The Chairman Page 8

  Gillette glanced over at Whitman. “I assume that because you’re supporting me, you won’t support Paul Strazzi’s new fund.”

  “Bad assumption,” Whitman replied sharply. “I’ll give Strazzi an early soft commitment of a billion dollars, too. Whoever gets to fifteen first, that’s who I’ll go with.”

  Gillette had anticipated that answer, but it had been worth a shot. Getting North America Guaranty out of the market would have been a critical blow to Strazzi.

  Whitman smiled. “Let the games begin.”

  “I’ll get to fifteen first,” Gillette promised firmly.

  “I don’t doubt it, Christian. When you focus on something, you seem to make it happen. Even something huge like this.” Whitman shook his head. “But Paul Strazzi is a street fighter. He grew up in a rough part of Brooklyn, not Beverly Hills,” Whitman said pointedly. “Paul has the toys now. Boats, cars, and planes. But he hasn’t forgotten where he came from. He’ll do whatever he can to screw you. He’ll be out to prove a hard lesson to a young gun. There won’t be any rules, I guarantee you. That’s the essence of Strazzi’s success. He’ll do anything to win.”

  “So will I,” Gillette said flatly.

  Whitman chuckled. “Look at you. I just gave you a billion-dollar commitment, and it’s like we’re talking about the weather. No big deal. In fact, it’s almost like you’re disappointed.”

  “I wanted two billion.”

  Whitman laughed. “I admire you, Christian. If I could do it over again, I’d do private equity.” He took a deep breath. “A fifteen-billion-dollar fund. It’s really amazing.”

  “You manage trillions,” Gillette pointed out.

  “Yeah, but most of it is in bank CDs and U.S. government securities. How exciting is that? Where’s the risk? You’re the one buying and selling entire companies,” Whitman said wistfully.

  Gillette stood up. He needed to get going, and he had what he’d come for. “I appreciate your support, Miles,” he said, shaking the older man’s hand.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Christian,” Whitman called as Gillette reached the conference room door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a big football fan.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, the Super Bowl’s coming up. I’d really like to get my hands on four tickets to it. Good ones. Don’t you have a connection with the family that owns the Giants?”

  “I do,” Gillette confirmed. “And I’ll get you four box seats on the fifty-yard line. But, in return, if I get to 14.5 billion first, I want another five hundred million from you. I want a billion five in total. Is it a deal?”

  Whitman thought for a moment. “Deal.”

  “Good.”

  “One more thing,” Whitman called.

  “What?”

  “How much key man life insurance is Ben Cohen carrying on you?”

  “Five million.”

  “Tell him to triple that.”

  7

  Enemies. They are everywhere.

  “MR. STRAZZI WILL BE WITH you in a moment.”

  The young woman wore a revealing top and a pleated skirt that rose high on her tanned, tapered legs. Mason tried not to look, but his eyes kept flickering to her bare skin.

  “Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

  Mason snapped himself out of it, remembering how cold the barrel of the pistol had felt against his temple that night after the funeral reception. He’d been just about to pull the trigger when Strazzi called. “Water’s fine.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated, her full lips breaking into a smile.

  A suggestive smile, he was certain. He tried to fight it but smiled back. It was instinct.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Mason cursed under his breath when she was gone. He couldn’t keep going on like this. At some point, there wouldn’t be any more chances.

  “Here you are,” she said, returning to the office a few moments later with bottled water and a glass of ice. She put the glass down on a table beside the leather chair and poured.

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, doing a double take.

  “What is it?” he asked, catching the hint of recognition on her face. He’d seen that same look on the faces of other women before.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look a little like Brad Pitt?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” She put the bottle down beside the glass. “Why don’t you stop by on your way out,” she suggested. “I’m right down the hall. My name’s Vicky.”

  Her hand hung suspended in front of him—sinewy fingers and long nails highlighted at the tips by a perfect French manicure. “Hi, Vicky.” His fingers closed around hers. “I’m Troy.”

  “Troy Mason, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Paul’s been looking forward to meeting with you.”

  “He has?”

  “Oh yes.” She gave him another smile, then twirled around and headed out of the office. “See you in a little while,” she called over her shoulder.

  Mason watched until she disappeared, allowing himself a few seconds of vulgar fantasy. The hell with it. Dogs had to hunt.

  “You like that?” a loud voice boomed into the office.

  Mason’s eyes snapped toward the voice. Paul Strazzi stood in the doorway opposite the one Vicky had just gone through.

  “She’s smart, too,” Strazzi continued, sitting down behind his desk without shaking hands. “Not just a pretty face.”

  Mason said nothing, thinking about what a terrible first impression he’d made.

  “Glad you could come by this morning, Troy.” Strazzi was a bear of a man. Six six and 240 pounds with a barrel chest and a massive skull covered by a full head of short-cropped gray hair. Still in decent shape for a fifty-seven-year-old. “No need to be so dressed up,” he said, gesturing at Mason’s necktie. “We’re business casual here at Apex. One small way out of many that we’re different from Everest.”

  “Different from Everest. I like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Strazzi gestured again. “So take it off.”

