The First Wives Club (48 page)

He looked up. ‘Thank you for being so nice to Bette. She really likes Anne Paradise. And she told me how you protected her from Lally.

Thank you.”

“She’s a nice girl, Uncle Bob.”

“I know.” He smiled, then returned to the file laid out before him.

“How have things worked out with Jerry Loest?” he asked.

“Wonderfully well. We’ve brought two other new accounts his way.

Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. We could use some new blood on our marketing. My man on Madison Avenue says Loest’s a very talented guy. He’s worth an investment.”

“Really? That was my reading, too. Good. I’m glad you told me that.”

She paused. Taking care of Aaron Paradise was small change compared to their main target, Gil Griffin. “Uncle Bob, I feel terrible about the loss of the Mitsui stock. I feel so responsible.”

Bob looked up quickly. “No need to, my dear. Remember, I put some very good people on it. They came up with the same thing. Gil Griffin was very smart in how he handled it. He lied to his partners, so they confirmed the lie to my man at the Exchange.” Bob patted Elise’s hand.

“These things sometimes happen when you play the market, my dear.

You’re not used to losing, you’re such a good player. It’s too bad, because Griffin is such a bastard. This isn’t the first time he’s cost me money.”

Elise pointed to the file. “So, is it all over?”

Tapping the file on his lap, he said, “It’s not all over yet, thanks to Brenda. This is very doable. As it happens, I owe Tanaki at Maibeibi a favor, and telling him about Gil Griffin having his eye on Tanaki’s company might pay off my debt. Of course, it would take some delicate handling Tanaki’s shipbuilding subsidiary has been losing money for years. If he sells it off to real estate developers. he’d make a bundle, but he’s against development and would never lay off the employees at the works. But if we found something he wants of ours .

. . well, we might not recoup our Mitsui losses immediately from it, but we could, just possibly, do Gil in on this one. I’d like to see that happen. I don’t like him. Never did. And the goodwill we might reap with Tanaki is always worth something.”

“Then let’s do it,” Elise said.

“Done! I think we ought to visit him in person. Yes. That would be best. I’ll get my man in Kyoto on it tomorrow.” He closed the file, and then he, too, looked out over the city. They lay there, quiet for a moment.

“So much wealth, so much poverty,” Bob said, staring. “Elise, do you know the rent for an apartment in those buildings there, across the street?”

Elise looked at the old low-rise he was pointing at. She knew his penthouse was worth a lot more than the fourteen million he had paid for it ten years ago. “No,” she said.

“Two hundred and sixteen dollars and nineteen cents a month. It’s rent-controlled, and an old woman, Mrs. Willie Schmidt, has lived there since 1939. Same view of the East River I’ve got. She’s close to ninety now, and it’s a fifth-floor walk-up. I offered her a hundred thousand dollars to give me the apartment, but she wouldn’t. Said she was happy there. So I offered her a quarter of a million. She turned me down. No use tryin’, young fella,’ she said. There’s nothing I need that money can buy.” I know just how she feels.”

They sat for a little while longer. “Know why I wanted the apartment?” he asked at last. Elise shook her head. “For security reasons. My man in McLean thought it was a good idea.” Uncle Bob sighed. “What a world! I’ve got more ex-Secret Service and CIA staff members on my payroll than Gorbachev does.”

Elise laughed.

Uncle Bob looked over at her. ‘Are you happy, Elise?” When she didn’t answer, he paused. “What did you do about that Larry Cochran?”

“I’m seeing him, Uncle Bob.”

“Well, good for you. He seemed like such a nice person.”

Elise thought of Larry, and then she thought of her mother. Helena would not approve. And while Helena was hardly in a position to judge, Elise felt both judged and grateful, too. Grateful that her mother couldn’t meet him. How dreadful, she thought, I’m glad my mother is incapacitated. Her lip trembled.

“Oh, he s nice. Very nice, Uncle Bob. And funny, and considerate and tabnted.

But he’s out of work. He’s a nobody. And he’s half my age ! ” ‘So help him get a job. Help him be a somebody. About the age, however, you can do nothing, except learn to live with it gracefully. When waiters ask me what my daughter wants for dinner, I tell them Bette’s my granddaughter. So what? She’s a good girl, and we’re contented.”

