Misfortune (12 page)

“What did she say?” he asked.

“She said no.”

“What?” The crack in Jake’s voice made her cringe.

“Didn’t you hear me? Clio told me to get a commercial loan. She won’t give us the money.”

“It’s not possible. What did you say? How could you not convince her?”

Blair felt the sparks of her anger begin to flame. Jake, not she, was responsible for this mess, yet once again she was supposed to solve their problems. “Look, I did the best I could, and I don’t need you to second-guess how I raised the issue.”

“But how could this happen? They’ve never said no.”

“
They
didn’t say no. Clio did. But apparently she had already spoken to Dad.”

“I…I…,” Jake stammered.

Hearing her husband on the verge of tears made Blair nauseated. She hated weak men. Her husband was a coward who had spent his adult life hiding behind the Pratt family name and their money. That was the difference between him and Marco. Marco needed no one. “Pull yourself together. The point is that neither Pratt Capital nor my father is going to come up with the money to bail you out, so I suggest you figure out an alternate plan. I refuse to lose Marco.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Think fast.” Blair wanted to hang up on him.

“Do you think if we could get by Clio, your father would give it to us?”

“It doesn’t matter. The pure and simple fact is that we’re getting nothing if Clio has anything to do with it. This is your problem now, and you better solve it.”

“Clio? It’s Miles.” Miles Adler had never known Clio Pratt to answer her own telephone and was slightly startled to have gotten her directly, and after only one ring at that. Rather, he had grown accustomed to expecting the singsong sound of a maid’s voice, “Pratt residence, good day,” then several minutes on hold to gather his thoughts. Now Miles adjusted his grip on the receiver, leaned back against his black calf ’s leather chair, swiveled it around 180 degrees, and focused his gaze out the window behind his desk. From the twenty-first floor he had a commanding view of the treetops of Central Park, the Sheep Meadow in its constant state of reseeding, and, beyond that, the skyline of Manhattan’s West Side.

“I meant to call you.”

“Quite frankly, I wish you had. I just got off the phone with Randolph McDermott.” Miles paused to give Clio a chance to interrupt, but she remained quiet. He ran his finger along the rounded edge of his polished granite desk. The three-inch-thick slab of stone felt cool and smooth. “Randolph tells me you called off the ProChem deal.”

“That’s correct,” she said.

“What the hell—” Miles cut himself off. He picked up his fountain pen and scribbled circles on the engraved notepad in front of him, obliterating “Miles P. Adler, Senior Adviser, Pratt Capital.” His title was ridiculous, something that he and Richard had concocted on a business trip to Geneva three years ago. Side by side in Swissair’s first class, neither man could sleep despite several cocktails. Richard sipped Scotch and water. Miles preferred a good Pinot Noir. They decided that Miles should have a proper title, a position, something to use in introductions and on letterhead. “Manager” seemed too bureaucratic for an organization of two men, a secretary, an accountant, and an investment portfolio of nearly $1 billion. Miles had pushed, half-jokingly, for “the Chosen One.” They had settled on “Senior Adviser.”

“Pro-Chem is a great investment. I’ve negotiated extremely favorable terms for Pratt Capital, after a lot of time and energy, I might add. I resent your calling off the deal without even consulting me.”

“I’ve never understood consultation with you to be a prerequisite to Richard’s and my decisions.”

“We’re partners, for God’s sake!”

How ludicrous the expression sounded. Miles could no more expect to be treated as Clio’s equal than a hemorrhaging human could expect respect from a shark. His partner was Richard. Clio extracted cash from his talent and energy, but to her he was hired help, another one of many on the Pratt payroll.

“I’ve tracked the nutritional supplements market for months,” Miles said. “I’ve researched every comparable product out there. The line that Pro-Chem is developing is perfectly suited to capture a significant share of the market. Plus, it’s working on supplements specifically targeted for aging baby boomers and more elderly exercisers. With the change of demographics, it’s a gold mine.”

“Are you finished?”

