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Cal gave Fin the cue to interrupt. He wanted to starve Lowenstein of contact. Exactly his strategy for John Alington, as well. “Cal, before you talk business would you mind pointing me to the powder room,” she said.
He gave Arthur a nod, “Duty calls,” and got satisfaction from seeing the man’s jaw go tight as he led Fin away.
They played out a similar scene with the McGoverns. Pat was a Wall Street Banker with the restraint of a stabbed bull and the morals of a Viking marauder. Pat liked to humiliate his wives and daughters. He was on wife number five. She was Hungarian, a statuesque beauty whose exploration of surgery had left her looking bewildered.
Pat was offhand with Cal, but he enjoyed bantering with Fin. If Fin were Rory, Cal would’ve stepped away, but he wasn’t ready to abandon her to these piranhas. This was only a first blooding.
Right before they took their seats for the meal, Fin touched his elbow from behind, two quick taps, which told him she wanted to talk. He let the other guests move around them until they were alone.
“I haven’t made any money yet. What did I do wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He rubbed a hand down her arm to her hand, and she shivered. “We haven’t gotten to the main course yet. Trust me.”
She grunted. He said those cheesy words to make her do that. She crossed her eyes and made a face at him, and that was a bonus reaction. People who attended private, catered parties in Fifth Avenue penthouses didn’t make goofy faces before they sat down to fine dining with the moneyed elite.
“Did your mother never tell you the wind might change, and you’ll stay like that?”
“No,” she sucked in her cheeks. “But several casting consultants said I should consider structural alterations.”
He stepped in closer, took her other hand, and her eyes flared wide. “They fucked up wanting you to be like everyone else.” And he’d fucked up, too. He’d almost kissed her, and though he was allowed to touch her with affection for show, he couldn’t let that happen in private and not want to scrub out every line he’d drawn between them.
Fin was a tool to be used, kept sharp and cared for, aimed with precision and then shelved when she was no longer needed. If he let things get personal, that clear agenda would get screwed up.
The main course was beef, if you wanted to focus on the food. Otherwise, it was Cal’s instigated discussion about the wonders of gene therapy and the brave new world it would usher in, a life free of disease and premature aging for those who could afford it.
Fin trod on his foot when Lowenstein asked, “That start-up you’ve got going, room for me?”
“Looks like we’re going to be oversubscribed,” Cal said.
“You’re a scurvy pirate, Sherwood,” said Alington. “We’ll have words after dinner.”
“You got me a piece, didn’t you?” asked Ronald. His allocation was worth nearly a million and a half in Cal’s account and worth nothing to Ronald, much like the last three investments he’d made in Cal’s fake companies.
“You’re in,” he said, which would guarantee pressure from the others, because the one thing they all agreed on was that Ronald was a well-connected dunce, and if Ronald had a slice of the mystical pie, then they weren’t about to be denied.
With that set piece complete, Cal could relax and enjoy the speeches. He drank half a glass of wine, and Fin leaned in, hand to his chest for balance, and whispered. “Is the deal really oversubscribed, or was that you being a manipulative son of a bitch?”
“Don’t insult my mom, and eat your anniversary cake,” he said, his breath making her hair stir. “That was me making sure you got donations tonight.”
She moved back into her own seat and forked her cake. “You are all kinds of strange and wonderful.”
She saw exactly how
strange his world could be when the women left the table so the men could smoke cigars with their brandy and Arthur Lowenstein broke ranks to track her down. When Arthur returned to the table he said, “Helped your girl out. Gave her a little present.”
“That’d be the same as giving her half of Manhattan, coming from you,” Cal responded and got the amused laughter he expected. Before his Cuban was a smoky stump, Pat McGovern had become a D4D donor. Two whales, two favors. But John Alington was stewing, and Keith Belling, the largest whale in this school, was keeping his own counsel.
Roping Belling and conning him would be the move that restored Cal’s fortune. But he’d never done business with the man known for his lack of conversation and his oil and gas wealth. Belling was currently embroiled in a fight to run a pipeline through a native Indian reservation.
What a guy.
Belling was also a climate change denier, and that put him on Mom’s shit list. Cal had stayed away from him to date, but he was diabetic and that was leverage. Gene therapy—the real thing—might be able to cure diabetes one day. The make-believe kind Cal was peddling could cure it any minute now.
Belling heard that message over dinner. And that was enough of a crumb dropped for one night.
From where Cal sat, he could see Fin in the other room. When he made deliberate eye contact, he expected a smile, but she gave him the earlobe pull cue for “are you okay?” That she was at ease enough to check on him made him smile into his brandy snifter. He repeated the motion in answer and failed to hide his smile when she failed spectacularly not to hide hers.
“Haven’t you fucked that girl yet?” said Alington.
