Stephen Frey (3 page)

“I've worked seventy hours a week here at Warfield for the last ten years. I can count on one hand the number of vacations Meg and I have taken while you and Paul have been joyriding around the globe. I've built Warfield into what it is today. I've faced panics in more financial markets than you even know exist, and you have the nerve to come into my office and tell me what to do with our gold position.”

“I can say what I want to anyone, including you. I'm the chief executive officer.”

“In name only. Everyone knows that.”

“Then why doesn't Dad make
you
CEO?” Teddy asked, a wry smile coming to his thin lips. He knew he had cut to the quick.

For several moments the room was still. “We both know he'll never do that,” Bo finally admitted, his gravelly voice subdued. Paul and Teddy could do no wrong in Jimmy Lee's eyes. Bo could never do enough. It had always been that way.

Teddy's smile grew meaner. “How has it felt to be the black sheep all these years?”

Bo clenched his fists. “You son-of—”

“What a surprise. Bo and Teddy, at it again.”

Both men's eyes flashed to the office doorway where their sister stood, looking like a runway model in her couture Chanel suit.

“Can't you two ever get along?” Catherine asked.

Bo moved out from behind the desk, took his sister's slender, aristocratic fingers in his strong hands, and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Everything's fine,” he assured her. Catherine was tall and had Paul and Teddy's fair coloring. A year older than Bo, they had always shared a special bond. Bo still looked after her, keeping an eye on Tom Bristow. “We were just having a little disagreement.”

“If you call World War Three a little disagreement.” She sighed, giving him a hug. “Hello, Teddy,” she called over Bo's shoulder.

“Hello,” Teddy answered, making no move toward his sister.

“What are you doing here?” Bo asked.

“Meeting some friends for dinner in the city.” She hesitated. “I have a favor to ask you.”

Bo chuckled. “I should have known. Tell me what you need.”

“My girlfriends and I want to go to dinner tonight at that new Italian place down in the Village. You know, Georgiano's. The food is to die for and we heard De Niro was going to be there. You know how much I love Bobby. I met him that one time in Los Angeles and we really hit it off. I called the restaurant, but I couldn't get in. They told me they were booked solid.” She looked at Bo sheepishly. “I know you're busy, but could you help? I was sure I could get us in. Now I don't want to look . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“. . . like you aren't a player?” Bo finished the thought.

“It's pure vanity, I admit.”

The intercom buzzed again. “Bo!” Fritz's voice held a note of panic this time. “The price of gold is weakening. It's down a buck and a half an ounce in the last few minutes. I think the early birds in Tokyo picked up on the frog rumor. If we're gonna get out, we've got to do it
now.
”

“It's an opportunity. Buy more.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Teddy broke in. “We've got to
sell.
”

Bo took a breath, trying to control his temper. He didn't want to let loose in front of Catherine. “Go home, Teddy.”

Teddy's eyes flashed to the intercom. “I could order Fritz to sell,” he said, but his voice wavered. He knew Bo was rarely wrong when it came to investing.

“Be my guest,” Bo said, gesturing toward the office door. “Go out on the trading floor and give the word. But be ready to explain to Dad”—his tone turned vicious—“why we lost forty million dollars, which is about what the damage will be if you lose your nerve now. Fritz can't dump a position as big as ours quickly. We'll take a big hit and Dad will be livid. He'll be even more pissed off when he checks gold prices in the morning and figures out that we could have
made
forty million if we'd just showed some guts and held on. And I assure you the price will be up in the morning.”

“Listen to Bo,” Catherine urged. “He knows what he's doing—”

“Quiet, Catherine!” Teddy shouted. “This is between Bo and me.”

“Don't talk to her that way,” Bo warned.

“Sell the position, Bo,” Teddy ordered.

“Like you said, brother. You're the CEO. You make the call. You tell Fritz to dump.”

