I slipped into an easy routine of supplying him with a dozen tablets each Friday morning, telling myself as I handed them over that I’d address the issue before the next

time, that I’d take steps to contain the situation. But how? I didn’t know how.

Each time he came, too, I was shocked by how much he’d changed. That smack addict’s pallor had gone and there was a healthy glow to his skin now. He’d had a

haircut, and had started wearing suits as well – though they weren’t anywhere near as nice as mine. He’d also taken to arriving by car, a black Mercedes something or

other, and had guys waiting for him downstairs. He had to let me know this, of course, and more or less directed me to look out of the window and down at his

entourage, waiting on Tenth Street.

Another thing Gennady did which annoyed me, was to shake one of the pills out into his hand the moment he got them, and then pop it into his mouth – right there in

front of me, as though I were a coke-dealer and he was checking out the product. He also used to dispense the rest of the pills into a little silver pillbox he had, which he

kept in the breast-pocket of his jacket. He’d pat this part of his jacket and say, ‘Always be prepared.’ Gennady was an asshole and I physically couldn’t bear to have

him in the room. But I was powerless to stop him, because he obviously had moved up in the Organizatsiya, so how did I even begin to deal with that?

What I did was compartmentalize it, deal with it at the time and then move swiftly on.

I seemed to be doing a lot of that these days.

Mostly, though, my time was spent huddled in various offices and conference rooms of the Van Loon Building on Forty-eighth Street, with Carl and Hank Atwood

and Jim Heche, or with Carl and Jim and Dan Bloom, the chairman of Abraxas, and his people.

Late one night, however, I found myself alone with Carl in one of the conference rooms. We were having a drink, and since we were close to agreeing a deal, he

brought up the subject of money, something he hadn’t mentioned since that first night in his apartment on Park Avenue. He passed a comment about the commission

rate we’d be getting for brokering the deal, so I decided to ask him outright what my share would be. Without batting an eyelid, and distractedly consulting a folder on

the table, he said, ‘Well, given the scale of your contribution, Eddie, it won’t be anything less than forty. I don’t know, say, forty-five.’

I paused, and waited for him to go on – because I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. But he didn’t say anything else, and just continued staring at the folder.

‘Thousand?’ I ventured.

He looked at me, and furrowed his eyebrows. He seemed slightly confused.

‘Million, Eddie. Forty-five million.’

[ 23 ]

I HADN’T ANTICIPATED earning that kind of money so quickly – not having imagined, in the first place, that the MCL–Abraxas deal would be so lucrative for Van Loon

& Associates. But when I thought about it, and looked at other deals, and at the way these things were structured, I realized that there was nothing unusual about it at

all. The combined value of the two companies concerned would be somewhere in the region two hundred billion dollars. Based on that, our brokerage fee – point

something of a per cent – would yield, well … handsomely.

I could do plenty, I thought, with that kind of money. I devoted quite a while to thinking about it, in fact, but it didn’t take me long, either, to feel aggrieved that I

wasn’t in possession of any of the money now. It took me even less time to get working on Van Loon for an advance.

When he put the folder aside and I had his attention again, I explained to him that I’d been living on Tenth Street and Avenue A for about six years, but that I felt it

was time for a change. He smiled awkwardly at this, as if I’d told him I lived on the moon – but he perked up considerably when I added that I’d been looking at a

place in the Celestial Building over on the West Side.

‘Good. That sounds more like it. No disrespect, Eddie – but I mean Avenue A, what the fuck is that all about?’

‘Income levels, Carl. That’s what it’s about. I’ve never had enough money to live anyplace else.’

Obviously thinking he’d put me in an awkward position, Van Loon mumbled something and looked uncomfortable for a moment. I told him I liked living down on

Avenue A and Tenth Street, and that it was a great neighbourhood, full of old bars and weird characters. Five minutes later, however, I had him telling me not to worry,

that he’d arrange financing immediately so I could buy the apartment in the Celestial Building. It’d be a routine company loan that I could settle later, further down the

line, whenever. Sure, I thought, nine and a half million dollars – a routine loan.

I phoned Alison Botnick the next morning at Sullivan, Draskell, the realtors on Madison Avenue.

‘Well, Mr Spinola, how are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

I told her I was sorry for having run off that day, making a joke out of it. She said, oh, not even to mention it. Then I asked her if the apartment was still on the

market. It was, she said, and all the work on it had just been completed. I told her I’d be interested in seeing it again, that day if possible, and in talking to her about

entering a bid.

Van Loon had also said he’d write a reference letter for me, which would probably make it unnecessary for Sullivan, Draskell to pry into my tax returns and credit

history – and would mean, if everything went well, that I could sign the contracts almost immediately and move in.

