At any meeting, any one of the bastards might sit there and gloat over the incident, secretly sneering while they blandly talked about new issues or ROls.
Gil felt as if he might be sick. He choked back the sour taste that rose in his throat and tried to calm himself. If I think about that, I’ll never make it through the day. And I’ve got to. I’ve got to make it.
After all, she was only another cunt. Another useless woman. Tricked out differently, but as deceptive, as hopeless as all the other women he had known. His mother, who mouthed words of love and then let his stepfather beat him, his first wife, who couldn’t choose between him and others, always straddling the line, wanting her family an babies and him, too. And now this one, the worst. Well, he’d let his lawyers handle all the rest of this.
But so far they had failed him, too. Two nights ago, detained by the police after the ball, when he had been allowed one phone call, he had called Cromwell Reed and, at two-thirty in the morning, had been unable to reach anyone. Not even Bill Atchison, that ninny. He had had to spend five hours sitting in that filthy cage at the Nineteenth Precinct until, at seven, some sniveling associate had been roused by his message on the tape. And the incompetent had taken more than an hour to bail him out.
Christ, he must have paid that firm over $6 million last year alone, and that was the kind of response that he got? He’d talk to Don Reed about that.
Apparently Mary was in the hospital. Broken ribs, smashed nose. So what? He had not hit her there on the steps of the museum, only let go of her, and if the bitch hadn’t stumbled, he doubted that she’d even be bruised. But the police, of course, were making the most of it, talking about attempted homicide if she died. The minilawyer from Cromwell Reed had said it had been a bit difficult to get him bail.
Well, he had gotten out, gone back to the apartment, recuperated, had the locks changed, put ointment on his chafed, burned hands, and dictated a memo to Mrs. Rodgers that could be released as a statement through their PR firm. Now, Monday morning, despite everything, Gil was ready to go into the office and complete the Maibeibi deal, the biggest of his life, the most important Wall street coup since the Nabisco/Reynolds multibillion-dollar merger. In the way he alone could, he compartmentalized, putting Mary and all the events of the weekend behind him. That was then, this is now, he said to himself, and wondered for a moment where he used to hear that phrase.
“I’ll only do it if I can be in the club, too,” insisted Bob Bloogee as Elise, Brenda, and Annie sat with him at a window table in the restaurant of the Regency Hotel. It was a magnificent room for breakfast, the walls painted with murals of castles, lakes, the woods, the soft fairy-tale blues and greens contrasting with the dark suits and serious when of the heavy hitters who habitually breakfasted there.
This was the place for New York power breakfasts, and at sixteen bucks for coffee and a croissant, Brenda wondered how even Zeckendorf and Rohatyn could afford it.
“Uncle Bob, come on. Don’t be silly. How can you be a First Wife?”
Elise asked reasonably. “You aren’t a woman, and you’ve been married four times. Anyway, the Club isn’t really a club. It’s more a state of mind.”
“Exactly my point,” agreed Uncle Bob, beaming at them. “I like your spirit, and I share it. Bette and I had a wonderful time with you at the ball. You all were superb in Japan. And I’ve enjoyed helping you.
Gil was disgusting at the party. Bette wanted to knock his block off.
I hate raw deals. I don’t give anyone a raw deal, and when I get one, I take steps. And I like to think I’m often just like you ladies.
Paladins. Righters of wrongs.”
“Nah, she’s a writer of novels,” said Brenda, indicating Annie. “Not that she’ll show us anything,” she grumbled.
Annie, ignoring Brenda, smiled at Uncle Bob. “I think I see a way we can get around this impasse. Why don’t we make you an honorary member in Cynthia Griffin’s place, with the privilege of attending a meeting each year? And all social functions. After all, without your help there would be no justice for Cynthia.”
“There you go, Annie, pissing me off, being perfect again,” Brenda said. “So I second the motion. You third it, Elise?”
“There is no thirding. But yes, I agree.” She smiled at her uncle.
“As president of the First wives Club, I welcome you.” She extended her hand.
“Who died and left you president?” Brenda asked.
“Will we get justice today?” Annie asked Uncle Bob. “Will the whole Maibeibi thing work?”
“Ladies, I think I can safely promise you major bloodletting.” Uncle Bob smiled wickedly.