“Hey, the guys on the gold desk are going crazy!” Tom Bristow said, rushing into Bo's office. “Catherine. Hello. What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Tom,” Catherine answered coolly. “Will you be home when I get back to the estate tonight?” she asked, an unpleasant edge in her voice. She was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

Tom avoided her eyes. “Well, I—”

“Catherine, you'd better get going,” Bo urged, not wanting to see his sister's unhappiness laid bare. “How many people will there be in your group tonight?”

“Five, including me,” she answered, glaring at Tom.

Bo took her by the hand and walked with her to the door. “I have a friend who knows the restaurant's owner,” he said soothingly. “We'll get you in. You'll have a reservation for five at eight o'clock.”

“Thanks, Bo,” she said gratefully, hugging him. “You're always so good to me.”

“You're my big sister. I'll always take care of you.”

“Sorry you had to witness that, Bo,” she whispered.

“I know. Now get going, we've got business to attend to.” When she was gone, Bo turned to face Tom. “Are you cheating on my sister?” he asked bluntly.

“What?”

“Are you cheating on Catherine?”

Tom shifted nervously from foot to foot. “No.”

Teddy glanced up curiously. “What's all this about?”

“Nothing,” Tom replied curtly. “Nothing at all.”

“Why are you spending so many nights away from the estate?” Bo wanted to know. “Catherine misses you. She needs your help raising the children.”

“I've been working late a lot the past few months,” Tom explained.

Teddy nodded vigorously. “I can vouch for that. I've talked to Tom several times from my car in the past couple of weeks when he's still been in his office late at night. Right, Tom?”

“Yes,” he answered hesitantly.

“So let's stop being distracted from the issues at hand,” Teddy said firmly. “Sell the gold, Bo.”

Bo folded his arms across his chest. “We're not selling.”

Teddy took a deep breath and seemed to resign himself to the situation, “Dammit Bo, you'd better be right on this. Come on, Tom, let's get some dinner.”

When they were gone, Bo returned to his desk, sat down, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted.

A knock on his door made Bo look up. Frank Ramsey stood in the office doorway. “What is this tonight, Grand Central Station?” Bo said.

Ramsey was thirty-four, handsome in a manicured kind of way, and nattily attired in a dark blue pinstripe shirt, charcoal suit pants, and a bright red tie, which matched his suspenders. Six months ago Jimmy Lee had hired Ramsey away from Morgan Stanley, a bulge-bracket Wall Street investment firm, to be Teddy's special assistant. He'd given him a huge salary without allowing Bo to interview him. Without even telling Bo that Ramsey was being hired.

So Bo had gotten the lowdown on Ramsey from acquaintances at Morgan Stanley. From what he could gather, the man was a master trader who never lost his nerve under fire. A man who pulled a hair trigger on massive trades when he believed the odds were stacked in his favor, whether that belief was based on significant research or simply gut feeling. A man who didn't flinch when he had a bad streak—as all traders did at some point—because he was supremely confident his luck would turn around quickly. Which it always had.

“How are you feeling?” Ramsey asked, moving into Bo's office. It was the first they'd seen of each other today.

“Fine,” Bo answered quickly. He knew why Ramsey was asking.

Ramsey grinned. “You had a lot to drink last night.”

“I didn't have that much,” Bo protested. He and Ramsey had eaten dinner together at a restaurant close to the office, then taken a cab to an Upper East Side bar famous for its selection of rare liquor.

Ramsey's smile grew wider. “Not that much? You drank almost a whole bottle of scotch yourself.”

“No, I—”

“Oh yeah, you did. Otherwise you wouldn't have climbed up on the bar and started belting out Mick Jagger songs. By the way, that little redhead you were dancing with at the end of the evening knew exactly who you were and what the Hancocks are worth. You're usually a little more discreet, Bo, if I know you as well as I think I do. It's the scotch that makes you tell family secrets to opportunists like that redhead, Bo.”

Bo watched Ramsey blink slowly, as if it was a conscious effort each time. “You don't know me at all,” he retorted. “And the redhead was nice. I liked her.”

“I could tell. Everybody in the place could. If I hadn't dragged you out of the bar when I did and taken you back to my place for the night, you would have ended up going back to Brooklyn or Queens or wherever the hell she lived and spending the night with her.”

