Sons of Fortune Read online

  His other lover called that afternoon to warn him that she was on her way to the hospital. He asked Hong Kong to hold.

  “Why?” Nat asked anxiously.

  “Because I’m having your baby,” his wife replied.

  “But it’s not due for another month.”

  “Nobody told the baby that,” said Su Ling.

  “I’m on my way, little flower,” said Nat dropping the other phone.

  When Nat returned from the hospital that night, he called his mother to tell her she had a grandson.

  “Wonderful news,” she said, “but what are you going to call him?” she asked.

  “Luke,” he replied.

  “And what do you plan to give Su Ling to commemorate the occasion?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “A lady in a bath.”

  It was another couple of days before he and the dealer finally agreed on five thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, and the little Bonnard was transferred from the gallery in SoHo to the bedroom wall in their apartment.

  “Do you fancy her?” asked Su Ling the day she and Luke returned from the hospital.

  “No, although there would be more of her to cuddle than you. But then I prefer thin women.”

  Su Ling stood and looked at her present for some time before she gave a pronouncement.

  “It’s quite magnificent. Thank you.”

  Nat was delighted that his wife seemed to appreciate the painting as much as he did. He was only relieved that she didn’t ask how much the lady had cost.

  What had begun as a whim on a journey from Rome to Venice to Florence with Tom had quickly turned into an addiction that Nat couldn’t kick. Every time he received a bonus he went in search of another picture. Nat might well have been dismissive of the used-car salesman, but his judgment turned out to be correct, because Nat continued to select Impressionists who were still within reach of his pocket—Vuillard, Luce, Pissarro, Camoin and Sisley—only to find that they increased in value as fast as any of the financial investments he selected for his clients on Wall Street.

  Su Ling enjoyed watching their collection grow. She took no interest in what Nat paid for his mistresses, and even less in their investment value. Perhaps this was because when, at the age of twenty-five, she was appointed as the youngest associate professor in Columbia’s history, she was earning less in a year than Nat was making in a week.

  He no longer needed to be reminded that it was obscene.

  Fletcher remembered the incident well.

  Matt Cunliffe had asked him to take a document over to Higgs & Dunlop for signing. “Normally I’d ask a paralegal to do this,” Matt explained, “but it’s taken Mr. Alexander weeks to get the terms agreed, and he doesn’t want any last-minute hitches that might just give them another excuse for not signing.”

  Fletcher had expected to be back at the office in less than thirty minutes, because all he needed was to get four agreements signed and witnessed. However, when Fletcher reappeared two hours later and told his boss that the documents had neither been signed nor witnessed, Matt put down his pen and waited for an explanation.

  When Fletcher had arrived at Higgs & Dunlop, he was left waiting in reception, and told that the partner whose signature he needed had not yet returned from lunch. This surprised Fletcher, as it was the partner in question, Mr. Higgs, who had scheduled the meeting for one o’clock, and Fletcher had skipped his own lunch to be sure he wouldn’t be late.

  While Fletcher sat in the reception area, he read through the agreement and familiarized himself with its terms. After a takeover bid had been agreed, a partner’s compensation package was challenged, and it had taken some considerable time before both partners had been able to agree on a final figure.

  At 1:15 P.M. Fletcher glanced up at the receptionist, who looked apologetic and offered him a second coffee. Fletcher thanked her; after all it wasn’t her fault that he was being kept waiting. But once he’d read through the document a second time, and had drunk three coffees, he decided Mr. Higgs was either downright rude or plain inefficient.

  Fletcher checked his watch again. It was 1:35 P.M. He sighed and asked the receptionist if he could use the washroom. She hesitated for a moment, before producing a key from inside her desk. “The executive washroom is one floor up,” she told him. “It’s only meant for partners and their most important clients, so if anyone asks, please tell them you’re a client.”

  The washroom was empty, and, not wishing to embarrass the receptionist, Fletcher locked himself into the end cubicle. He was just zipping up his trousers, when two people walked in, one of them sounding as if he had just arrived back from a long lunch, where water had not been the only drink imbibed.

  First voice: “Well I’m glad that’s settled. There’s nothing I enjoy more than getting the better of Alexander Dupont and Bell.”

  Second voice: “They’ve sent over some messenger boy with the agreement. I told Millie to leave him in reception and let him sweat a little.”

  Fletcher removed a pen from an inside pocket and tugged gently on the toilet roll.

  First voice, laughing: “What did you finally settle for?”

  Second voice: “That’s the good news, $1,325,000, which is a lot more than we anticipated.”

  First voice: “The client must be delighted.”

  Second voice: “That’s who I was having lunch with. He ordered a bottle of Château Lafitte ’52—after all we’d told him to expect half a million, which he would have been quite happy to settle for—for obvious reasons.”

  First voice, more laughter: “Are we working on a contingency fee?”

  Second voice: “We sure are. We pick up fifty percent of anything over half a million.”

  First voice: “So the firm has netted a cool $417,500. But what did you mean by ‘for obvious reasons?’”

  A tap was turned on. “Our biggest problem was the client’s bank—the company’s currently $720,000 overdrawn, and if we don’t cover the full sum by close of business on Friday, they’re threatening nonpayment, which would have meant we might not even have got…”—the tap was turned off—“…the original $500,000, and that after months of bargaining.”

  Second voice: “Pity about one thing.”

  First voice: “What’s that?”

  Second voice: “That you can’t tell those snobs over at Alexander Dupont and Bell that they don’t know how to play poker.”

  First voice: “True, but I think I’ll have a little sport with…”—a door opened—“…their messenger boy.” The door closed.

  Fletcher rolled up the toilet paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He left the cubicle and quickly washed his hands before slipping out and taking the fire escape stairs to the floor below. Once back in reception, he handed over the executive washroom key.

  “Thank you,” said the receptionist just as the phone rang. She smiled at Fletcher. “That was good timing. If you’ll take the elevator to the eleventh floor, Mr. Higgs is available to see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said as he walked back out of the room, stepped into the elevator and pressed the button marked “G.”

  Matt Cunliffe was unraveling the toilet roll when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Higgs is on line one,” said his secretary.

  “Tell him I’m not available.” Matt sat back in his chair and winked at Fletcher.

  “He’s asking when you will be available.”

  “Not before close of business on Friday.”

  26

  Fletcher couldn’t remember an occasion when he’d disliked someone so much on first meeting him, and even the circumstances didn’t help.

  The senior partner had asked Fletcher and Logan to join him for coffee in his office—an unusual event in itself. When they arrived, they were introduced to one of the new trainees.

  “I want you both to meet Ralph Elliot,” were Bill Alexander’s opening words.

  Fletcher’s first reaction was to wonder why he’d singled ou