New Novel

Been asked why I haven’t been posting lately. The reason is I’ve been busy working on novel #2. (Campusland, incidentally, is being made into a TV series.)

The new novel will be called All the Lovely People. Here’s a sample chapter, if you’re interested:

740 Park

There are many wealthy neighborhoods in New York City. In recent decades, neighborhoods once unknown and untraveled by the monied classes, neighborhoods like Tribeca and Nolita, were now the province of internet barons and oligarchs alike. Even Brooklyn, its vast neighborhoods once home to New York’s aspiring immigrant classes, was now beyond the financial reach of the vast majority of Americans.

But still, for a certain sort, the Upper East Side of Manhattan was still the ne plus ultra of discerning domicilia. No, not those soulless canyons of young professionals near the river, but rather stately neighborhoods adjacent to Central Park, the ones home to pre-war cooperatives, their scalloped awnings having protected generations of wealthy from the elements while alighting from their cabs.

The East Side was home to more “dilatory domiciles” than any other — this, of course, being the phrase long used by the Social Register to describe the homes of the “right sort” within its pages.

Fifth Avenue was stunning, certainly, with its views over the park, the apartments of West Side strivers visible in the distance. But nothing quite had the resonance of “Park Avenue,” did it? For at least a century it had been synonymous with genteel wealth.

It wasn’t always. Prior to the 1870s, the avenue was a filthy place, with the soot-spewing cars of the New York and Harlem Railroad traveling up and down its length. In a stroke of genius, Cornelius Vanderbilt proposed lowering the tracks into a cut, which would then be covered by a park and pedestrian traffic. This new development was an immediate draw for Gilded Age money, which lined the avenue with mansions. Later, room was made for a new invention, the automobile, and a narrower, be-flowered median remained up the center.

In the Roaring Twenties, the elevator changed urban living, and mansions yielded to apartment buildings. Park Avenue became lined with classical-style apartments, virtually all fifteen stories tall. Period fire codes limited all residential buildings to 150 feet, owning to the difficulty of fighting an elevated blaze. Thus every building was exactly 150 feet, or fifteen stories.

In 1927, the Municipal Dwelling Act allowed new structures to exceed 150 feet, but only if the higher stories were set back. A few new apartments, designed with graceful setbacks, were built to take advantage of the new law.

One such building was 740, which, of all the apartment dwellings on Park, surely had the grandest reputation. 740 lay on the avenue’s west side, stretching from 71st to 72nd streets. One of its first residents was John D. Rockefeller Jr., who lived in a duplex there until his death in 1960. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, nee Bouvier, lived there as a child. More recently, billionaires like David Koch, Woody Johnson, and Ron Perelman have called 740 home.

None of this history was known to the Sandersons, and nor did they live in 740. They lived at 580, a few blocks south, in a “classic six.” It was more entry-level Park Avenue, something they bought when William first made junior partner. A well-respected building, to be sure, but they’d been pondering an upgrade for several years, and now, with the news of Williams promotion, it seemed all but obligatory. Despite William’s prodigious earnings, 740 was not in reach, even if something had been available. They had an accepted bid on a four bedroom at 895, an excellent address. At $12 million, it was a serious upgrade.

As an added bonus, 895 was much closer to the Lenox Hill School, the kids’ sixty-thousand dollar a year school. Close enough that the kids could walk.

The Sandersons took a cab. It was only eight blocks, but it was slightly humid and it wouldn’t do to arrive sweaty. They announced themselves to the doorman who discreetly checked a list and then pointed them to an elevator, one of the last in Manhattan that had its own elevator men, dressed improbably, as if 18th century British field officers, ready to lead the men once more into the breach.

The apartment that they were heading up to, one where the elevator opened right up into the foyer because it was the only one on the floor, belonged to Casper Stein, the founder and CEO of Bedrock Capital, the largest money manger in the world. The Sandersons were the guests of honor. William had just been appointed head of Sustainable Investing, Bedrock’s fastest growing division. Could a spot on the Executive Committee be far behind?

The money at this level was breathtaking. William’s base was now $1.2 million, but that was an afterthought, really. Bonuses and profit sharing would typically be in low the tens of millions in a good year, plus there were options that might be worth a real fortune in a few years. Bedrock’s stock price had been on a one-way trajectory for years.

Just before the elevator opened, Ellie elbowed William in the ribs. “Yabba dabba do!” she whispered, giggling. She liked to kid William about the name of his firm, particularly when he got too self-serious.

“Not now,” he said, under his breath, just as the elevator door opened.

It was the Sandersons’ first time in the Stein apartment, a vast duplex. William knew better than to to gape at the exquisite furnishings, the art, and, more than anything, at 13,000 square feet, the sheer scale. An understated compliment or two would be all that was expected.