Miles stabbed his pen into his pad. He heard a snap, a broken nib. “Goddamn it, Clio,” Miles exclaimed. “I want this deal. It’s good for Pratt Capital, so it’s good for you and Richard. We’ve got to act fast. If we let it slip by, it’ll be snatched up in a minute. I need you to call Randolph and tell him you made a mistake, that of course we’re still on.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Miles rose to his feet and began to circle his desk, a horse tethered by the three-foot lead of the telephone cord. He wished he had a hands-free telephone, or at least a cordless, but such gadgets were prohibited under Richard’s regime. “Focus is crucial,” Richard always exclaimed. “A conversation requires your total attention. Otherwise, you’re bound to miss something. So don’t try to do anything else.” Too bad now. Miles made a mental note to stop by Radio Shack and get a walkabout headset on his way home. He wouldn’t let his telephone conduct be dictated by his wheelchair-bound boss ninety miles east. “This deal has been in the pipeline for two years.”

“A sunk cost, then, isn’t that what you’d call it?” Clio spoke slowly. “An investment in Pro-Chem is out of the question. Period.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Pro-Chem is behind the times. Look at the papers, look at the fashion magazines. People aren’t obsessed with their bodies and diets like they were ten years ago. Pro-Chem’s product is a high-carbohydrate supplement that only professional bodybuilders are interested in. There’s no taste, no flavor, no variety. It’s a mistake.”

“You’re wrong. Pro-Chem is well managed, small, lean. There’s tremendous growth potential. The deal gives Pratt Capital nearly sixty percent equity.”

“Oh, please. It’s incredible to me that a company is foolhardy enough to develop health products under the name Pro-Chem. It sounds like a poison, or at least something totally artificial. What’s the crack marketing department thinking? And you’re telling me this company has good management?”

Miles hated to admit she was right about that. He had urged Pro-Chem’s chief executive officer to change the name several times without success.

“Besides, what do Mexicans know about healthy living? They can’t even keep their own air and water clean.”

Miles decided to ignore her ethnic slur. “The company’s headquarters are located in Mexico City for good reason. The manufacturing plant is fifty miles outside the city limits. Labor is cheaper. Pro-Chem can avoid a lot of government scrutiny and keep the FDA off its back, at least while products are in the development phase. It makes perfect sense to be there.” He could feel sweat forming on his forehead and looked about his desktop for a tissue. Too late. The beads of moisture fell onto the papers in front of him.

“Look, Miles, I’ve said what I have to say on this subject.”

“I don’t suppose talking to Richard would make any difference?”

“No, it would not. You’re not the first person today who has tried that tack to get me to change my mind. Richard and I are in complete agreement.”

“Please, Clio…” Miles softened his tone. “Can I come out to Southampton and meet with you and Richard? I really think that you should reconsider. I’m not trying to railroad you, but I think if I can show you some of the numbers, the business plans, the research I’ve done, you may understand the value in this investment.”

Clio laughed. “Oh, Miles, you know me well enough by now to know that I never go back on a decision. Not to say we wouldn’t otherwise like to see you any time you feel like a day in the country. Bring Penny, too.”

Typical of Clio, Miles thought. Make a business nightmare into a social occasion.

“Now, while I have you on the line,” Clio continued. “I’ll be in the city next Thursday. We need an office meeting. I want to discuss where we are, new ideas, proposals on the table. I want to hire an assistant. You’re what? Senior adviser. This position will be an associate adviser, perhaps. Also I plan to reupholster the conference room chairs and replace the main table. Last, just to let you know, I’m giving Belle a raise, twenty percent. She’s an exceptional secretary, and Richard doesn’t want to lose her.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

“The assistant’s not for you. It’s for me, and Richard. It’s clear that we’re not being kept up-to-date. For example, and this is just one, I’m still waiting for the materials on Bi-Star you promised to send last week. This adviser that I have in mind could do research, follow up on questions I might have. I can’t be coming in and out of the city just to pick up paperwork.”

“Belle can get that material for you.”

“In this particular case I’m sure she could. Or you could, as I asked you to.” She paused, seemingly to emphasize her reprimand, then continued. “The point is that Belle can’t do everything. You keep her busy. We keep her busy. What I had in mind is a college graduate, someone looking for some experience before business school. If we offered sixty or seventy thousand, we would be sure to get excellent candidates. Where else can they make that kind of money?”

With the title associate adviser, Miles thought. A kid with no experience, nothing to contribute but brute labor, gets a substantial salary and a title hardly different from his own. Was Clio grooming a lackey to replace him as insurance against his independence, or did she want to drive him out?