  “What?”

  “The tie. Take it off.”

  Mason slowly undid the knot, then slid the tie from around his neck and draped it over the arm of the chair.

  “Undo the top button of your shirt, too.”

  Mason obeyed.

  “That’s better,” Strazzi said. “Now we can relax.”

  Mason had never met Strazzi, but he’d heard the man was eccentric—and dictatorial. That he ran Apex Capital with an iron fist. That no decision was made without his input. From which companies they bought to the brand of paper clips they used.

  “So your partner, Chris Gillette, fires you the day after he takes control of Everest.” Strazzi sneered. “That’s a hell of a thing.”

  The image of taillights gliding away into the darkness at the Donovan estate was etched into Mason’s memory. Gliding away as he picked himself up off the asphalt. “Yes, it is.”

  “You should have expected it.”

  Mason recoiled slightly. “Why? He was my friend. At least I thought he was.”

  “He did what any alpha wolf would do. He drove out his closest rival when he took control. Friend or not.” Strazzi nodded at the door Vicky had left open. “Shut that.”

  Mason stood up deliberately, forcing irritation into his expression, aware that being told what to do was all part of a mind game. Unfortunately he had no choice but to obey Strazzi’s order. He needed this job.

  “How did he do it?” Strazzi asked when Mason was seated again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did Gillette get you out of Everest so fast without a fight?”

  Mason had anticipated this coming up. Just not so soon. “He caught me having sex with a woman who worked for me at one of our portfolio companies.” Maybe he could move to V
ermont and open an ice-cream shop on the main street of a little town. Maybe then he and his wife could start over.

  Strazzi rubbed his large Roman nose. “Good, Troy. I thought it would take us a while to get to the bottom line, but I guess you’re desperate.”

  “You guessed right,” Mason agreed, grabbing his tie. He assumed the meeting was over.

  “Gillette gave you a million bucks but he stripped you of your ups. Right?”

  Mason hesitated, gazing at Strazzi.

  Strazzi nodded. “Yeah, I know the deal.” He pointed at the tie hanging from Mason’s hand. “Put that down. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “How do you know the deal?”

  “I have a source inside Everest.”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Who is it?”

  Strazzi shook his head. “I’m not telling you. Not yet anyway.” He pulled a cigar from a desk drawer and lit it. “Would you rather be loved or respected, Troy?” Strazzi blew out the match and tossed it in a trash can.

  “Do you mean—”

  “No qualifiers, son. Just answer the question. Loved or respected?”

  Mason paused. The answer Strazzi was looking for wasn’t clear. His first instinct was to say “respect.” Strazzi was a hard-nosed man with a fiery temper. He axed people at will and let attorneys and courts deal with the details. But he was a passionate man, too. A family man with ten grandchildren. “Loved.”

  “Why?” Strazzi demanded, exhaling a cumulonimbus cloud of smoke.

  Mason shrugged, wishing suddenly that he could be true to his wife, that he wasn’t so tempted by other women. “Isn’t that what we all want?” he asked, surprised at the conversation. He’d anticipated that this would be about his background, and what he could do for Apex.

  Strazzi put the cigar down in a large, circular ashtray. “Right answer, wrong reason. A man who’s respected gets cards on his birthday and a gold watch at sixty-five. But a man who’s loved can inspire others to do incredible things, and those of us who inspire can take advantage of those incredible things.” Strazzi’s expression hardened. “Of course you could say the same thing about hate. Hate can inspire people to do incredible things, too.” Strazzi picked up the cigar again. “And sometimes hate becomes love. Sometimes hate really is love.”

  Mason understood. He’d hated his Stanford football coach for three long seasons, detested the brutal practices and the tongue-lashings he’d endured in front of the entire team for minor mistakes. Then the man had made him captain his senior year, and they’d won the Rose Bowl and ended up ranked fifth in the nation. They’d accomplished an incredible thing. Despite his heavily bandaged knee, Mason had hobbled up to the man when the game was over, hugged him, and told him he loved him.

  “I hated most people at Morgan Stanley when I started work there right out of City College,” Strazzi spoke up. “They were all punks who’d gone to Princeton, Harvard, and Stanford. I was just a social ‘project’ to them. I had the wrong last name and I’d gone to a minor-league school. I figured I was around just to remind them of how much better they were than me.

  “But this one guy took me under his wing,” Strazzi continued, taking another puff on the cigar. “He convinced me I could go through the white-shoe set like a bullet through rotten flesh. He convinced me they didn’t have something I had—the drive to do whatever it took to get what I wanted. I’ll never forget that man as long as I live. He’s the one person I’ll never turn my back on.”

  Mason thought about asking who that person was. But, like the question about Strazzi’s source inside Everest, he assumed he wouldn’t get an answer.

  Strazzi put his feet up on the desk. “Where did you go to school, Troy?”

  For the second time, Mason assumed his answer would end the conversation. “Stanford undergrad and Harvard Business School.”

  “Best of the best.” Strazzi sneered.

