[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
teeth.
I understand the mother is a little odd, I say.
A painter, he says with a nod. Very pretty, though. But let s sit down and
have a drink before lunch.
Daddy, says the girl, using her hand as a visor against the sun, I want a
drink. Would you?
Of course, kitten, Rangle says.
He asks us to sit and he hurries behind the teak bar to mix her a screwdriver,
then he hurries across the deck to deliver it into her hands. His pale thin
legs protrude from his khaki shorts and move with the awkward gait of an
insect. The daughter rewards him with a kiss on the cheek. Debray is smiling
as if this is par for the course.
When Rangle returns with bottles of Chimay Belgian Ale for the men, I swallow
a mouthful before saying, I m pretty direct, Bob. I know you make money, and
I want to invest some with you or I wouldn t be here. I have a hundred million
I want to move, but . . . what do you think of the Russian stock market?
The Russian? Rangle says, his bony fingers clenching the beer bottle. Do
you have people there?
If I didn t, I say, I wouldn t want to invest in it.
Rangle s beetle eyes dart to Debray and back.
Why me? he says, twisting his fingers.
I need an American, I say. Someone with a big fund. Someone respected.
Someone who isn t afraid to use the information that s available to him. I see
you ve done well in U.S. treasuries and I m assuming that it s no coincidence
that Martin has an older brother who works closely with Alan Greenspan at the
Fed.
I trade on instinct, Rangle says with a smile, opening his arms, palms up.
I prefer to trade on information, I tell him without smiling back. If
you re not interested, neither am I. Thanks for the beer.
I take a sip and get up.
Seth, Seth, Seth, Rangle says, taking my arm. Please. Sit. Don t be so damn
. . . Of course I m interested. We just need to talk about it. I m interested.
We re both interested, aren t we, Martin?
Yes, we are, says Debray.
At lunch, Katie and Dani join us and I tell them all about Andre Kaskarov, a
Russian prince whose family escaped the revolution and survived by guile and
ruthlessness in Belgium. The mention of royalty gets even Katie s attention.
Andre, I explain, was educated in the American embassy in Brussels from an
early age. His father envisioned a new Russia where opportunity between East
and West would create incredible wealth to go along with the Kaskarov family s
noble lineage, and he returned to Moscow with his family in 1991.
A real prince? Rangle asks, his eyes agleam.
There are lots of them, I say with a shrug. A prince in Russia isn t like
the prince in England, but they re still nobles.
Of course I d love to meet him, he says. I think Katie would too, and Dani.
We should have dinner.
Dani forces a smile and raises her glass of chardonnay at me.
I ve got a lake cottage upstate, I tell Rangle. I understand you re from up
that way. Skaneateles, it s called. Bill Clinton told me about it.
The president?
Former president.
Page 100
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
I was in Congress during his first term, Rangle says. I didn t know you
were involved in politics.
No, just power, I say. Anyway, I d like to have a small dinner there and an
overnight. It s a beautiful place. I guess you know. We ll fly up and back on
my G-V. Andre loves it there. We could mix some business.
With pleasure, Rangle says, looking across the lunch table from his daughter
to his wife. My motto.
Before the coffee comes, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I m directed
down a long oak hallway to a small marble temple with gold fixtures. After I
wash my hands, I grab the doorknob. It s stuck and I hear a giggle through the
wood. The door pushes in suddenly, and there is Dani with her pool robe open
and her top off, wearing a peach thong. She closes the door behind her and
drapes her hands around my neck, swaying.
Aren t you seeing someone? I say.
I m a debutante, she says, smirking. Her words are slurred. We don t have
the same rules. I like to play.
I know someone you ll like to play with, I say. I d hate to ruin it for
him.
You won t ruin it, she says. It likes a lot of attention.
I grip her wrist and tug her toward me, then right past. In a blink she s
standing inside the bathroom by herself, scowling and huffing. I pull the door
shut and walk away.
46
THE TOP FUND-RAISER for the president of the United States joins me for
breakfast at my home in New York City. We sit in the dining room overlooking
the park. He s a fiery congressman from Buffalo who speaks in bursts of words
with his hands flying into the air like a fighter throwing a series of
uppercuts. When he starts in on the importance of the upcoming elections and
of maintaining control of both the House and the Senate, I hold up my hand.
I tell him the deal: five million dollars to the RNC for them and the ability
to make recommendations on the upcoming Supreme Court nomination for me.
Before he can protest, I assure him that all I want is input. I don t care if
my candidate is the ultimate selection or not, just that the president is
willing to listen.
Breakfast is over. He tells me he ll need clearance and rises from the table.
I stand too and shake his hand, then I slip a bank check out of the breast
pocket of my blazer and hand it over to him. He looks at the number and a
small smile creeps onto his face.
I ll call you, he says.
By the end of the day, if you don t mind, I say, and see him downstairs to
the door. The day outside is warm and bright and the sky is pure blue above
the full bloom of the trees in the park.
I look at my watch. There s time for a workout before I see Andre, and I think
it will do me good, ease some tension. I don t want to end up choking him. By
the time I get into the shower, my limbs are trembling from weight lifting,
katas, and the heavy bag.
The peaceful emptiness of physical exhaustion keeps my temper from flaring at
the sight of Andre s sneer and his jutting chin. He is sitting in jeans and a
T-shirt with his leg slung over the arm of a leather chair in my library. Bert
stands off in the corner by the shelves of leather-bound books. His hands are
clenched by his sides, his eyes half-lidded and directed at Andre. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl ocenkijessi.opx.pl
teeth.
