Death logs out, p.9
Death Logs Out, page 9
Michael watched Goldstein’s eyes darting around the room, perhaps admiring the illuminated Calders in the sculpture garden or, more likely from what he’d heard, searching for another under-aged waif like the one he’d just ditched his wife for.
Michael sat back, his mind constantly drifting back to the events of the last few days. Sitting here with Jonathan Goldstein was the last thing he wanted to be doing. Everything seemed to require his focus right now. He took a few moments to let Goldstein’s conversation sink in. Inside the barrage of insults was a short-term business offer with the promise of significant money—but at a price.
For the past two years, since Alex’s murder, he’d managed to head up two organizations. He wasn’t ready to give either one up, at least not yet. But he also wasn’t willing to turn his back on the people inside Gibraltar. After all, they were the ones who’d created the value in the first place.
“So what’s it going to be?” Goldstein asked, looking away. “Stay on, do what I need done and make millions or –”
“If I refuse?”
“I’ll fire you—for cause.”
Michael laughed. “For cause? That’s a new one.”
“I know more about you than you think. Do you think I believe your bullshit about your dead brother’s life being separate from yours? I know what you’re doing. When I get through with you, you’ll not only lose your job but you’ll never work for another public company. Ever.”
Chapter 34
Seeing Goldstein’s self-satisfied smirk made Michael want to leap over the table and beat the shit out of him. That only would land him in jail for the night and give Goldstein a lawsuit orgasm.
Alex had been correct. Not that Michael hadn’t known all along that Goldstein was the ultimate obnoxious hedge fund master of the universe and potential white collar criminal.
Now Michael was glad he hadn’t erased what Alex had sent him.
The check had arrived; without even glancing at it, Goldstein placed his credit card alongside the leather folder. Michael cringed when he thought about how Goldstein might tip. Nevertheless, he looked forward to getting out into the city’s night air, alone. First, he had to give Goldstein an answer.
“Okay, here’s my answer. I’m staying on. I’ll be happy to make changes that we both agree on, things that will be good for the business. But I’m not stripping this company for you.”
“That wasn’t one of the options, so I guess we’re done here.” Goldstein appeared to be looking for the check. “You’ll hear from my attorneys tomorrow. Your access to Gibraltar will be blocked before you’ll even leave here. Same for that secretary of yours.”
“We’re not done.” Michael said.
His eyes like ice, Goldstein finally looked Michael in the eye and he just kept staring until he finally spoke. “You don’t want to cross me.”
Michael reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a digital tape recorder and placed it on the table. “It’s amazing how small these things are now.”
As soon as he saw it, Goldstein’s head jerked back; he sat erect and upright in his chair. “What the hell is this?” he said. “Do you think I care if you recorded our conversation?”
“I agree with you on that. It might be embarrassing for most people; probably not for you. I think you’ll enjoy this a lot more. Listen.” Michael picked up the recorder from the table, found the “Play” button, pressed it and placed it closer to Goldstein.
The first voice was Goldstein’s:
“If we play this right, those analysts will have no idea that they’re looking at numbers that’ll probably never happen. We need to squeeze every last fucking drop of expense out of that place before they figure it out. Most of these analysts are just thirty-year-old numbers geeks. They don’t have a clue about running a business. They have no idea how to get under the hood so they’ll never figure it out—even if we take the whole engine away. The car’ll keep rolling, at least until we sell the place.”
Michael reached for the recorder and shut it off. “You and Hans Ulricht—I guess you guys call that a strategic plan.”
“That’s what investment bankers do, they make money.” Goldstein, looking oddly relieved, took another sip of his seltzer. “That’s interesting but not exactly incriminating.”
Michael smiled, “Hold on, let’s listen some more.” He pressed “Play” again. Then came Goldstein’s unmistakable shrill:
“No offense, but those Wall Street sharpies won’t know what hit them in a year. We just need to use Michael as a good front man. He’ll keep the troops in line while we do our work. He likes money so he’ll keep quiet. I’ll put my own CFO in there; he’ll make the numbers sing. We sell off most of their assets and replace them with some we want to unload, a few of my shell companies. We’ll make sure those numbers and projections moving forward look good. Then, we’ll sell this thing and let Michael and the new owners figure out how to make those numbers that he’ll have signed off on.
I figure we’ve got about two quarters where we can sustain our projections, then the numbers will drop off the table. After that, they’ll implode. By then, we’re out of there though—and then we buy it back for pennies. This is why I love America.”
Goldstein’s face changed. It was as though he’d put on a mask—or, more likely, taken one off. “Where’d you get that? How did you get it?”
Michael would have loved to tell him the story about Alex. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I don’t think the press or the SEC will care where it came from.”
“Watch yourself.” Goldstein got up and threw his napkin onto the table. He leaned over, just inches from Michael’s face. “Don’t think this is over. I told you, I know more about you than you think—and you have no idea who I am or what I’m willing to do—to you.”
Michael watched as Goldstein walked out. He knew he’d won this round but he wondered how much Goldstein knew and how well he knew Goldstein. In any case, he had more pressing matters to deal with—including a big favor he promised to do for Alex before he could leave for Rome.
