New York - The Novel

in fact he’d heard a story the other day of a grand building where things had gone the other way. Some twenty-five-year-old whiz kid from Wall Street had applied to a building and stated his newly earned assets. The chairman of the board was so furious that the kid was already so much richer than he was, that he turned him down. When asked why, he answered: “We’re looking for old money here.”
    But he didn’t remind Vorpal of that story.
    “I hear what you say, John, and I’ll think hard about it.”
    “I hope you will.” Vorpal turned to Maggie. “Thank you for a lovely meal.” And he was gone.
    “I want Caruso in this building,” Gorham said to Maggie.
    Her face was a mask. “I’m not sure it can be done.”
    “Aside from Vorpal and Bandersnatch, there are two more members of the committee. I’ll get to them.”
    “So will he.”
    “Thank you,” he said drily, “for your support.” And he turned away from her without another word.

    Early the next morning, he went up to the house in North Salem. The fencing needed fixing, to keep out the deer. He didn’t return until evening.

The Towers
September 10, 2001
    M AGGIE LEFT THE apartment early on Monday morning. Gorham stayed long enough to see the kids leave for the school bus. He was just about to go himself when Katie Keller came up the service elevator to the kitchen door with one of her crew. After a weekend dinner, she usually preferred to swing by first thing on Monday to pick up the containers and trays she’d left neatly stacked in one corner of the kitchen.
    “Any big parties coming up?” he asked.
    “Better than that, maybe,” she said. “There’s a company talking about a contract for a bunch of corporate entertaining—that could make a huge difference if I get it. I’m going to see them early tomorrow morning. They have offices downtown, in the Financial District.”
    “That’s great. Good luck,” he said.
    Then he went to his office. He had a busy day ahead of him.
    During the day on Sunday, he’d managed to speak to one of the other committee members about Dr. Caruso and had stressed to him that Caruso was a distinguished man. Not rich, admittedly, but financially solid, totally respectable. “Maggie and I have known him for nearly twenty years.” A slight exaggeration. As soon as he got to his office, he tracked down the other member who promised: “We’ll see him.”
    That at least was something. But he wondered whether to let Caruso know that there could be a problem. It might be a kindness. But there was probably no need. Vorpal would already have let the current owners of 7Bknow that he wasn’t happy, and the realtor too, in the hope that he could kill the deal in advance. Better leave it alone. The business still offended him though.

    The call from the headhunter came through at ten thirty. It only took a couple of minutes, and after it was over, Gorham canceled his midday meeting and told his assistant that he’d be out for lunch. Then, in some excitement, he closed the door of his office, and sat staring out of the window.
    At 12:20, he left the office and took a taxi downtown. He did not get back until three in the afternoon.

    It was four o’clock when he remembered the old lady. He silently cursed himself for promising to call her that day, but a promise was a promise, and besides, the days ahead were likely to be so filled that he’d better get his business with her over as soon as possible. He called the number of the gallery.
    She sounded delighted to hear from him. “I was afraid you would forget to call.”
    “How could I forget?”
    “I have something for you. Are you free this afternoon?”
    “I’m afraid not,” he told her. The interruption from the headhunter had left him with a backlog of work to clear. She sounded disappointed.
    “I had a call from my daughter today. She needs me to come and help her later this week, and then I’m on holiday with my husband. I always believe in doing things at once, so that they don’t get forgotten. Don’t you agree?”
    He thought wryly of the thirty-three years that he had now been holding on to the Motherwell drawing for her.
    “I certainly do,” he said.
    “Do you get up early?” she asked.
    “Quite often.”
    “I have a meeting tomorrow morning,” she said. “But we could have an early breakfast, if you like.”
    “I have an eight thirty meeting myself, I’m afraid.”
    “Perfect—that’s when my meeting is, too. Shall we