“Here they are!” cried Missy Stein in a sing song voice. Missy was seventy year-old Casper’s considerably-younger second wife. Together they had a single child, Cassidy, who happened to be in Ginny’s class at Lenox Hill. She glided down the staircase from the second floor and gave both Sandersons three kisses, alternating cheeks in the European style. “So good of you to come,” she cooed, as if the Sandersons might have done anything else.

Casper Stein followed his wife and settled for one of Ellie’s cheeks and then shook William’s hand. Stein had the imposing presence of that anyone seemed to have who was worth $8 billion. Tonight he wore a double-breasted blazer over a Paul Stewart shirt, open at the neck. William always had to force himself not to stare at Casper’s hair, an immovable promontory atop his head. He knew the junior people at Bedrock would joke about what it might take to move Casper Stein’s hair. An earthquake? A tropical storm? It also had a perfectly uniform color, clearly the result of outside agents. Auburn? No, not quite. Burnt umber, perhaps. It was not, all agreed, a good look, but Missy Stein was the only person on the planet who could conceivably tell him that, and if she had, it hadn’t worked.

“So good to see you both,” he said. “Come in and meet everybody. And Toby will get you a drink.”

They were fourteen, in all, and William knew most by reputation. There was xxx, and xxx….

“I have a little dinner party tradition,” said Casper. “If everyone would follow me.” He led through several rooms until they came upon a glass door. “I confess to being somewhat of an oenophile, and this is my pride and joy, my wine cellar, although I suppose it’s hard to call something a cellar on the seventeenth floor!”

William wondered how often Casper had used that particular joke.

“It has three chambers, each cooled to a different temperature. The first is forty-four degrees, which is for the dryer white wines. The second is fifty-five degrees — that’s for more full-bodied whites and the lighter, fruitier reds. The third is for the really good stuff, the full-bodied reds along with the ports. Let’s enter, shall we?”

Casper pressed his thumb to a sensor. “Biometrics,” he said. There was the sound of metal gears and then a satisfying click. He opened the outer door, and they made their way in. Each chamber was too small for the whole group, so they took turns. The first chamber, the largest, had a small table which could seat four. “My sanctum sanctorum, if you will,” said Casper with a chuckle.

William went deeper with Casper a small group of men, these urban spelunkers. Ellie, more curious that someone had a facility like this in a New York apartment than she was about the actual wine, held back, unsure. She heard, from deeper, the voices of the men. She heard their admiration as they examined the collection. After a time, William and others emerged. “Casper is asking for you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes,” said William.

“Why?” asked Ellie

“He wants to show you his collection, I guess. Just go.”

Ellie left the room of dry whites, passed through the light reds, and into the room of deep, dark reds. It was dimly lit, and only Casper remained, which immediately made Ellie nervous. Looking around, she saw hundreds of dusty bottles, hibernating in the quiet.

“Ellie, excellent. As the bride of our guest of honor, you get to choose what we’ll drink tonight.” His words sounded muffled in the enclosed space.

“Oh, gosh. I really don’t know much about wine,” she said.

“Not to worry,” said Casper. I opened two bottles that I thought we might enjoy and poured a taste of each into these glasses. There were two wine glasses set on a small table. “I will let you make the final call.”

“I didn’t know there were going to be any tests, Casper.”

“Ah, but there are no wrong answers. One of these is a 1988 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, one of the finest Burgundys known to man. I bought a case at auction recently for 180,000 pounds. An outrageous price, but we all have our weaknesses, wouldn’t you say? The other is a 1990 Christophe Musigny Grand Cru, an exceptional Pinot. I can’t quite remember what I paid for that one, but it is one of my prized acquisitions.”

“Casper, are you sure you want me to choose? Perhaps someone with more experience?”

“Nonsense. Like I said, you can’t go wrong.”

“Okay,” said Ellie, tentatively. She picked up the first glass and brought it to her lips.

“No, no! Take your time. Swirl the wine a bit and then raise the glass to your nose. Consider the various subtexts.”

Ellie did as Casper suggested. Then she tried the first. “It’s good,” she said.

“Alright, now do the same for the other.”

While this was happening, William, consumed with curiosity, had made his way back into the second chamber and was looking through the glass door into the third. What was going on in there? He couldn’t quite tell.

Ellie tasted the second. “That’s nice,” she said.

“Good good. So tell me, which shall we enjoy with dinner?”

“How about this one,” said Ellie, raising the glass still in her hand.

“Ah, the Romanée-Conti. Excellent choice!”

Casper reached for the wine rack and pulled a bottle. “It’s been waiting seven decades for this moment. Here, I’ll let you present the first bottle.”