“But Uncle Bob …” What could she say? How Bette would never be with him if it weren’t for his money? How his old body must repulse her in bed? How humiliating Elise would find it to be used? How her mother might be right? To her horror, she felt a tear roll out from her right eye. And she was about to sob, she realized, if she didn’t do something. Because the truth was, she wanted Larry Cochran desperately. More, it felt, than she had ever wanted anything in her whole long life.

She stood up abruptly and strode halfway to the balustrade. But before she could get farther, Uncle Bob was beside her and had taken her hand.

He turned her to him. “You married a fool, Elise. A pompous, boring fool. Why?

To be safe. But you weren’t. No one ever is. Follow your heart, Elise. Don’t waste the second half of your life.”

Strangers in Paradise.

Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The pants Leslie had bought for him were too damn tight. He was not a thirty-four anymore, thank you very much. He’d asked her to pick up a pair of his standard khaki chinos, and when she had asked him his size, he had said thirty-four.

What in the world had possessed him? And who would have thought an inch made such a difference? size thirty-five is hardly disgraceful for a man in his late forties, he thought to himself. I’m over six foot one. I haven’t been a thirty-four since I was at Choate. I’m in excellent shape.

And really, he was. He ran three miles four or five times a week, and he still played the occasional game of tennis. Maybe he didn’t play as much as he used to when he was married to Annie, but it was harder now to find a partner. Leslie wouldn’t play. She worked out alone at her damned machines-she said they were more efficient, and he supposed she was right. Still, he missed having an in-house tennis partner.

He patted his sides. Maybe he was thickening a bit around the waist, but he still didn’t have love handles. He would never let that happen.

Aaron had a horror of fat. It said weak, it said lack of discipline, it said old and unattractive. He was none of those things, he told himself. Only vain enough to tell a white lie to his fiancee.

Things had not been good between them lately. That was why he’d lied.

After he’d confessed to the Morty the Madman stock loss, Leslie had gone berserk. He wouldn’t even have told her but he’d passed the tip on to her brother, Jon, who’d also lost a bundle. Leslie had called him irresponsible and immature. She’d told him that she wouldn’t use her money to pay his expenses. Not that he’d asked. She’d cooled to him and not only socially. She’d turned her back on him in bed for more than a month noW. And she’d looked more alluring than ever. It was torture. No wonder he’d told the stupid lie. She made him feel bad about himself. A man With an erection and nowhere to put it was a pathetic sight.

Aaron looked at his watch. Forty minutes to De Los Santos’ visit. Why had he asked to see me? Aaron thought again. He shook off his nervousness, stood up, opened the closet that was concealed by a wall panel, and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. He felt the need for some reassurance, and ever since he was a little boy, his appearance had given him that. Now he critically surveyed himself, his long frame, piercing blue eyes, dark hair. Some gray just starting to show at the temples, but hey, that just made him Butch Cassidy instead of the Sundance Kid. No problem.

Nothing wrong with aging, as long as you did it like Paul Newman. And that’s how Aaron intended to do it. He was still damn handsome, and his casual clothes showed off his looks without giving him a peacock air. He changed his style a bit depending on his audience, but he always looked good, though he tried to be subtle about it. He might admit to being vain when he was alone, but he never wanted anyone else to suspect it. This, he decided, was a good, casual, but solid look.

Damnit, too bad the pants didn’t fit. He really was uncomfortable.

And it isn’t just the pants, he finally admitted. It’s everything.

It’s Leslie’s coldness since the debacle with the stock. It’s the problem with Sylvie’s trust, the visit from the lawyer from the SEC this afternoon, and losing the Federated account and the meeting with Jerry this afternoon, and the waiting on Morty to get out of jail so he can sign off on the new campaign and float me the loan he promised. No wonder he was uncomfortable.

Well, he had at last convinced Leslie to lend him the money to buy out Jerry. He’d pay her back out of the profits, or out of the money that Morty would lend him. Leslie did, after all, still believe in him despite his poor judgment on the stock deal. And as soon as Morty paid him off he’d be fine.