Annie waved a thick file before them. “Let’s boogie!” she cried, taking Brenda’s arm.
In his limousine, still stuck in traffic, Gil Griffin’s red, chafed hands held up the Journal, his eyes going over and over the numbers in disbelief. What the fuck was going on with Maibeibi? Why would it have dropped so much? Why would it? Gil had been prepared for a precipitous rise when word of the takeover got out and had bought an enormous number of shares to take advantage of the camp followers’ impact. But this was out of left field.
Well, he wasn’t going to be frightened. He was too experienced for that. There was no telling what was going on with those crazy bastards on the Exchange. He had nothing to fear. After all, the company was basically sound. Sound as a bell. And selling off the real estate and the shipyards would give everyone a windfall. He already held a strong enough position to announce his intention and stem the tide. But first, perhaps, take advantage of this.
Perhaps buy a few more shares at this price. Then let the word out.
Use this blip in the market as a bonus.
Gil nearly smiled. The difference between himself and other men was that he could take opposition and turn it into opportunity. He would do that now. But Christ, there wasn’t even a phone in the car. He so rarely used it that he hadn’t had one installed, though he had told Mary to look into it. Incompetent bitch. He pushed the thought of her from his mind. Well, he’d be at the office in just a few moments now.
George, his driver, pulled into the underground garage of 125 Wall and glided up to the lift, passing the empty spot where the now-ruined red Jaguar had stood. Gil averted his eyes as one might from the scene of a bloody accident. He longed for his car. “11 have Mrs. Rodgers check today on when it’ll be ready, he thought. And she can get a phone in the limo, too, while she’s at it. Now it was time to make some big moves.
When Gil Griffin walked through the lobby toward his elevator, he steeled himself. He would be impervious to anything, everything.
Nothing but his work mattered. It never had. His mistake had been to think otherwise.
He had always known that he wasn’t like other men, he saw more, did more, commanded more. The weekend’s unseemly social reversal simply confirmed his difference.
As he stepped off the elevator on the executive floor, he squared his shoulders and walked as briskly as ever. Mrs. Rodgers, waiting for him, hustled along, just as usual. If she felt anything, if she had read anything—and he supposed she had—she was smart enough to keep it to herself. Brusquely, he told her to check on the Jag, install a car phone, told her to cancel the rest of his morning meetings, and to get hold of Scopper, who would now handle his wife’s special projects. She nodded, took notes, and stopped when he did to consult the Quotron.
Christ, Maibeibi had dropped further! Not a rout yet, but fifteen points. He went through everything again in his mind, their current cash position, the products, the facilities, the capitalization, everything. There was no reason for this fall. Well, he’d move ahead more quickly, before all the market sheep got scared. He’d make his press announcement today. God knows, everyone would show up—he was newsworthy after Saturday night.
And the act would have a certain bravado.
He stopped at Kingston’s office. The kid jumped up, ready to start jabbering. “Buy another six million of Maibeibi. Then another four.”
Gil stopped. Kingston, his eyes big, only sat down again and nodded.
“I’m holding a press conference downstairs at noon,” Gil told Mrs. Rodgers. ‘Call corporate communications and let Lederer know. I’ve already briefed him. Hold other calls.” He strode to the door of his office, flung it open. There was a woman there, sitting in a wing chair, her back to Gil.
He turned to Nancy Rodgers, his anger apparent.
Her eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Paradise said you had an appointment with her, one that you made last night. She said your wife sent her.”
“Yes, I told Mrs. Rodgers that. Don’t blame her.” Anne was sitting calmly, her hands in her lap, her legs crossed. “I wanted to have a little talk.” Turning to Mrs. Rodgers, she added, “I’m sorry for the deception. You may go now.”
She acted as if she owned the place!
“Is it all right, Mr. Griffin?” Mrs. Rodgers asked.
“Certainly,” Gil said, shutting the door in her face, then striding across the room. Gil had seen Anne at the ball with Miguel De Los Santos, and at that moment he had decided she might have too much power to snub completely. But he wasn’t about to be cowed either. “I’ve got a busy day, Anne. If this is about the party incident, you can take me off the committee.
Whatever. My apologies.”
‘This isn’t about the committee, Mr. Griffin. Not at all. No doubt you’ll be blackballed for a while, and then your money will buy you onto other committees. Providing you still have the money.”