“Casper, I — “ The bottle was dusty. As Casper handed to her, it slipped through her hands, smashing on the floor. Red wine splattered across the floors and their shoes.

“Oh, my God,” cried Ellie. “I am so sorry!”

William, who had heard the crash, burst through the door. “What happened?” he cried.

“It slipped,” said Ellie. “It’s my fault.”

“Do you have any idea what these wines cost?” asked William, his face the color of the Romanée-Conti.

Ellie, barely audible, said, “I do. Casper, I don’t know what to say.”

Casper had, briefly, looked horrified, but he composed himself, summoning a look of genial contentment. He was a man of means, after all, and this was merely a bottle of wine. “Not to worry, my dear” he said, touching Ellie’s arm. “I have eleven more. That should get us through dinner.”

They were fourteen for dinner, set formally around a resplendent oval table. Reflecting the season, the table was festooned with gourds and flowers of orange and red. Place cards appeared to be actual leaves, perhaps sugar maple, given their vibrant red color. A calligrapher had carefully painted each guests name onto each leaf.

As dinner wound down, Casper Stein suggested they all go see their latest art acquisition, a Basquiat. “Bring your Port,” he said.

“Oh, Casper, I’m sure people don’t care!”

“Well, I’d love to see it,” said Ellie.

“You know,” continued Missy, “Casper jokes he’s made more money on his collection than on Wall Street!”

“It just might be true,” said Casper, laughing.

Following the Steins, the group walked through the living room and into a study. It was a darker, masculine room with textured chocolate brown lacquered paint that looked like it had been applied with sponges rather than brushes, a technique, William knew, was time consuming and expensive. The fireplace was stoked and burning, despite the relatively warm fall weather outside. Its flames danced and the wood snapped pleasingly. The bookshelves, stretching high enough to require a ladder, were lined with biographies and historical non-fiction. William removed a random volume and pretended to study it. It was “Understanding the British Empire,” by Ronald Hyam. It looked unread.

Over the mantle was the Basquiat. It was a face, or perhaps an African mask, rendered abstractly in vivid colors.

“Missy thought the reds and browns picked up the walls of the study, so she said we had to have it,” said Casper.

William knew enough about art to know the painting probably cost in the many tens of millions, but he had to admit, it was striking, if a bit angry looking. Perhaps that was the point.

“You know,” continued Casper, “Basquiat sold his first painting to Deborah Harry — Blondie, remember? Two hundred dollars. If she still has it it’s worth a hundred times whatever she made selling records. They say artists of color are the best investment right now, but I just buy what I like. If it goes down in value, I can still enjoy it on my wall.”

William wondered if Casper Stein had ever bought anything that had gone down in value.

The group moved closer to the prized Basquiat, leaning in and squinting their eyes ever-so-slightly, making sure that the Steins knew their new acquisition was properly appreciated. Casper took the opportunity to touch William by the elbow. “Might I have a quick word in the other room?”

They repaired to an empty bedroom, which William thought was exceedingly odd, and put him on edge.

“Casper, I’m so sorry about Ellie.”

“The wine? Don’t give it another thought, understand? We have other things to think about.”

Other things?

Casper removed two cigars from the breast pocket of his blazer and offered one to William. “Ellie doesn’t approve,” William said.

“Well it’s just us boys, isn’t it? This is the only room in which Missy allows me to indulge,”

“In a bedroom?” asked William.

“There are nine bedrooms, and I don’t think we’ve ever used more than three. I doubt Missy’s been in this one for over a year, so it serves it’s purpose.”

Casper then pulled out a small box of four-inch wooden matches. He removed one and drew it along the strike plate. The match flared and he brought it to the cigar, puffing it a few times to draw the flame. It was a ritual he clearly enjoyed. Then he handed the matches to William who repeated the process.

“This is a spectacular apartment, Casper,” William said, looking to fill the silence. “You must be very happy here.”

“Yes, well, it’s been a good home, but none of the new money wants to live in a co-op anymore. Too many restrictions, no one wants the hassle of going through a board. It’s all LLCs now.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it. The layouts don’t work for people, either. The sequestered kitchens and maids quarters — it’s just not how people live anymore. They want lofts downtown somewhere, ones with private gyms and Pilates trainers.”

The conversation paused as Casper took another long draw on his cigar. William did the same, having run out of things to say. Finally, Casper broke the silence.

“You’re close with Cy Birdwell, aren’t you?” he asked.

Cy Birdwell was one of Bedrock’s outside board members.

“Cy? Yes, very. We went to school together.”

“Yale.”

“And boarding school,” William added.

“Ah, I didn’t realize. Good good. But you’re close”

“Yes, Cy’s a great guy. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s a bit awkward, and I thought, given your long relationship, you might be able to help with something, something that happens to be very relevant to you.”