This had now become the controlling dynamic in my life – immediacy, acceleration, speed. I shifted rapidly from scene to scene, from one location to another, with

little sense of where the joins met. For example, I had to see several people that morning, and in different places – the office on Forty-eighth Street, a hotel uptown, a

bank down on Vesey Street. Then I had a lunch appointment with Dan Bloom at Le Cirque. I squeezed in seeing the apartment again after lunch. Alison Botnick was

waiting for me when I arrived up on the sixty-eighth floor – almost as though she hadn’t left since my last visit and had been waiting patiently for me to return. Barely

recognizing me at first, she was then all over me, but within about five minutes, probably even less, I had put in a bid at a small but strategic amount over the ask price

and was gone – back to Forty-eighth Street and another meeting with Carl and Hank and Jim, to be followed by cocktails at the Orpheus Room.

*

As this last meeting was wrapping up, Van Loon took a call at his desk. We were now very close to announcing the deal, and everyone was in an upbeat mood. The

meeting had gone well, and even though the hardest part lay ahead – seeking Congressional, FCC and FTC approval – there was a real sense of collective

accomplishment in the room.

Hank Atwood stood up from his chair and strolled over to where I was sitting. He was in his early sixties, but looked trim and wiry and very fit. Even though he was

short, he had a commanding, almost threatening presence. Landing a gentle punch on my shoulder, he said, ‘Eddie, how do you do it?’

‘What?’

‘That extraordinary recall you’ve got. The way your mind processes everything. I can see it working.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

He went on, ‘You’re on top of this thing in a way that I find almost …’

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

‘… almost … I mean I’ve been in business for forty years, Eddie, I’ve headed up a food-and-drinks conglomerate, I’ve run a movie studio, I’ve seen it all, every

trick in the book, every kind of deal there is, every kind of guy you can meet …’

He was looking directly into my eyes now, standing over me.

‘… but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you …’

I wasn’t sure if this was meant as a declaration of love or an accusation, but just then Van Loon got up from his desk, and said, ‘Hank … someone here to say

hello.’

Atwood turned around.

Van Loon had stepped away from his desk and was walking across the room towards the door. I stood up from my chair and moved behind Atwood. Jim Heche

had wandered about half-way down the room and taken out his cellphone.

I turned to face the door.

Van Loon opened it and motioned to whoever was there to come in. I could hear voices outside, but not what they were saying. There was a brief exchange,

followed by a short burst of laughter, and then – a couple of seconds later – Ginny Van Loon appeared in the room.

I felt a quickening in my chest.

She pecked her father on the cheek. Then Hank Atwood raised his arms, ‘Ginny.’

She came towards him and they embraced.

‘So, you had a good time?’

She nodded, and smiled broadly.

‘I had a blast.’

Where had she been?

‘Did you try that osteria I told you about?’

Italy.

‘Yeah, it was great. That stuff, what was it called, baccalà? – I loved it.’

The north-east.

They went on chatting for the next minute or so, Ginny focusing all her attention on Atwood. As I waited for her to disengage and – I suppose – notice me, I

watched her closely, and realized something that should have been obvious to me before.

I was in love with her.

‘… and it’s really cool how they name streets after dates …’

She was wearing a short grey skirt, a dusty blue cardigan, matching top and black leather pumps, all stuff she’d probably bought in Milan on her way back from

Vicenza or Venice, or wherever she’d been. Her hair was different, too – not spiky any more, but straight, and with a bit at the front that kept falling into her eyes, and

that she kept having to flick back.

‘… Twentieth of September Street, Fourth of November Street, it resonates …’

She looked over and saw me, and smiled – surprised and not surprised.

Van Loon said, ‘I guess history is pretty important to them over there.’

‘Oh, and what are we,’ Ginny said, turning suddenly to her father, ‘one of those happy nations that hasn’t got any history?’

‘That’s not what—’

‘We just do stuff and hope no one notices.’

‘What I—’

‘Or we make it up to suit what people did notice.’

‘And in Europe that’s not what happens?’ said Hank Atwood. ‘Is that what you’re telling us?’

‘No, but … well, I don’t know, take this Mexico shit that’s going on at the moment? People over there can’t believe we’re even talking about invading.’

‘Look, Ginny,’ Van Loon said, ‘it’s a complicated situation. I mean, this is a narco-state we’re dealing with here …’ He went on to paint what had been in a dozen

newspaper editorials and op-ed pieces recently: a vast fevered mural depicting instability, disorder and impending catastrophe …

Jim Heche, who had drifted back up the room, and had been listening closely, said, ‘It’s not only in our interests, Ginny, you know, it’s in theirs, too.’

‘Oh, invade the country to save it?’ she said, in exasperation, ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘Sometimes that’s—’

‘What about the nineteen-seventy UN injunction,’ she said, her voice accelerating rapidly, ‘that no state has the right to intervene, directly or indirectly, for any

reason whatever, in the internal affairs of any other state?’

She was standing in the centre of the room now, ready to fend off attacks from any quarter.

‘Ginny, listen to me,’ Van Loon said patiently. ‘Trade with Central and South America has always been crucial to—’

‘Oh, Jesus, Daddy, that’s all spin.’