Chapter 35
Whitestone, New York
Donna got out of bed and poured herself another glass of wine from the small refrigerator built into the cabinets in her bedroom. Returning to her bed and her laptop, she realized that she was, for the first time—since she had been with Alex—enjoying the chase. This time, of course, with another Alex, and online.
Alex: Are you still there?
Donna: Yes, I just got up to pour myself another glass of wine.
Alex: Another? How many have you had?
Donna: Don’t tell me you don’t drink.
That would be a deal breaker if ever there was one. Please don’t say you’re in AA or a Mormon or something.
Alex: No, of course I drink. Although I’ve cut back lately.
Donna: What do you drink?
Alex: Scotch mostly.
Just like her Alex, she thought. Hopefully, this one doesn’t run around as much.
Donna: So do you go out a lot?
Alex: No, not anymore. But I’m ready now. That’s why I joined this thing.
Donna: Well, what do you like to do?
Alex: What do you mean, like hobbies or something?
Donna: I guess. That’s in your profile somewhere but I admit, I didn’t check it completely. So what are your hobbies?
Alex: Sports mostly. And I gamble a little.
Uh-oh, here we go again.
Donna: What do you mean? Do you go to Las Vegas?
Alex: Not lately but I used to go with my wife or friends.
Donna: What else do you like to do?
Alex: I like being with women.
Donna: Are you okay being with another woman after losing your wife?
Alex: Yeah, I’m ready.
Donna: Do you miss her?
Alex: Do you miss your husband?
Donna: At times. He was crazy.
Alex: What do you mean? Was he in an institution or something?
Donna: No, but he might have been if anyone had examined him carefully.
Alex: Really?
Donna: No, I’m kidding. He was . . . let’s say colorful. He lived a big life—lots of gambling, drinking, out all night. That sort of thing.
Alex: Were you with him when he was doing that, you know, being out all night?
Donna: No. I was his wife.
Alex: Wow. That must have pissed you off.
Donna: Yes, it did.
Alex: Did he cheat on you?
Donna: Probably every night.
Alex: Did you cheat on him?
Donna: Are these first conversations supposed to be this intimate? You’re not a psychiatrist are you?
Alex: No, I’m not. I think you have to have a college degree for that. School wasn’t my biggest thing growing up. So, did you run around on him?
Donna: Occasionally. Not nearly as much as he screwed around on me.
Alex: So you kept score.
Donna: Yes, I did actually. I like keeping score.
Alex: When you cheated on him, who was it with? Was it someone your husband knew?
Donna: He only knew one of the guys.
Alex: Just out of curiosity, what was the guy’s first name?
Donna: What difference would it make to you? Why would you want his first name?
Alex: I’m into astrology.
Donna: Isn’t that more birthdays and dates than names?
Alex: It’s everything.
Donna: Wow, I didn’t know that. Anyway, what a coincidence, I love astrology, too. What’s your sign?
Alex: Tell me the guy’s first name and then I’ll tell you my sign.
Donna: Jesus, you’re odd. Okay, his name was Moose.
Alex: And you think I’m odd? Did you see him regularly?
Donna: No, just a few times.
Alex: Did he satisfy you?
Donna: Yes, I felt better. I also felt like I got even. I evened the score. At least a little bit.
Alex: So do you miss your husband now?
Donna: Yes. He wasn’t perfect. No one is. He was a lot of fun, very unpredictable and volatile at times. He wasn’t easy but he had a great heart.
Alex: Sounds like he was a pretty good guy.
Donna: Yes. Listen, hold on, I think I need another glass of wine. Excuse me for one second.
Alex: It’s over there in your fridge in the cabinet.
Donna: How did you . . . Can you see me or something? Is there a camera?
It took a few seconds to register. First she froze and then she began screaming, “Oh my God, oh my God. What the –” and quickly shut her laptop.
Chapter 36
New York City
Hans Ulricht had made the unforgivable mistake of losing some of Jonathan Goldstein’s money.
“I want my money back, now,” Jonathan Goldstein said, glaring at his investment banker from behind his desk.
Hans Ulricht gazed back, beyond his client and looked out to the view of Central Park, just over Goldstein’s shoulders. Since Goldstein rarely made eye contact, Ulricht knew he’d never notice.
Now in his early seventies, Ulricht, the distinguished executive director of IBS, the International Bank of Switzerland, was the consummate Swiss banker and, with his silvery hair and perfectly tailored three-button suits, he looked the part.
“I rue the day that I invited you to invest in Rosen’s fund. I too, lost money.”
“Don’t give me your rue shit. That’s not going to be enough for me, Hans. It’s going to be the biggest fucking regret of your life.” He glanced down at his desk, “Five million seven, that’s what you owe me. That’s what it’s going to take to keep my business. Not a fucking penny less.”
“We’ve discussed this matter before, you know I can’t –”
“Pick up the phone and call your bosses in Switzerland or Heidelberg or wherever the hell they are and have them credit my account.” Goldstein was turning red. “Your firm had a fiduciary responsibility to vet Rosen.”
