“Just a sec,” I said.
I opened my email and found her link.
Dutifully, I clicked it.
A headshot of Rob Goodman flicked on my screen.
Hedge Fund High Flyer Makes Foray into Distressed Real Estate
Robert M. Goodman, former CEO of Hermes Fund, a hedge fund that closed in 2008, has announced the launch of Hermes2, a real estate investment firm.
“It’s a great market out there for real estate investors. We’re buying up distressed properties all over the country,” Goodman said.
Does Goodman plan to do anything with his famous rent-controlled property at 80th Street and Fifth Avenue?
“Never say never,” he said.
“Huh,” I said. A real estate venture didn’t violate his trading ban. Also, it seemed Goodman was weighing opportunities with Number N. Did he know about the embassy sale?
“Thought you’d be interested.” Angela’s voice was smug. “That’s just the kind of thing my dad would like. He believes in real estate. Can you connect me with Rob Goodman again?”
“I haven’t spoken to Goodman since the crash.” We had no reason to be in touch after Hermes failed.
“It would be perfect. If I invest some of my trust money, I can put the profits into an account I control.” Financial independence from her father—it was one of the two things Angela wanted most. The second was her big apartment. “It sounds like Goodman’s finally gonna do something with your mom’s building. That would be great for her. Do you think she’d move back to the city?” I could see the fantasy taking shape in Angela’s mind: she and Mom, shopping at Bergdorf’s buying crème de la crème stuff together.
“He’s got more than Mom to deal with.” I told Angela about the complication Viviane presented. Goodman probably had two buyouts on his hands. Mom was easy. As for Viviane?
“Don’t be silly. People’ll do anything for enough money.” I didn’t argue with her.
I hung up, convinced the timing of Goodman’s announcement was no coincidence and that he knew about the embassy going up for sale. The dominoes were lining up to recreate the same moment as two decades before when the Deal of the Century was possible. It was probably a good thing I would be gone from New York soon. I would not be around to see both my homes-slash-legacies—the mansion and Number N—razed for a billionaire blue heron.
*
I arrived back home from the NYPD barn around six o’clock one Wednesday in mid-July. My T-shirt stuck to my back with sweat, and sand grit from the arena clung to my face. There was someone standing under the Number-N awning. It was a young woman in strappy sandals and a floral dress.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Are you this woman?” She held out the weeks-old Daily News article about me and Whitey.
“I…” I halted. Was it wise to say anything? Whitey was living in a kind of witness protection program. What could anyone do about it now? Besides, I was building a pretty big fan club at the NYPD. “I am,” I conceded.
“The people at the deli said your name is Delia Mulcahy,” she asserted.
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“Which means you are also this girl.” Out of her messenger bag, she took the popular old issue of Upper East Side Magazine from March 2006, the same one Angela treasured. The strappy-sandal girl flipped to the photo spread. Me in front of the Mulcahy Mansion. Me walking hand in hand with Mom. Me with Angela outside Rosemont.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s true.” I guessed I wasn’t the only one who could hit up Janice at the public library.
“This is awesome!” The woman broke into a big smile.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Rebecca Shapiro,” she said. “New York Times. Lifestyle section. One more question. This one’s a long shot.” She pulled out her phone and flicked her finger on it. “Is this you?” It was a New York society website. There I was at the 2006 Wall Street Poker Night. Someone had snapped a picture of me coming out the embassy door followed by Rob Goodman.
“Yep.”
“Fabulous!” she said. “A once-heiress, now protester, living in a rent-controlled building and dating hedge-fund bachelor Robert Goodman!”
“Stop right there.” She was jumping to the same conclusion as Peter Priest. “I am not dating Rob Goodman, nor have I ever. I worked for him at Hermes Fund.”
“And he didn’t know who you were?” She gestured to the sepia-toned magazine spread of days gone by.
“No.” That night, Goodman stood in front of my portrait and didn’t make any connection. “There is no who I am anymore. Bottom line, I worked for Goodman. That’s it.”
“Even without the Goodman-dating angle, it’s still a super story. You, living here in this Hotel-Chelsea-type building, next to your old mansion and protesting against the 1 percent.” She tucked away her phone and papers. “Can I please come upstairs with you? Just a few questions and a couple of pictures?”
“Actually, no.”
Rebecca Shapiro readjusted her bag on her shoulder and shrugged. “If you don’t, I’ll just hang around. You have no idea how persistent I can be. Look, it’s no big deal. I’m just pitching. They probably won’t run it. Letting me upstairs for five minutes is the quickest way to get rid of me.”
*
Rebecca Shapiro gaped at the interior of Aunt Kathleen’s apartment.
“How big is this thing?”
“Two bedrooms.”
“Do you mind if I ask how much you pay?”
“Yes.”
“This couch looks like it came from eBay.” She touched the red tartan.
“I call it church rectory furniture.”
“That’s funny.” She wrote in her notebook. “Can you pose on the couch?”
I sat. In my peripheral vision, the bird appeared over my left shoulder looking for more apple and peanut butter.
“Is that a parakeet?” Rebecca framed us in her lens to take a picture.
“Is what a parakeet?”
*
It was eight thirty and dusk by the time I led Rebecca Shapiro out of the building and watched her until she was out of sight. She seemed like the kind of reporter who might scale the embassy fence for more pictures.
Norah was outside, dressed in jeans and a bright pink cowboy hat. She was standing next to a man I didn’t recognize. At their feet were four small Jack Russell terriers. She handed the man some bills. He passed her the leashes of the little dogs.
“Thanks.” The man saluted Norah and hopped into a beat-up white van.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Rat catchers. He says these dogs’ll do thirty a night.” Norah had an empty black garbage bag at her feet.
“Don’t you have enough traps and poison around? Do we really need dogs?”
“Can’t have poison with you keeping that shagging bird.” Norah had softened immeasurably toward me since the Whitey episode. The coverage had been a big boost to the carriage horse crusade. She lit a cigarette. “Rat catching with dogs is a new sport downtown. You let them loose in the alley and the fun is on. Dead rats flying everywhere.” She left a bright orange lipstick print on the speckled paper of her fag. “Do you need any money?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you need any fucking money? Because I can lend it to you.”
“I need so much money, you can’t imagine.”
“Quarter million or so?”
“About that.”
Norah took a steep inhalation. “Fuck.”
I sighed. “It all seems so crazy now. My coming back to New York. Trying to… Hell, I’m not even sure what I was trying to do or why.”
“Something was left to you and you got fucked out of it. Countries go to war over bollocks like that.” Norah streamed smoke out her nose like a dragon.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you stop paying rent? Goodman will never know. I’ll make it up somewhere else.”
“Thanks. But I pay Mom and she pays the rent. She’d make me keep paying her even if you said she could skip a month or two.”
“Sounds like your mother.”
“Why is she like that?”
“Your mother?”
“Yeah.
Norah sipped the last few millimeters of her smoke. “Your mother never thought she was good enough.” Funny. Bert said the same thing. “It made her afraid things would be taken away from her. Then they were. So, I guess she was right.” Norah ground the cigarette under her heel. I thought of all the years I’d spent resenting things that were taken away from me. “Kathleen was another story.”
