About Face (34 page)

“Because word on the street is the public player was going to look to bring in another partner at the last minute to diminish the risk. A partner that while on the surface has a solid enough reputation as to not hold up a close unfortunately has an almost equally indisputable history of failing to close as often as they actually get a deal to the finish line.”

A pause.

“Yes, well, as you said yourself the property hasn't yet turned over.”

I had zero indication Gruden was looking to partner with
anyone, and even less of an idea what firm it was I was referring to as their potential partner. I had just described a ton of pretenders out there. But my work was done. I had planted a seed in his brain that something was up with his deal. Enough that he was at least going to give me twenty-four or forty-eight hours to see if I had any intention on coming to the table to steal the building.

“Indeed. Look forward to receiving that schedule,” I finished up. “Thanks again.”

Julia walks in at seven thirty p.m. on the dot, the exact second I can feel my heart racing a bit from the straight caffeine I just ingested. She's still wearing what she had been earlier in the day. Before saying a word to me, she addresses the bartender who, like every other person with a pulse in the place, is checking her out.

“Hi, glass of Chianti, please.”

“Uh, we don't tonight by zee glass have a Chianti, but I have a beautiful Montepulciano zat—”

“That's fine,” she cuts him off.

She looks at my glass.

“Soda with your vodka tonight? Going easy?”

“Why the request to meet early?” I change directions. “I think we're all set in terms of open items to discuss.”

The bartender places her glass of wine in front of her. She takes a healthy sip and places the glass back down.

“Why were you going after Enzo today? What was that all about?”

“I'm sorry,” I shrug her off. “I really don't know what you're talking about.”

“Come on, Ivan.”

I just stare at her, say nothing. Because I can see in her eyes, I don't need to.

Come with it.

“What you did this afternoon, that wasn't exactly how a new landlord treats their building's flagship tenant.”

“We're not their landlord yet, Julia. GlassWell still is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I smirk at her and slowly reach for my seltzer.

“You were holding the close up on purpose today. I fucking knew it.” She goes on.

I take a sip.

“Relax, Julia, take a step back. The closing was held up strictly out of business necessity. That's all. Your imagination is getting the best of you right now.”

Keep her where I need her.

“Really? I'm imagining things? Like you and Alessi this afternoon?”

“This again? I told you—”

“Bullshit! It wasn't just what you were saying, Ivan, it was your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“I watched them the whole time. And they were definitely going after something.”

“Again, I really wish I had something interesting to tell you, but I don't. I'm a man loyal to my boss, my firm. And in that loyalty comes an undeniable pursuit of knowledge in terms of my due diligence. At all times, at every opportunity. I make no apologies for this.”

“Due diligence. Right.”

She takes her glass from the bar. She's about to say something, but stops herself. She takes another healthy sip. After replacing the glass, she puts her right hand on top of my left hand, which is on the bar.

“Does any of this have to do with Scott Green? Or what happened to him?”

“Mr. Green. The attorney,” I say, pretending to be catching up to her.

“Do you really think he killed himself?”

A video of his head exploding onto the wall plays in my brain.

“I have no idea,” I say. “Why?”

Julia pulls her hand from mine. She looks at her watch.

“They'll be here any minute. Let me check and see if our table is all set.”

Minutes later the group has arrived, and we're on our way into the tightly packed dining room. Spencer is like a deity; he can't get past one table without someone standing up and greeting him with a warm handshake or kiss. The place is in usual full-throttle form. For those willing to throw down a Range Rover lease payment for dinner, white-gloved servers are already hard at work floating through the low-lit, windowless digs, doling out perfectly prepared garlic-laden staples. The understated décor, two walls solid brick and the others off-white wallpaper with scattered, falling leaves, help keep patrons' attention solely on the Abruzzi-region inspired cuisine. We are seated at a round table in the far back left corner of the dining room. As we are, gratuitous premeal antipasti items such as spicy, sautéed zucchini and hunks of Parmesan cheese are placed down, filling the surface of the table.

As we get ready to sit, Cobus is on my left, Arnon, as usual, is to his left. A guy named Julian from the GlassWell team is about to sit to my right, but Julia shoos him away, saying we need to speak. To her right is Brand, followed by this Julian fella then Spencer.

Just as our asses hit our seats, Spencer surprises everyone.

“So, Ivan, is it?” he addresses me. “I hear you're a fiery one. A real soldier. With a passion for detail, for insight.”

“I never thought of myself as a soldier before, sir.”

At least not the kind you are referring to.

“But if being as thorough as I can be, sometimes to a fault, for my employer makes me a soldier, then I guess that's what I am.”

“He's as fine at taking the evaluation of a property to a forensic level as I've ever seen,” Cobus backs me up, realizing we're subtly discussing what happened earlier with Alessi. “I believe he always has the best interest of de Bont Beleggings at heart. Something, obviously, that is important, I believe.”

The last comment, though, I can't help feeling is more for me than Spencer.

“I admire that kind of loyalty,” Spencer responds.

He looks around at his crew. Then he spreads his arms as if presenting them to us all over again.

“My team—we're like family,” he goes on. “We win as a family, we lose as a family. I appreciate thorough, Ivan. I do.”

After ordering, dinner takes a more casual tone. Side conversations break out all around. Some are about family, others are about past professional experiences and career paths. Some are about art, others are about traveling. While speaking to Julian across the table about a trip he took to Budapest—a much more cosmopolitan city than he would have imagined—something out of the corner of my eye grabs me. Julia and Brand are in conversation, but in noticing a button of butter in the corner of Brand's mouth from a piece of bread he'd been eating, she wipes it away. Only not the way colleagues wipe butter from each other's face. The way people involved do, people close. It was as if second nature to both of them. Neither broke the conversation for a second; neither felt a need to explain why she was lifting a napkin to his face. Then, I'm guessing subconsciously, after wiping the butter away, she gently touched his face before returning her napkin to her lap.