Looking like his daughter had just kick-boxed him, Van Loon threw his hands up.

‘You want to know what I think it’s about?’ she went on, ‘I mean really about?’

Van Loon looked dubious, but Hank Atwood and Jim Heche were obviously interested, and waiting to hear what she had to say. For my part, I had retreated to the

oak-panelled wall behind me and was watching the scene with mixed feelings – amusement, desire, confusion.

‘There’s no grand plan here,’ she said, ‘no economic strategy, no conspiracy. It wasn’t thought out in any way. In fact, I think it’s just another manifestation of

irrational … something – not exuberance exactly, but …’

Losing patience a little now, Van Loon said, ‘What does that mean?’

‘I think Caleb Hale had a couple of drinks too many that night, or was maybe mixing booze with his Triburbazine pills, or whatever, and he just lost the run of

himself. And now they’re trying to gloss over what he said, cover their tracks, make out as if this is a real policy. But what they’re doing is entirely irrational …’

‘That’s ridiculous, Ginny.’

‘We were talking about history a minute ago – I think that’s how most history works, Daddy. People in power, they make it up as they go along. It’s sloppy and

accidental and human …’

The reason I was confused during those few moments, as I stared over at Ginny, was because in spite of everything – in spite of how different they looked and how

different they sounded – I could so easily have been staring over at Melissa.

‘Ginny’s starting college in the fall,’ Van Loon said to the others. ‘International studies – or is that irrational studies? – so don’t mind her, she’s just limbering up.’

Tapping out a quick timestep in her new shoes, Ginny said, ‘Up yours, Mr Van Loon.’

Then she turned and walked over in my direction. Hank Atwood and Jim Heche converged, and one of them started speaking to Van Loon, who was back sitting at

his desk.

As Ginny approached where I was standing, she threw her eyes up, dismissing everything – and everyone – behind her. She arrived over and poked me gently in the

stomach, ‘Look at you.’

‘What?’

‘Where’s all the weight gone?’

‘I told you it fluctuates.’

She looked at me dubiously, ‘Are you bulimic?’

‘No, like I said …’

I paused.

‘Or maybe schizophrenic then?’

‘What is this?’ I laughed, and made a face. ‘Sure it’s not medical school you’re going to? I’m fine. That was just a bad day you caught me on.’

‘A bad day?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hhmm.’

‘It was.’

‘And today?’

‘Today’s a good day.’

I felt the impulse to add some sappy comment like and it’s even better now that you’re here, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

A brief silence followed, during which we just looked at each other.

Then, from across the room, ‘Eddie?’

‘Yeah?’

It was Van Loon.

‘What was that thing we were talking about earlier? Copper loops and … AD-something?’

I bent slightly to the left and looked around Ginny, over at Van Loon.

‘ADSL,’ I said. ‘Asynchronous Digital Subscriber Loop.’

‘And …?’

‘It permits transmission of a single compressed, high-quality video signal, at a rate of 1.5 Mbits per second. In addition to an ordinary voice phone conversation.’

‘Right.’

Van Loon turned back to Hank Atwood and Jim Heche and continued what he was saying.

Ginny looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Let’s get out of here and go somewhere for a drink,’ I said, all at a rush. ‘Come on, don’t say no.’

She paused, and that flicker of uncertainty passed over her face again. Before she could answer, Van Loon clapped his hands together and said, ‘OK, Eddie, let’s

go.’

Ginny immediately turned around and moved off, saying to her father, ‘So where are you lot going?’

I slumped back against the oak-panelled wall.

‘The Orpheus Room. We’ve got more business to discuss. If that’s OK with you.’

She made a dismissive puffing sound and said, ‘Knock yourselves out.’

‘And what are you doing?’

As she looked at her watch, I looked at her back, at the soft dusty blue of her cashmere cardigan.

‘Well, there’s something I’ve got to do later, but I’m going home now.’

‘OK.’

The next short while was taken up with goodbyes and see you laters.

Ginny drifted over to the door, waved at me, smiled, and then left.

On our way down to the Orpheus Room a couple of minutes later, I had to shake off an acute sense of disappointment and refocus my attention on the business at

hand.

*

My bid for the apartment in the Celestial Building was accepted the following day, and I found myself signing all of the documents the day after that again. Van Loon’s

letter had silenced any enquiry into my tax affairs, and with the financing arrangements equally discreet, I have to say I had a very easy time of it. Less easy was deciding

how I wanted the place to look. I called a couple of interior designers and visited some furniture showrooms and read various glossy magazines, but I remained

undecided and fell into an obsessive cycle of plan and counter-plan, colour scheme and counter-colour scheme. Did I want it all spare and industrial, for example, with

gunmetal-grey surfaces and modular storage units – or exotic and busy, with Louis XV chairs, Japanese silk screens and red lacquer tables?

When Gennady arrived at the apartment on Tenth Street that Friday morning, I had already started packing some of my stuff into boxes.