“Anyway, why don’t you set up a meeting for five o’clock. Ask Belle to order us a light supper. We should be done by eight.”

Miles resisted the urge to beat the telephone receiver against his desktop. Instead he rubbed his eyes, kneading his fist into his sockets. The pain distracted him momentarily.

“Miles, are you still there?”

He did not respond.

“Miles?…Miles?” He listened to her repeat his name several times until, apparently satisfied that they had been disconnected, she hung up.

Miles replaced his receiver, sat back down in his chair, and rested his forehead in the palm of his hands. Then he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, pulling out several dark brown strands as he did. He gazed at the loose hairs wound around his fingers, wondering if any would remain on his head for the celebration of his fortieth birthday, only five months away. He had always thought of bald men as old. Now he was fast becoming one of them, the unfortunate souls who had to put sunblock on their scalps.

Where had the years gone? Miles remembered so well his first day at work, parading through the marble-floored lobby, nodding to the security guard as if to say “I belong.” He had stood in this very office in a Brooks Brothers suit, striped suspenders, paisley bow tie, and beige trench coat, a Burberry with the recognizable tan, black, and red tartan lining. His first-day-at-work outfit had exhausted the credit line on his Visa card, something he’d gambled he could repay when he got his paycheck. That day he had felt an uncontrollable urge to touch everything, the blinds, the thick Oriental carpet, the Le Corbusier chrome-and-leather chairs. Richard had come in with Belle several steps behind carrying Cristal Champagne at $200 a bottle to drink at nine-fifteen in the morning. “Welcome, welcome to my world,” Richard had said, raising a glass to toast. Belle had toasted, too.

Although the view remained the same, life changed with money. At twenty-seven, after only a year on the job, his income astonished most of his contemporaries, and Miles quickly learned that money attracted money. Rich people ate together at the same restaurants, socialized at the same cocktail parties and charitable functions, even exercised together at the New York Health and Racquet Club. He joined in, spending his own money, and his considerable expense account, to mingle with potential investors and convince them to take part in Pratt Capital’s newest deal. Then he made money to spend again. A cycle. But it worked. The overall pie increased.

Plus, Miles’s income gave him an even bigger borrowing capacity. Three years later, a million-dollar mortgage bought him a four-bedroom apartment on 65th and Park, which in turn led him to his wife. She was twenty-three, seven years his junior, and still lived at home with her parents six floors above him. Penny Kraft, now Mrs. Miles Adler, had come with an impressive trust fund and a comparable dowry. His mortgage got him an asset, in addition to a place to rest his weary head. The same cycle.

In the early days, Richard urged him to gamble and rewarded him greatly for his successes. “If you think it’s sound, I’m behind you,” Richard always said. “Nothing about this business is guaranteed, and I’m not looking for zero risk. All I ask is that you do your homework. Give me an educated, informed basis for your recommendation. If it turns out you’re wrong, so be it. There’ll be other chances. You can’t second-guess a decision once made, and I won’t, either.” Later on, Richard hardly questioned him. He knew it was all about empowerment. Putting together a deal quickly became what Miles Adler did best.

Miles noted with some pride that he had rarely been wrong. Cleavage-enhancing lingerie, a luxury home goods catalog company, an X-ray technology for detecting plastic explosives, a nonallergenic synthetic material for use in artificial limbs, all had yielded substantial returns. With each success, he and Richard shared cigars from Richard’s private stash. The safe behind his desk held the humidor. Richard’s praise warmed him like a Turkish bath, soothing the tense muscles and knotted intestines that he lived with every day.

Although Miles knew he viewed the period before Richard’s stroke through a nostalgic lens, by comparison to his present situation, it had been a great time.

That changed May 20, a little more than a year ago, the day he learned that Richard was in the hospital. He couldn’t remember which one of the Pratt daughters had called him at home early that morning, interrupting his breakfast and his
New York Times
with the dreadful news. “Clio thought I should let you know. She asked if you can be home at ten-thirty. She’ll call you then.” He had begged to come to the hospital to wait with the rest of them, but the daughter had made it very clear he wasn’t welcome. He wasn’t family.