Taking this in, my iPhone slides out of my hand onto the floor. I reach down to pick it up. When I do, I notice Brand's hand on Julia's thigh.

The thigh I'd made as red as she asked me to just this morning.

Whoa.

What the fuck?

Is she involved? Does she know everything?

Nothing?

Doesn't matter. Either way, she's tipped her hand.

It's clear which side she's on.

Isn't it?

I lift myself back up to the table. As I do, bottles of Dom Pérignon Rosé and flutes are being delivered to the table. Once the sweet, pink bubbly is poured, Spencer asks us all to raise our glasses.

“To closing this deal tomorrow,” he says. “And to each of our firms continuing on their respective paths.”

I look at Julia.

You know what they say about where to keep potential enemies.

SHOULD WE KEEP THE CHAMPAGNE GOING IN YOUR APARTMENT LATER? I text her.

I see her notice my message and look at her phone. She types in a message of her own, then looks at me sure to catch my eye before hitting send. Once she's done both, she looks away just as the message arrives.

YOU KNOW IT.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At eleven ten p.m., after my usual return to the hotel with Cobus and Arnon before leaving again five minutes later, I walk into Julia's apartment. The door's been left open for me. The apartment is quiet, dark.

Fuck, I'm tired.

My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

As I begin to move through the space, I reach into my cluttered pockets looking for a Life Fuel, only to remember I'd only bought two bottles, both of which I've already consumed.

“Hello?” I say as I start in the direction of the kitchen.

“Bedroom, Ivan,” she responds, her voice coming from behind me, the opposite end of the apartment.

I enter the bedroom, stopping just inside the doorway. The lights are off but there's still light. It's coming from the Manhattan night through the huge window looking out, over the city as the blackout shades in effect this morning have been completely peeled back.

Julia, wearing nothing but a white lace thong, is on the bed. She's sitting up against a propped pillow, her hair falling over her
shoulders, her long, gorgeous legs stretched out in front of her crossed at the ankles. She's holding a glass of champagne.

“Nice view,” I say, staring at her.

“The beauty of a high floor.”

I look toward the window.

“Yeah—that's nice too.”

Then back to her.

“Won't you join me?” she asks. “After all, this may very well be our last private time together. At least for the foreseeable future.”

On the nightstand next to her I notice another full flute. The thought of another sip of alcohol at this moment sounds about as good as a screwdriver being jammed into my thigh. Nonetheless, to keep things moving along, I walk over and pick up the glass. I extend it toward hers and we clink glasses. I take a small sip and begin to walk around slowly, aimlessly.

“May I ask you something?” I say, stopping in the center of the room.

“What do you want to know, Mr. Janse?”

I turn around and face her again.

“How long have you and Ryan been involved?”

All it takes is one twinge in her eye, one millionth of a second that her expression changes before retaking the previous one. She's doing her best to remain completely immersed in sexy mode, as if the question hasn't fazed her.

Isn't working.

“What do you mean?”

Aside from his hand high on your thigh under the dinner table?

“At dinner tonight, you wiped butter from the corner of his mouth.”

“So?”

“Neither of you even flinched or changed course as it happened. Even for a second. It seemed second nature between the two of you—routine even. Almost—intimate. Like what goes on between people involved. Not just as business partners.”

“Sorry, dear, but Ryan and I have always kept things
professional. Not just because he's married, but because I don't play that way.”

She turns the full-court press sexiness back on.

“Are you disappointed? Would fucking me again be more interesting if you thought I was with him—but craving you?”

Time to show this little girl she's involved in a dangerous game.

Whether she knows if she's playing or not.

“What about Brand and Alessi?”

Now Julia's simply annoyed and unable to keep it in.

“What about them? Why are you so goddamned interested in Ryan? Here—”

She grabs her cell from the nightstand and flips it to me.

“His number's in there. Give him a call, since it seems like he's the one you want to fuck…”

Oh, he's going to get stuck all right
.

I catch her cell and gently toss it on the bed.

“I'm sorry. Really. The last thing I want to do is upset you. So, maybe it's just best if I leave.”

I walk over as if I'm going to place my champagne flute on the nightstand.

“Look, Ivan. Just—let's—”

Keep it up.

“No, really. I'm sorry. I really should just go. We're hopefully going to close this deal tomorrow and then I'm off, so—”

Hopefully.

One simple word.

Something's up. Now she knows it.

Question is: what's she willing to do with that?

Where's her loyalty, really?

She's losing me.

I place the flute down. I turn back toward the door without giving her so much as a glance.

“Wait.”

She grabs my wrist.

“Don't go.”

I turn back around, bend down, and kiss her deeply.

“Why don't I freshen these up,” I say.

I take both flutes—mine from the nightstand, hers from her hand. Just before crossing the threshold out of the room, I stop.

“I thought you said you didn't know Scott Green very well.”

“What?”

I turn around.

“You said you didn't really know him. But there's a picture of him with you and Ryan right here in your own living room.”

“I—” Julia starts.

She drops her chin to her chest. She regroups, lifts her head, and starts again.

“Scott was a friend. I should have told you that when you asked, but I didn't really think it mattered as I had just met you. And talking about it would have been hard. After all—they're saying he took his own life. And he was one of us. One of GlassWell.”

“Talking about it would have been hard,” I respond, “because it would have been emotional, you mean?”