“I don't do that. I love Meg,” Bo asserted firmly. “I'm faithful to my wife.”

“Sure you are.” Ramsey's expression soured. “But you've got to cut this stuff out. It's going to catch up with you.”

“Careful, Frank,” Bo warned. “You have no right to speak to me that way. You are not a member of the family. Remember that. I told you, I love Meg and I wouldn't do anything to hurt her. I just need to blow off steam once in a while. There's nothing wrong with that. I would never put myself or my family in a compromising position.”

“Jimmy Lee isn't amused. I can tell you that.”

“My father can go to hell.” Bo's head was killing him again. “I've made Jimmy Lee and the rest of the family a grotesque amount of money here at Warfield.”

“He's worried.”

“What about?”

“Your drinking. The fact that you seem to enjoy the company of women other than your wife.”

Bo's eyes narrowed. “And who's been feeding him those lies?”

Ramsey shrugged. “I don't know, but Jimmy Lee is worried that the stories about you might negatively affect Paul's campaign. There are people trying to dig up dirt on Paul, and your father is wary of your growing reputation for gravitating toward the seamier side of life. Afraid that Paul might be found guilty by association.”

“That's crap.”

“Your father is upset. You better watch it or you might find yourself out of a job,” Ramsey warned. “You might find that your services are no longer required at your beloved Warfield Capital.”

Bo waved a hand in front of his face. “My father needs me here.”

Ramsey raised one eyebrow. “He needs someone
like
you here.”

“Teddy can't do it,” Bo retorted. “You and I both know that.”

“I wasn't talking about Teddy.”

“You aren't family, Frank,” Bo said, understanding his meaning. “My father would never turn this place over to an outsider.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

Ramsey hesitated, then said, “If you go out tonight, don't come knocking on my door looking for a place to stay. I'm beat. I'm going to bed early.”

“I'm not going out tonight, I'm going home.”

“That's what you think now, but give yourself an hour. Like you always say, ‘The hair of the dog is the best cure for a hangover.' ”

“Give me a break,” Bo said, rubbing his eyes.

“I'm trying to help.”

“I know what you're trying to do, Frank, and by God if I ever find out that you are going behind my back, I swear to Christ I'll make you wish your mother and father had never met. Now, what do you want, Frank? Why did you come into my office?”

“To establish the fact that you were alive. I had to just about carry you from the taxi to my apartment last night. You weren't in my guest room this morning when I woke up and I figured you might have gone searching for your dance partner.”

“We've established that I'm fine, so—”

“And I've come in to talk to you about the gold situation.”

Bo rolled his eyes. Teddy had no stomach for taking final responsibility, but he was a relentless operator behind the scenes. Ramsey had obviously been sent in as a second assault force. “What about it?”

“Teddy and Fritz are concerned,” Ramsey said matter-of-factly.

“So what?”

“If Teddy is concerned, I'm concerned. I'm his right-hand man.”

“I thought you traded
bonds
at Morgan Stanley.”

“Among other things. What's your point?”

“I don't recall seeing anything on your résumé about trading gold.”

“Trading is trading,” Ramsey said calmly, “no matter the asset.”

The intercom buzzed again. “Off three bucks an ounce!” Fritz shouted.

“Enough.” Bo pulled the plug on the intercom. “Get out of here, Frank. Now.”

Ramsey stalked from the room.

Again Bo allowed his eyes to fall shut.

“Bo.”

“Jesus Christ!”

This time Fritz stood in the doorway, his shaggy hair tousled, tie-knot halfway to his belt buckle, white shirt wrinkled and stained with coffee, a lighted cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“We've got to sell, Bo. Please,” Fritz begged. “Teddy's called me three times in the last five minutes. He was going ballistic. He thinks you're trying to tank the family fortune with one deal.”

Bo smiled thinly. “Does he, now?”

“Yes.”

“After all I've done for him.”

“I suppose.”

“Why doesn't he give you the order to sell?”