The Prince of Risk

60

One last shot.

Jack Steinmetz, owner of the Steinmetz Fund, with over $30 billion under management, billionaire ten times over, poster boy for Wall Street excess, lived in the famed San Remo Apartments on Central Park West. His place in the city was one of his smaller residences. Four floors and 15,000 square feet overlooking the park. The elevator opened. Steinmetz stood waiting, arms open, smile on his face. Sixty, trim, and tanned, he looked like everyone’s favorite uncle. Looks were deceiving. Jack Steinmetz, or Jack the Ripper, as he preferred to be called, was not a nice man, and he had four failed marriages, five kids in rehab or recovery, and six former business partners, all of whom were engaged in litigation against him, to prove it.

“Bobby, it’s been too long.”

“Jack, good to see you.”

Steinmetz drew him close for an embrace as if they were long-lost brothers. “Tough times. Sorry about the bad news.”

“It’s all right. My father and I weren’t close.”

“I wasn’t talking about your father. I meant your fund. Word on the street is that you’re going belly-up. Yeah, and about your father-just imagine I said all the usual things. Condolences, sorry, whatever. What the hell happened, anyway?”

“I know about as much as the next guy. The investigation is ongoing.”

“I’d thought you’d have a direct line to the scene, what with Alice being an agent.”

“Alex.”

“Whatever. She’s a good-looking piece, ain’t she? Wouldn’t have minded a little of that myself. You’re divorced, right? I’m not stepping on any toes. I’m getting a little sick of Miss Russia. Had to leave her up in Jackson Hole with Sumner and Larry. Give her a chance to find the next meal ticket.”

Astor ignored Steinmetz’s comments. He’d been the same loudmouth twenty years ago when Astor was starting out and Steinmetz was being feted in the press as “king of the LBO.”

“It’s not Alex’s show,” Astor said, nonplussed. “The Bureau’s serious about keeping things locked down.”

“TV says the car went berserk, like that thing Hasselhoff used to drive-”

“KITT.”

“That’s the one. Me, I think it was the driver. The Secret Service guy went postal.” Steinmetz laughed at his joke. “Well, it’s not all bad. Maybe we’ll get a Fed chair who knows what he’s doing. Charlie Hughes had his head so far up his ass he could tickle his tonsils. Always calling for higher capital requirements. The problem isn’t too much leverage, it’s not enough. I used to put down three billion and buy a company for thirty. Now I need to pump in eight or nine up front. I don’t have to tell you what that does for returns. Of course, I’m not hanging it out there in the wind like you.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Yeah?” said Steinmetz, thrusting his chin out. “That why you’re here? Tell me how rosy things are at Comstock. Paint me a nice little picture.”

“You were happy enough with how your other investments turned out.”

“Past history. Made it. Spent it. Now I’m looking to make more. Don’t ask me to thank you for doing your job.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Astor walked behind Steinmetz into the living room. A two-story floor-to-ceiling window looked over Central Park. The waning light gilded the trees with a warm orange glow. Stare at it long enough and it would hypnotize you. Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right. Astor looked away.

He’d been here once before. The occasion was Jack Steinmetz’s fiftieth birthday, and he and his Russian wife had turned the place into a re-creation of Studio 54 during its heyday in the late 1970s, complete with a white horse parading down the stairs. That was ten years back, but Astor still had a hard time erasing the image of Steinmetz wearing silver lamé pants, a silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and a gold coke spoon around his neck.

“Hear about my latest deal? Vodka?” Steinmetz sauntered to his bar and selected a strangely shaped bottle holding a clear liquid. “It’s Lenin,” he said, catching Astor’s curious glance. “They took the cast from his face in Red Square. I bought the distillery last month. Fifty million lock, stock, and barrel. Forget those other ones from France and Sweden. Real vodka should be Russian. Try it. Goes down like water.”

“No, thanks,” said Bobby. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Suit yourself.” Steinmetz made a show of pulling back his sleeve and checking the time. His gold wristwatch was as large as a deep-sea diver’s helmet. “Okay, Astor, enough of this bullshitting. Spit it out.”

“We’re facing a margin call on the flagship fund. We’re short yuan. The market moved against us.”

“You’re short yuan?” gasped Steinmetz, spraying a little vodka in Astor’s face. “And here I was, all these years thinking you were one of the smart ones. The deputy trade minister stood up on TV last night and confirmed his country’s policy of allowing the currency to appreciate.”

“We think it’s going the other way.”

“You think. And you want me to bail you out so you can hang on and see if you’re right.”

“I want to give you the chance to get in at a good price.”

“Bargain basement, no doubt. And?”

“And what?”

“And what’s the kicker? You expect me to get in line with the rest of the schmendricks you already conned?”

“I can’t give you any preferential treatment. That’s illegal.”

“Now that we have it on record that you’re an honest businessman, let’s talk turkey. What are you looking for?”

“Three hundred.”

“That it?”

“Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Forget it. I’m not interested in your fund. Too risky. You do get points, however, for having the balls to put it to me like you did. You got big ones, that’s for sure. Tell you what-I’ll loan you the money if it can be secured by your other funds.”

“Fair enough,” said Astor. “I can give you six percent for ninety days.”

“Come again? I thought you said six percent.”

“Six for ninety. That’s twenty-four percent annualized.”

“I can do the math, thank you. Here’s what I’m thinking. Ten percent for thirty days.”

“Thirty million for a month. That’s a hundred and twenty percent annualized.”

“What do you care? You’re the genius who’s going to make a fortune when the Chinese surprise the entire world and decide to depreciate the yuan.”

Astor smiled to himself. Loan-sharking was alive and well and operating in plain daylight on Central Park West. “Can you have the funds in my account by three tomorrow?”

“I can have them there at nine in the morning.”

Astor extended a hand. “Deal.”

Steinmetz regarded him. He smiled cagily, and Astor thought, I knew this was too easy. “One more thing. I’d like you to ask nice.”

“I just did.”

Steinmetz knocked back the rest of the vodka. “You call that nice? I’m thinking you take a knee.”

“Pardon?”

“Hit the carpet.” Steinmetz teetered, and Astor realized that he was drunk.

“That’s enough, Jack. Do we have a deal or don’t we?”

“Actually, two knees. I want to see you grovel.”

“Be serious.”

Steinmetz threw his hands on Astor’s shoulders and tried to force him down. “Grovel.”

Astor hit him. He didn’t know where the fist came from, but his knuckles ached and Steinmetz lay sprawled on his couch, blood trickling from his mouth.

“That’s assault,” sputtered Steinmetz, struggling to get to his feet.

“Actually, it’s battery. Arrest me.”

Steinmetz came at him and Astor chucked him aside, sending the older man toppling onto a coffee table. Astor bent down to help him up, but Steinmetz refused his help. “Where you going to go now? I was giving you a bargain. You’re toast, Astor. Hear me? Toast.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Astor. French fried, with maple syrup.

He left before he decided to hit Steinmetz again.