“IBS had no idea Bertrand Rosen was running a Ponzi-scheme.”
“You and I both know that you knew. You kept it quiet because you and your bank were making a fortune off him and you didn’t want to kill the golden goose.”
He had to calm Goldstein down. “We can work this out.”
“You figure it out or I’ll instruct my attorneys to contact the Feds. Let’s see, even if you only got ten years in prison, for you that’d be a life sentence.”
“Jonathan, we need to find an alternative solution, perhaps another way that we may make you whole on this. Perhaps, more than whole.”
“I understand that you know Michael Nicholas,” Goldstein said.
Ulricht knew Goldstein was waiting for him to take the bait.
“Yes, I was introduced to him through a mutual acquaintance several months ago.”
Ulricht thought it best to not mention that the mutual acquaintance was none other than Bertrand Rosen. Rosen had unsuccessfully tried to befriend Michael, hoping to make him another of his unwitting clients but Michael had grown suspicious of Rosen’s track record and his promise of guaranteed returns. He also turned down Ulricht’s offer to shield his income by hiding it in a Swiss bank. “I’ve tried to convince Michael to invest some of his wealth with IBS, to no avail.”
“Then we have a mutual problem, don’t we?” Goldstein said.
“Perhaps. Is there some way I can be of assistance to you?”
Goldstein’s face brightened. It was as close to a smile as Ulricht had ever seen from him. “Michael Nicholas is standing in the way of what I need to do at Gibraltar so I can flip the company and sell it at a crazy profit . . . and then invest that money with . . . you.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“It’s not confidence; I want to see if you can lose it again.”
Hans chose to ignore Goldstein’s sarcasm. “Why don’t you just fire him?”
“I might but it won’t look good. He’s also popular with the press, if you remember he made some speech in LA a couple of years ago about the evils of private equity and hedge funds and how we’re ruining great old companies and some other shit.”
“I do remember, it was written up in the Journal and the Economist –”
“Yeah, everywhere. All these business journalists love him; they’re all making fifty thousand a year and living with their parents. What the fuck do they know? So now he’s became a folk hero, the Mark Twain of business. It’s crap.”
“You’ve dealt with worse, Jonathan.”
“There’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s got you and me on tape.”
Hans listened as Goldstein told him about his dinner with Michael. “How did he get this tape?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. I’ve secured my cell phone though and I’ve got security people electronically sweep my office every day now. You should do the same.”
“So we need to neutralize him.”
This time Goldstein actually laughed, a rare sight.
“Yeah, Hans, you’re pretty sharp. Neutralize. If you can make that happen, you won’t have to worry anymore about my five point seven one million. Consider the debt paid. You know . . . this isn’t Nazi Germany.”
Hans said nothing. Consider the debt paid? The idiot, he thought.
Goldstein continued, “I need for you to persuade Michael Nicholas to leave Gibraltar and in such a way that he does not jeopardize my plan for the company—and that he doesn’t create a public relations nightmare for me, or worse, a legal one. I don’t intend to room with you in Leavenworth. Figure out how to do it.”
“I understand,” Hans said.
Goldstein got up from his desk, his way of ending the meeting. I have to be in Berlin for a few days of meetings. I expect this will be resolved by the time I return.”
“I will do better than that. I will rearrange my schedule to coincide with yours. Let’s arrange to meet for dinner in Berlin and I can assure you we’ll resolve this to your satisfaction.”
“Work it out with my secretary,” Goldstein said. “I’m not big on long meals or German food.”
“Don’t worry, Jonathan. No wiener schnitzel.” Although Ulricht was smiling, it had nothing to do with breaded veal cutlets. He had plans for both Jonathan Goldstein and Michael Nicholas. And Goldstein had just taken the bait.
Chapter 37
Whitestone, New York
It hadn’t been as easy as just closing the laptop. Donna couldn’t get Alex, whichever one he was, off her mind. Who else would have known where her wine fridge was in her bedroom? She opened her laptop, signed back on to iJewishMingle and logged in.
He was there, waiting.
Donna: So, if you are who you’re trying to make me think you are –
Alex: I’m Alex. I’m your fuckin’ husband.
She’d had just enough wine to be able to keep up with this guy. He was sounding more and more like her dead Alex but that was impossible . . .
Donna: So, why are you on a Jewish dating site? Not to mention, that you’re dead?
Alex: I like Jewish women.
Donna: Really, I never would have guessed that, since you were married to one and cheated on her left and right with a fucking Irish Catholic.
Alex: Hey, I never –
Donna: Don’t lie to me! I know everything –
Alex: Everything?
What was happening? Who was this? Was it really him? Despite all her suspicions and those of some of his friends, it was ridiculous to even think about. It couldn’t be. Even for Alex, this was impossible. Did he fake his death? Were her suspicions really right? Okay, she’d push him—him, or whoever or whatever this was.
Donna: Yes, for once I know everything and you’re going to answer my questions. Not like it used to be where you’d go and pour yourself a drink while I’m going crazy here and then you go into your fucking den with all your goddamned pictures of Mickey Mantle or Jeter or –