“Of course,” replied William, now burning with curiosity.

“As you know,” continued Casper, “we like to think of ourselves as a firm which embraces the right values. That’s why we call them Bedrock Values. We don’t shy away from doing the right thing — ever. Happily for us, doing the right thing also happens to be quite profitable.”

“I came to Bedrock for those values, Casper. I had a lot of options.”

“I know you did, William. “You’ve always been one to stand up for what’s right.” By this, Casper meant William could be reliably counted on to do what was necessary to get ahead. “Which is why I need a favor,” he said.

“Of course. Name it.”

“We just got an RFP.” Casper let it hang there.

“We get those all the time.”

“This one’s from CalPERS. It will be on your desk Monday.”

CalPERS stood for the California Public Employee Retirement System. They managed the retirement money for 1.5 million state employees. With half a trillion in assets, they represented one of the biggest pots of of money in the world. An RFP was a “Request for Proposal,” meaning Bedrock was being invited to compete for some portion of that half trillion.

“It’s a $5 billion ESG mandate,” added Casper.

ESG stood for “Environmental, Social, and Governance.” It was type of investing that weighed societal factors like the climate crisis when making investment decisions. It was something Bedrock fully embraced and fell under William’s new area of responsibility, Sustainable Investing. The mandate would be a huge coup for both the firm and himself.

“As you know,” continued Casper, “CalPERS is one of the few big pension funds that has eluded our grasp. Our institutions are both progressively-minded, so I believe our values are aligned, but we’ve never quite crossed the finish line. I want this.”

“What does this have to do with Cy?” asked William.

“So here’s the thing…the RFP. There are diversity questions.”

“That should be good for us!” said William.

“Yes, normally, one would think,” said Casper.

Indeed, Bedrock had the first Wall Street firm to have a full-time Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion director and had aggressively hired African-Americans and women for years. Their board had four women members, two of whom were black, and one other black male member as well. One of the women came to board meetings in a Kente cloth. They even had a Muslim, who flew in from Qatar once a quarter.

“But this one asks specifically about LGBTQ board members,” said Casper.

It was dawning on William why they were having this clandestine conversation. “This is why you wanted to talk about Cy…” he said.

“Yes. Cy is gay, is he not? I mean, we all just assumed…”

Cy Birdwell was the founder and CEO of Birdwell Apparel, a multi-billion dollar clothing company, and it was widely understood that he was gay. But Cy never talked about it. If he had relationships with other men, it wasn’t public. Nor, thought William, did Cy “act” gay, a thought for which he immediately admonished himself. Of course there was no one way for a gay man to act! Although, he did dress awfully well…

“Honestly,” replied William, “I’m the same as you. I’ve known Cy since sophomore year at Andover, and I’ve never known him to date a woman, but I can’t say I’ve seen him with a man, either. Wonderful guy, though.”

“The best!” agreed Casper. “And a valued member of the board.” Casper drained the last bit of Port. “So, you see there’s a box we need to check if we’re going to win this mandate.”

“You need to confirm that Cy is gay,” said William.

“Yes, or at least one of those letters. I believe the RFP says LGBTQ plus, so there’s a lot of room in there. Maybe he’s just asexual. That falls under ‘plus,’ doesn’t it?”

“I confess I’m a little hazy on the ‘plus’ part,” said William. “Maybe we could Google it.”

“Yes, but regardless, since this RFP falls to your group, and since you have a long history with Cy…”

William swallowed. “You need me to confirm Cy is gay. Or…plus.”

“Precisely.”

William paused, considering the implications. “But what if Cy is staying in the closet for a reason? I think some people still do that — at least, I think they do.”

“Not sure why. The goddamn gays are the toast of the town these days.”

“I suppose that’s so,” said William, careful not to say anything that could be conceived as political.

Casper took another draw of his cigar. Exhaling, the air filled with purple smoke. “We think you’re Executive Committee material, you know. After all, you’re now running our fastest growing department.”

Careful not to let his expression change, William let the words flow through him like manna. He had assumed as much, but this was the first time the words had been spoken! And by we, William knew Casper meant I. Casper was king of all he surveyed at Bedrock. For a brief moment, William allowed himself to wonder what units in 740 might become available in a few years time. To hell with Pilates.

But there had to be some other way to get this done. He was about to say as much when Casper pointed his cigar at William and took a decidedly firmer tone. “But people at that level, they get things done, William. I want that business, and I won’t let some goddamn box we have to check on some goddamn form screw things up. If they want to know who we’re fucking, we’re going to tell them who we’re fucking. Is that understood?”

William was taken aback, but made sure to not let it show. “Yes, of course.”

“Get it done,” said Casper Stein.