Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  Nat was the youngest in a team of three at Morgan’s. His immediate boss was Steven Ginsberg, who was twenty-eight, and his number two, Adrian Kenwright, had just celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday. Between them, they controlled a fund of over a million dollars.

  As the currency markets open in Tokyo just as most civilized Americans are going to bed, and close in Los Angeles when the sun no longer shines on the American continent, one of the team had to be on call to cover every hour of the night or day. In fact the only occasion Steven allowed Nat to take an afternoon off was to watch Su Ling receiving her doctorate at Harvard, and even then he had to leave the celebration party so he could take an urgent phone call and explain why the Italian lira was going south.

  “They could have a Communist government by this time next week,” said Nat, “so start switching into Swiss francs,” he added. “And get rid of any pesetas or sterling we have on our books, because they both have left-wing governments, and will be the next to feel the strain.”

  “And the deutschmark?”

  “Hold on to the mark, because the currency will remain undervalued as long as the Berlin Wall is in place.”

  Although the two senior members of the team had a great deal more financial experience than Nat, and were willing to work just as hard, they both acknowledged that because of his political antennae Nat could read a market more quickly than anyone else they had ever worked with—or against.

  The day everyone sold the dollar and went into pounds, Nat immediately sold the pound on the forward market. For eight days it looked as if he might have lost the bank a fortune and his colleagues rushed past him quickly in the corridor without looking him in the eye. A month later, seven other banks were offering him a job and a considerable rise in salary. Nat received a bonus check for eight thousand dollars at the end of the year, and decided the time had come to go in search of a mistress.

  He didn’t tell Su Ling about the bonus, or the mistress, as she had recently received a pay raise of ninety dollars a month. As for the mistress, he’d had his eye on one particular lady he passed on the street corner every morning as he went to work. And she was still reposing there in the window when he returned to their flat in SoHo every evening. As each day passed, he gave the lady soaking in a bath more than a casual glance, and finally decided to ask her price.

  “Six thousand five hundred dollars,” the gallery owner informed him, “and if I may say so, sir, you have an excellent eye because not only is it a magnificent picture, but you will also have made a shrewd investment.” Nat was quickly coming to the conclusion that art dealers were nothing more than used-car salesmen dressed in Brooks Brothers suits.

  “Bonnard is greatly undervalued compared to his contemporaries Renoir, Monet and Matisse,” continued the dealer, “and I predict his prices will soar in the near future.” Nat didn’t care about Bonnard’s prices, because he was a lover not a pimp.

  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 toi