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Didn’t want to tell me that, either, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you hate Chris Gillette?” Strazzi asked, suddenly slamming his feet to the floor, leaning over the desk, and pointing the smoking cigar at Mason. “Or do you just dislike him?”

  Mason stared into Strazzi’s burning eyes. This was an easy one. “I hate him.”

  “Good. So do I, and I want to take him down. I want to take his whole damn firm down. I want to destroy Bill Donovan’s legacy.” Strazzi puffed on the cigar. “Will you help me?”

  Mason felt emotion surge through his body. “Oh yeah.”

  “And are you willing to do whatever it takes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything? Anything at all?”

  Mason gazed at Strazzi intently, trying to understand exactly what the other man meant. But maybe there was nothing to analyze. Maybe there were no boundaries. Maybe it was just that simple. “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Welcome aboard. Let’s talk compensation.”

  “One question, first.”

  “What?”

  “How did you know to call me so fast?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You called me at home after Donovan’s funeral, only a few hours after Gillette canned me. How did you know?”

  Strazzi smiled. “I told you. Chris Gillette has enemies he thinks are allies.”

  The bodyguard trotted across the sidewalk and opened the limousine door. Gillette spotted the handle of a pistol protruding from the man’s shoulder holster as he bent down and slipped into the vehicle. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Cohen was waiting inside, scribbling notes on a legal pad. “How did it go?” he asked, looking up.

  Gillette relaxed onto the seat beside Cohen. “Miles committed NAG to a billion five,” he answered, omitting the fact that the commitment was conditional. That it was only going to the firm that raised thirteen and a half billion first.

  “A billion five? That’s incredible, Christian. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Gillette watched the bodyguard get in beside the driver. “The rest of the raise won’t be that easy.”

  The small cell phone Gillette carried in his suit jacket began vibrating. He used the Blackberry strictly for business calls. This phone was for social calls.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket, loving the way it fit snugly in the palm of his hand. He’d become a techno-junkie over the past few years, always looking for the latest gadget. “Hello,” he said, not recognizing the number on the tiny screen.

  “Hi.”

  It was Faith. He recognized her voice immediately. “How are you this morning?” He was aware that Cohen was listening intently.

  “Great. I still have that glow. I had a wonderful time last night.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Listen, I have to go to Los Angeles this afternoon to do some PR stuff. You know, drop by a few stores and sign some CDs. Why don’t you come with me? It would be a lot of fun.”

  Gillette hesitated, remembering how good it felt to be with her. “I’m sure it would be fun, but I’m stacked up over the next few days with Everest stuff.”

  “Disappointing me already,” she said, her voice turning sad.

  “Hey, look, I—”

  “I’m just kidding,” she interrupted. “I know you’ve got even more going on now that you’re chairman. I just thought I’d take a chance.”

  “When are you back?”

  “It’s a quick trip. Tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Call me tonight,” he suggested. “We’ll get together when you get back.”

  “Okay.” Faith hesitated. “Say something nice, Christian, please.”

  “Have a safe trip.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Call me tonight,” he repeated, catching the beginning of her frustrated groan as he cut the call off. “Bye.”

  “Was that Faith?” Cohen wanted to know.

  Gillette slipped the phone back into his pocket. />
  “Did you sleep with her?” Cohen pushed when he didn’t get an answer.

  “None of your business.”

  “It is when you fire Troy for doing the same thing.”

  Gillette turned slowly on the seat. “It isn’t the same thing, Ben,” he said evenly. “And don’t ever be disloyal to—”

  “It’s exactly the same thing. Ultimately, Faith Cassidy works for you. And I’m not being disloyal, damn it, I’m trying to protect you. Who the hell do you think decoyed the paparazzi away from your front door this morning?”

  Gillette stared at the small man for a few seconds. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly, realizing suddenly that maybe he shouldn’t take Cohen for granted, that Cohen could be more than just a numbers guy. “Have you found out whether or not that woman who was killed in front of the church had children?”

  “She had three.”

  “How old were they?”

  “Nine, seven, and four. Two girls and a boy. She was divorced, and the kids have gone to live with her sister on Long Island. There’s child support from the ex, but it isn’t much, and the sister has a full plate with four kids of her own.”

  Gillette glanced out at the Brooklyn Bridge as they headed north on the FDR toward midtown. “Give each child a quarter of a million.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Cohen said. “It isn’t our fault she was—”

  “They’re kids, Ben. Young kids. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.”

  Isabelle’s image drifted suddenly through Gillette’s mind: long black hair, sculpted cheekbones, smooth, honey-brown skin, and dark eyes. There was something about her that haunted him, something he couldn’t shake. Thinking about her was distracting, and he hated being distracted.

  He’d only spoken to her for a few moments in Jose and Selma’s kitchen. Not long enough to really even draw a first impression. But here he was, thinking about her—again.

  “Take it out of my bonus,” Gillette instructed.

  “Okay, okay. I agree.” Cohen put his hands up, giving in. “We need to do the right thing here. I’ll make the arrangements, and we’ll all share the burden. Not just you.”

  Fifteen minutes later the limousine eased to a stop in front of the Everest building.