Christ, he cursed inwardly, it’s not enough to have suffered that enormOus fucking loss. Now he had to sit waiting for Morty to get out of jail to make up for it. Why was he in jail, anyway? Christ, couldn’t he make bail? Aaron secretly feared that maybe it wasn’t only Morty’s tax problems that got him in jail. He prayed it didn’t have anything to do with that stock purchase. He’d bought nothing in his own name, had only passed on that tip to Jon Rosen and, of course, used Sylvie’s trust. But it was legal to have bought as much as he wanted, the stuff was already public and being traded over the counter. No one could know about Morty’s tip, unless Morty told them, and he’d never tell. Especially now that he had the tax problem.

There was absolutely nothing to worry about, damnit! Then why was De Los Santos’ impending visit making him so edgy?

He walked to the door of his office and opened it. Then he turned and surveyed the space he’d created and worked in for the last nine years.

The hallway was bustling. The agency now had three floors in a cast-iron building on West Twenty-third Street right near the old Flatiron Building. He’d been right to move them down here, though Jerry and everyone else had said no at the time.

He’d been a pioneer, and it had paid off. Now every boutique in the ad game wanted space in this neighborhood. He’d come a long way, baby.

And he loved it.

He went over some comps from the Larimer account while he waited for De Los Santos to arrive. These were good. They were very good—clever.

Aaron had assembled a talented staff. Jerry hadn’t done that.

He’s really dead weight, Aaron thought to himself for what must have been the hundredth time. There was nothing personal here. And no room for wimping out with guilt and al that bullshit. He thought of Leslie and her therapeutic disgust with guilt. It was unproductive. This firm will be a lot better off without Jerry.

He rubbed his hands through his hair and tried to relax. He looked at his watch.

In a few minutes he would have to see this guy, then go into the meeting with erry and make perhaps the best business move of his life.

It would mean more money, and God knows he needed it. He had to try to replace Sylvie’s trust fund and … it was expensive living with Leslie. She didn’t really have much tolerance for anything less than abundance, and Aaron was feeling pressured.

His secretary announced Mr. De Los Santos. Aaron snugged up his knit tie, tucked in his shirt more neatly, and walked to the door. Miguel De Los Santos was surprisingly good-looking. Aaron always noticed that in a man. Here he was expecting a bureaucratic drone and this guy looked built for action. Cheap suit, of course, but sharply angled planes in his face, wide shoulders, and a walk more like an athlete’s than a desk jockey’s. Not what he’d pictured at all. It was disconcerting. He thought again of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but this time he remembered how they’d been pursued by the Pinkertons.

Who was this guy?

“How do you do, Mr. De Los Santos.” He said it as a statement, leaving off the questioning inflection. It seemed a powerful opening, polite but lacking interest.

“Hello, Mr. Paradise. How are you.”

His response lacked the questioning tone as well. The man looked him up and down, taking his time about it.

Aaron wished his pants weren’t so tight. Well, he’d make the guy his friend.

“Fine, fine. Come in and have a seat.”

“Thank you.” But he didn’t move toward the Barcelona chairs that surrounded the low table, even though Aaron sat there. Instead the guy walked over to the windowsill and perched on it. “Great office,” De Los Santos said, looking around the spacious room.

“Thank you. I like it a lot.” Aaron smiled. Definitely time for a new role, here. Casual, equal to equal.

Aaron crossed his legs and looked at the guy. He looked smart.

Shit.

Well, he really had done nothing wrong.

It wasn’t illegal to lose money, for chrissakes.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. De Los Santos?”

“Well, as I told you on the phone, I’m investigating the Morty the Madman offering. I’m in a fact-finding phase right now, sniffing around.” He paused. “There have been some complaints.”

“Is this related to the tax thing? I understand there is a tax problem that Mr. Cushman has on his hands now.”

“Well, all things are interrelated in the end, aren’t they?”

“Uh-huh.” What was this guy, a fucking philosopher? Aaron felt his hand close into a fist. Keep it open. Seem interested. But casual.

Get the bastard to like you. Aaron crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair, and smiled at De Los Santos.

De Los Santos seemed not to notice. “I understand you’re the advertising agency that handled the Madman account?”

”Of course. You don’t need me to tell you that. It’s a matter of record.” Whoa, partner. That sounded a bit defensive. Smile again.

“Right…. And are you also personally acquainted with Morton Cushman?”