“It’s been an uphill battle for me from day one, but I’ve gotten where I have because I’ve produced. Year in and year out, I put up the numbers-even the last couple years, when the M amp;A business dried up and blew away. If I hadn’t, I would’ve been out on my ass. There are some people at French who think I’m basically a cleaned-up car salesman, and maybe they’re right. But like it or not they live with me, because of my P amp;L.
“Now I’m up where the air is thin, John: the executive committee. There aren’t many seats up this high, and the fighting is vicious. And the way things are these days-on the Street, and in the press-one whiff of something like this, whether it’s true or not, would finish me. It’d be over for me at French and anywhere else.”
There was no hint of self-pity in his voice, no chip on his shoulder. He spoke with a confident reasonableness that made everything he said seem self-evident and simple, and made what he was suggesting seem the obvious, practical course. I could see how he would be a devastating salesman. We were quiet for a while.
“I think this is a bad idea,” I said finally. It seemed woefully inadequate in the face of Pierro’s certitude. “Even if I can come up with something and you can strike a deal with the guy, you’ll never be sure he won’t come back someday.”
“I don’t need to be sure,” Pierro answered. “I just need him to stay quiet until the executive committee meets and decides on new members. If this thing doesn’t screw me up, I’ll make it-believe me. And once I do, it’s a different game. Then, I’ll have a seat at the table. I’ll be part of the most senior management of the firm, and any problem I have will be the firm’s problem too. Certain people won’t be able to flush me down the crapper based on rumor. When I say that the deal with Textiles was straight, people will hear me out.”
“When does the committee meet?” I asked.
“Five weeks from now, just before Christmas,” Pierro said.
“Not a whole lot of time,” I said. I turned to Mike. “And what about the feds? The MWB case is still going on.” Mike nodded. “Nothing good is going to happen if this takes us into their territory. Best case, they get really pissed off. Worst case, they take an interest. I don’t need to tell you how ugly that could be.” Mike nodded some more.
“I’ve discussed the dangers with Rick, at length,” Mike said. “We’ll have to be careful about coming to their attention, very careful. If we reach a point where you think that’s becoming a possibility, you let us know. We’ll decide then whether or not to take it any further.”
“I only hope I recognize that point when I get to it, and not after I’ve passed it,” I said. Mike and Pierro just looked at me.
“I’ll read the file over,” I said to Pierro. “That’ll tell me better where we stand. And then I’ll need to talk to you some more.” Pierro stood, smiling.
“That’s great, John, really. It’s all I could ask for. Call me tomorrow and tell me what you need. Just let me know.” Pierro pumped my hand and picked up his suit jacket. He squeezed Mike’s shoulder. “Mike, thanks again. I know you think this is nuts, but I really appreciate your help.” He looked at both of us, practically beaming. And then he was gone.
“So?” Mike asked.
“He’s a good salesman,” I answered. “But not the back-slapping type that makes my teeth hurt. He comes across as a regular guy from Long Island, somebody you’d have a beer with and argue with about the Mets’ latest trade. Very much ‘what you see is what you get.’ ”
Mike nodded. “It’s what sets him apart from the rest of the M amp;A crowd. He’s not just another smug prick with a spreadsheet.”
“But what he wants doesn’t make sense, assuming he’s being straight with us.”
“Doesn’t it?” Mike shrugged. “In this environment, it’s hard to argue that allegation alone isn’t enough to kill a career. Just last month, a client of mine got blown out of the running for CFO at a public company. A background check turned up a twenty-year-old cheating charge-just a charge, mind you-from his undergrad days.”
“Point taken. How long have you known Pierro?” I asked.
“About ten years. He was one of my first clients as an associate here. We’ve done real estate work for him, trusts, wills. And I know him a little socially. He and Helene used to have a place in the Hamptons; Paula and I ran into them a few times out there.” Paula is Mike’s wife.
“Do you think he’s lying?” I asked.
“Clients lie. That’s axiomatic.”
“But this client, in this case?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
We sat in silence a while longer, then I picked up my jacket, the fax, and the file box. Mike walked me to the elevator. The old guard was still on duty, but if he noticed our passage, he made no sign. Mike pushed the button.
“You have Thanksgiving plans?” he asked. “We’re going out to Water Mill and having some people over. Why don’t you come?” I hemmed and hawed and started shaking my head, but Mike went on.
“What else are you going to do? Come on, come out and stay the weekend. Paula would love to see you.”
“Thanks, Mike, and tell Paula thanks too, but I think my family has roped me into something,” I lied. My sisters had tried to talk me into a family dinner, but I’d resisted so far, and planned to keep doing so. It satisfied Mike, though. The elevator came, and I rode down.
Chapter Three
The temperature had dropped and a raw wind had picked up. Rain was on the way. The streets had cleared a little, and I was able to get a cab downtown without bloodshed. It let me out on the corner of Sixteenth and Sixth, because traffic on my street was blocked, as it had been several times that week, by a moving van double-parked in front of my building. I was getting a new upstairs neighbor, who was arriving in stages. I looked up at the fifth floor, at the row of tall, arched windows that ran the width of the building. Light poured out of them, and several were open. I could hear music drifting down, something classical, but too faint to make out.
I climbed the short flight of iron stairs that led from the street to the building entrance. The movers had propped open the heavy glass and wrought iron door with a large cardboard box. Printed in neat, angular letters across the top was “J. Lu-Kitchen.” I looked around. No movers, no one minding the truck. Almost nine at night-the perfect time for a lunch break. I put my toe against the box, shoved it into the entry vestibule, and stepped inside just ahead of the closing door. More boxes cluttered the small lobby and the narrow hallway that led to the elevator. I rang for the elevator and heard the bell clang somewhere up above, but heard nothing else. I rang again, but the elevator stayed where it was- on five, I guessed. I took the stairs.
I lived on the fourth floor, in my sister Lauren’s apartment. She’d gotten married a few years ago, and as far as I knew was very happy in her digs on the Upper East Side, but she’d hung on to this place just in case. I was glad to keep it warm for her. The building is an old one, from the 1890s. For its first hundred or so years it was a factory. Then, in the 1990s, it was reborn as residential space. One big loft on each floor. The building still bore marks of its industrial roots in the oversized elevator and the sixteen-foot tin ceilings, but the individual lofts had been renovated in very different styles. I knew the advertising guy on six had done something with a lot of brushed aluminum that made his place look like the inside of a turbine, and the two women on the third floor had turned theirs into a Craftsman bungalow. Lauren’s place, my place at the moment, was tame by those standards: white walls, bleached hardwood floors, a kitchen area in cherry wood and green granite, halogen lighting, sparse, comfortable furniture in soft leather and wood. I’d told Lauren that if the PI thing didn’t work out, I might open a Banana Republic in there. She’d smiled sweetly and flipped me the bird.