Free The Gods of Greenwich by Norb Vonnegut Page A

chairman’s approval should have been cause to rejoice. But as he left, his hand on the doorknob, he destroyed the feel-good moment. “There’s just one thing, Ólafur.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The white-haired chairman, wizened and cool during the storm, stated with the coldness of a shark, “You’ve done great work.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But if our war goes bad, you’re fired.” The chairman paused and added, “And your job may be the least of your problems.”
    “Meaning what, sir?”
    “If anybody learns about our loan to the Qataris, you’re going to jail.”
    “But—”
    “I’m not taking the fall, Ólafur.”
    Mr. Ice ordered martini number four. Finding courage in the vodka, he considered the Romans. They destroyed Hannibal, raped the women of Carthage, and poured salt onto the city’s ruins. He could use their help with LeeWell Capital.

 
    CHAPTER TEN
    THE INTERVIEW  …
    Cusack had hated interviews ever since college. The talk was boring, two people united by a common desire to be anywhere else except a dental chair. The interviewer was digging. He was selling. And the job hinged on whether the interviewer was digging what he was selling.
    Interviews usually ended flat. “We’ll get back to you” meant a letter two weeks later that started, “Thank you for your interest.” After the decency of a paragraph break, the sender continued, “We are sorry.” The words sounded nice, but they translated, “You’re joking, right?”
    The alternative was just as bad. Callbacks equaled another round of digging and sniveling as necessary. The whole process struck Cusack as an assault on the brain, possibly exceeded by reality television. But even there, it was debatable which was worse.
    This interview was different. Cy dispensed with the artifice. “I need help growing my business.” He leaned across the desk, and his manner changed. He was no longer the interviewer. He was the decision maker, the star quarterback urging a teammate to join his huddle. “You can take us to the next level, Jimmy.”
    “How much money do you manage?”
    “Eight hundred million, give or take.”
    “With your track record,” Cusack observed, “it should be double.”
    “Agreed. But I need a pro to handle our investors.”
    “I’m hungry.”
    “Have you ever considered sales?” asked Leeser.
    It’s a career graveyard for fuckups.
    “ I manage money,” replied Cusack, avoiding the urge to say, “No way.”
    “Don’t kid yourself. We all sell. Besides, you know how to listen. I bet people whisper shit in your ear all the time.”
    “Tell me what you have in mind, Cy.”
    “You raised two hundred million right out of the gates.”
    “Some of that was performance. We made money the first year.”
    “Doesn’t matter. You’re a born salesman, Jimmy.”
    “I was building a company.”
    “Which is why I want you on the team at LeeWell Capital.”
    You’re good.
    “You’ll be involved in most portfolio decisions,” added Leeser. “We’re a small shop, and everybody wears different hats.”
    “How many people work here?”
    “Sixteen in all. We have a kick-ass trader named Victor Lee. There’s Nikki, my assistant, Amanda, our receptionist, and several other people in accounting and finance.”
    “Why the bodyguard?” asked Cusack, referring to the big man with the gap between his front teeth.
    “Shannon is a key player.”
    “Do you have security problems, Cy?”
    “We all make stupid money,” Leeser explained. “My receptionist drives a sixty-thousand-dollar car. It’s just inviting trouble.”
    “But—”
    “You know what happened to Eddie Lampert at ESL Investments,” Cy continued. “He was kidnapped in the parking lot outside his office.”
    “I still can’t believe he negotiated his own release.”
    “I don’t leave anything to chance, Jimmy, which is why you’ll be a great addition.”
    Cusack could feel himself yielding—Cy’s flattery and Litton’s ever-present drumbeat.