Anne spoke in a pleasant voice, so Gil wasn’t sure why what she said sounded so ominous. Well, she was a nobody. And it appeared that she’d gone native, socializing with that Puerto Rican. Find out what the bitch wants and get her out. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Griffin, I don’t think you like women. Am I right?”
Gil snorted. Christ, he had no time for amateur psychology now. And what the fuck business was it of hers? He started to say the empty words that had been prepared for his public statement. “Listen, the incident the other night was a terrible mistake—” “Oh, that isn’t true. You hit your wife before this, and you beat Cynthia as well,” Anne said pleasantly enough. “We know that.”
” We’? I know no such thing, and I resent—” ” We’ is me and my friends. Cynthia’s friends. And we don’t like the way you’ve behaved.” She looked at her watch, then stood. Stunned, Gil thought, well, at least the crazy cunt is leaving. But though Anne turned and walked to the door, she paused there. “My friends,’ she said, and opened the door. In walked two other bitches, and Bob Bloogee. It took him a moment to place the women, Morty Cushmans ex-wife and Elise Atchison.
“What the hell—” “Your party’s over, Gil,” said Anne.
“We’re here because of Cynthia,” Elise said.
“You’re going to be s-oo-rrrrrr-y!” the Cushman bitch added.
“Whatever you think you’re doing, I want the four of you out of here in less than a minute. Otherwise I’ll have security eject you.”
“Ooooh, now I’m really scared,” said the Cushman woman.
“Listen to me, you crazy bitches,” he hissed. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but three embittered hags and a midget don’t dictate to me.”
“We’re not dictating, Mr. Griffin,” said Bob Bloogee.
“Not dictating, we’re singing.” The Cushman bitch began to hum.
“‘Yes, sir, that’s Maibeibi. No, sir, don’t mean maybe. Yes, sir, that’s Maibeibi now.”
” “Your Japanese deal has just gone down the toilet, Mr. Griffin,” Anne said.
Gil felt his stomach knot in fear. “What are you talking about?” he asked in a low voice.
“How much of it do you own now? About twenty-eight percent? Maybe even thirty?
And what did you pay for it?” Anne Paradise asked. “Well, you may think you control the company, Gil, but Tanaki has already sold the shipyards to Bloogee Industries. We’ve made sure of that.” She waved the contract by its corner.
“In fact, you may find the value of your shares will plummet even more, once that piece of news gets out.
“Maibeibi is a very paternalistic company,” Anne continued, “and Tanaki a very paternalistic CEO. When Tanaki understood that your takeover of his company meant that the shipyards would be immediately sold off so you could essentially get the rest of the company for free, he felt bound by loyalty to his employees. He couldn’t let their company be diminished in such a way.”
“I’ll offer him more for it,” Gil said. “Your deal won’t hold.”
“We think it will. Because Bob Bloogee sold Tanaki the Portland Cement plant that they need to get into the U.S. market. That agreement has also been signed,” Anne said, indicating the contract Bob was now dangling from his fingers.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Gil began to scream. “I’ll negotiate a deal with Tanaki—” “Hardly likely. He’s an honorable man,” Annie said. “And it will hardly be relevant after today. You’ll be trying to scrape this deal off your shoes for a long time to come.
If you’re still on Wall Street, that is.”
Remembering the last time she was in this office and how Gil had treated her and her daughter’s problem, Annie felt good. This was right and just, she thought. She laughed. “My goodness, Gil. Talk about stepping in it,” she said, and turned up her nose at the imaginary smell.
Annie saw that Gil’s face was as gray as his hair. For a moment she almost felt sympathy for him—after all, he was on the edge of the abyss—but then she remembered the words of her father, Only the weak seek revenge, but only the strong commandjustice.
“How does it feel to lose seven hundred million dollars in a single morning?
Of your partners’ money?” Anne Paradise asked.
“Why have you done this?” he asked, his voice a whisper.
“Ask Cynthia.”
Gil’s hands were shaking. For a moment he considered jumping over the desk and grabbing any one of them. But then they rose as one and without another word, turned and walked out of the room.
Was it true? he wondered. It couldn’t be. He’d be ruined. He’d lose it all.
His coup would turn into a fiasco. His partners … Holy shit, the bastards would throw him out. Jesus Christ, they’d crucify him.