I understand the mother is a little odd, I say.
A painter, he says with a nod. Very pretty, though. But let s sit down and
have a drink before lunch.
Daddy, says the girl, using her hand as a visor against the sun, I want a
drink. Would you?
Of course, kitten, Rangle says.
He asks us to sit and he hurries behind the teak bar to mix her a screwdriver,
then he hurries across the deck to deliver it into her hands. His pale thin
legs protrude from his khaki shorts and move with the awkward gait of an
insect. The daughter rewards him with a kiss on the cheek. Debray is smiling
as if this is par for the course.
When Rangle returns with bottles of Chimay Belgian Ale for the men, I swallow
a mouthful before saying, I m pretty direct, Bob. I know you make money, and
I want to invest some with you or I wouldn t be here. I have a hundred million
I want to move, but . . . what do you think of the Russian stock market?
The Russian? Rangle says, his bony fingers clenching the beer bottle. Do
you have people there?
If I didn t, I say, I wouldn t want to invest in it.
Rangle s beetle eyes dart to Debray and back.
Why me? he says, twisting his fingers.
I need an American, I say. Someone with a big fund. Someone respected.
Someone who isn t afraid to use the information that s available to him. I see
you ve done well in U.S. treasuries and I m assuming that it s no coincidence
that Martin has an older brother who works closely with Alan Greenspan at the
Fed.
I trade on instinct, Rangle says with a smile, opening his arms, palms up.
I prefer to trade on information, I tell him without smiling back. If
you re not interested, neither am I. Thanks for the beer.
I take a sip and get up.
Seth, Seth, Seth, Rangle says, taking my arm. Please. Sit. Don t be so damn
. . . Of course I m interested. We just need to talk about it. I m interested.
We re both interested, aren t we, Martin?
Yes, we are, says Debray.
At lunch, Katie and Dani join us and I tell them all about Andre Kaskarov, a
Russian prince whose family escaped the revolution and survived by guile and
ruthlessness in Belgium. The mention of royalty gets even Katie s attention.
Andre, I explain, was educated in the American embassy in Brussels from an
early age. His father envisioned a new Russia where opportunity between East
and West would create incredible wealth to go along with the Kaskarov family s
noble lineage, and he returned to Moscow with his family in 1991.
A real prince? Rangle asks, his eyes agleam.
There are lots of them, I say with a shrug. A prince in Russia isn t like
the prince in England, but they re still nobles.
Of course I d love to meet him, he says. I think Katie would too, and Dani.
We should have dinner.
Dani forces a smile and raises her glass of chardonnay at me.
I ve got a lake cottage upstate, I tell Rangle. I understand you re from up
that way. Skaneateles, it s called. Bill Clinton told me about it.
The president?
Former president.
Page 100
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
I was in Congress during his first term, Rangle says. I didn t know you
were involved in politics.
No, just power, I say. Anyway, I d like to have a small dinner there and an
overnight. It s a beautiful place. I guess you know. We ll fly up and back on
my G-V. Andre loves it there. We could mix some business.
With pleasure, Rangle says, looking across the lunch table from his daughter
to his wife. My motto.
Before the coffee comes, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I m directed
down a long oak hallway to a small marble temple with gold fixtures. After I
wash my hands, I grab the doorknob. It s stuck and I hear a giggle through the
wood. The door pushes in suddenly, and there is Dani with her pool robe open
and her top off, wearing a peach thong. She closes the door behind her and
drapes her hands around my neck, swaying.
Aren t you seeing someone? I say.
I m a debutante, she says, smirking. Her words are slurred. We don t have
the same rules. I like to play.
I know someone you ll like to play with, I say. I d hate to ruin it for
him.
You won t ruin it, she says. It likes a lot of attention.
I grip her wrist and tug her toward me, then right past. In a blink she s
standing inside the bathroom by herself, scowling and huffing. I pull the door
shut and walk away.
46
THE TOP FUND-RAISER for the president of the United States joins me for
breakfast at my home in New York City. We sit in the dining room overlooking
the park. He s a fiery congressman from Buffalo who speaks in bursts of words
with his hands flying into the air like a fighter throwing a series of
uppercuts. When he starts in on the importance of the upcoming elections and
of maintaining control of both the House and the Senate, I hold up my hand.
I tell him the deal: five million dollars to the RNC for them and the ability
to make recommendations on the upcoming Supreme Court nomination for me.
Before he can protest, I assure him that all I want is input. I don t care if
my candidate is the ultimate selection or not, just that the president is
willing to listen.
Breakfast is over. He tells me he ll need clearance and rises from the table.
I stand too and shake his hand, then I slip a bank check out of the breast
pocket of my blazer and hand it over to him. He looks at the number and a
small smile creeps onto his face.
I ll call you, he says.
By the end of the day, if you don t mind, I say, and see him downstairs to
the door. The day outside is warm and bright and the sky is pure blue above
the full bloom of the trees in the park.
I look at my watch. There s time for a workout before I see Andre, and I think
it will do me good, ease some tension. I don t want to end up choking him. By
the time I get into the shower, my limbs are trembling from weight lifting,
katas, and the heavy bag.
The peaceful emptiness of physical exhaustion keeps my temper from flaring at
the sight of Andre s sneer and his jutting chin. He is sitting in jeans and a
T-shirt with his leg slung over the arm of a leather chair in my library. Bert
stands off in the corner by the shelves of leather-bound books. His hands are
clenched by his sides, his eyes half-lidded and directed at Andre. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]