CHAPTER ONE (unedited copy)
Morning
All of Patrick Kelly’s well-laid plans were about to come to fruition.
In preparation, he’d dressed in his best suit, an off-the-rack three-piece Brioni. The day before he’d utilized his annual membership at Spiff for Men to lay the foundation with a shoeshine, glass manicure, straight-razor shave and a hundred dollar hair cut. He wouldn’t trust anyone with his prematurely gray locks for anything less.
Pleased with his efforts, Patrick smiled at his reflection in the elevator doors. Today would be the day when all of his hard work and efforts were going to pay off. Along with passing out annual end-of-the-year bonuses, the Morrissey Group always promoted both a junior and senior associate and they were due to make someone partner.
Over the last six months, Roger Wintrop ‘R.W.’ Morrissey had dropped more hints about promoting him than the pigeons crapping on the ledge outside his office window. In Patrick’s eyes, becoming partner was practically in the bag.
This year had been a banner year for him. Why wouldn’t he get the promotion?
He had the requisite education—a BS in Industrial and Labor Relations from Cornell and an MBA from Warton. He leased an apartment overlooking the Hudson with a walk-in closet filled with expensive suits, Italian shoes, designer jeans and enough cashmere sweaters to wear a different one every day for a month.
He even drove the right car, a black Maserati, which saw the inside of the underground parking garage more than Madison Avenue.
More importantly, he was completely loyal to the Morrissey Group. With almost eleven years in the can, Patrick had come to them straight out of college as a wet-behind-the ears intern and steadily moved up the ladder to Managing Director of Global Securities. Every year he exceeded his annual benchmarks and in the past year alone he’d made the Morrissey Group ten billion dollars richer with the successful merging of four conglomerates in the Canadian market.
Confident in today’s outcome, Patrick stepped off the elevator and headed to his office.
Per his usual routine, Patrick spent his morning answering email, pouring over spreadsheets, putting out fires and holding clients’ hands. What else was new? Not one to crack under pressure, they didn’t call him The Man of Stone for nothing.
Even when his thoughts kept drifting over the brief, yet memorable thank-you- for-making-me-partner-and-its-an-honor speech, he pumped out the estimated capital and anticipated profit margins for a small acquisition, a multi-million dollar takeover of a textile mill in West Virginia.
Still, his fortitude couldn’t keep his morning from derailing due to a mid-morning phone call from Angus Kelly.
“Today’s the big day, Pat! You’ve waked so had fah this. Ahnt ya excited?”
Patrick gritted his teeth. His father’s thick Boston accent (minus the obligatory R’s) always had the bone-jarring ability to transport him back to the cramped, two-bedroom row house and neighborhood crab-pot mentality he’d clawed out of more than fifteen years ago. Patrick never cracked, but whenever his past collided with his present, his accomplishments seemed to dwindle in comparison to his colleagues’. Hating the feeling, Patrick clutched the receiver as he visualized squeezing his younger brother’s neck. His anger didn’t last for long. Even if he possessed lips looser than a snitch facing ten to life, Patrick could never hold a grudge against Liam. He and his brothers not only shared blood, they’d survived the neighborhood joke– Angus Kelly.
While he struggled to regain his bearings, his father continued, “I know you don’t like ya old man calling, but I had too.” Hearing a sniffle on the other end, Patrick sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. His father’s maudlin nature was one of the reasons for his downfall. “I’m justI’m just so poud of ma boys.”
Patrick attributed the tightness in his chest to the lemongrass shake he’d gulped down for breakfast. Not wanting his father’s mawkishness to ruin what had been an otherwise perfect day, Patrick decided to rain on his parade, “I’m only guaranteed the annual bonus.”
As Angus cleared his nose long and hard, Patrick imagined him sitting on the front porch in his usual go to attire–a wife beater and Bermuda shorts. “Stop pulling ma bawls,” he finally said. “It’s yah time. I can feel it in ma bohnes.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. His father’s endoskeleton predicted everything. Too bad it didn’t foresee the day when he became the laughingstock of the neighborhood. The day their whole lives changed. The day his father checked out of life. Stopped becoming their father, ceased being a man.
Before he could counter his father’s Irish sixth sense with another negative, someone knocked at Patrick’s office door. A second later, his assistant, Stephanie Patel, poked her head around the door. She held out her wrist and tapped her watch.
“Hey, da…” Patrick pulled at his tie, preventing the misstep. The old man had definitely gotten to him. “…Angus … I’ll call you later.”
“Pat…” Barely above a whisper, Angus’ voice quavered. “You know we nevah talk unless I call.”
And that’s how Patrick liked it. If it weren’t for Liam’s arm twisting and lectures about blood and family, Patrick would’ve cut ties with Angus Kelly years ago. Still, he treaded lightly or he’d never hear the end of it. “Pops has been through a lot,” Liam would say. “Some people handle their grief differently. It doesn’t make him less of a man.”
Annoyed he’d given his father this much of his time, Patrick stood up. He grabbed his suit jacket and yanked it on.
“I’m busy, you know that,” Patrick offered the same lame excuse that exempted him from any and all family gatherings involving his father. Feeling guilty, he rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling the salt and pepper locks.
His father sighed dramatically. “Okay,” he relented. “But you gotta call me with the good news. Or you know I’ll sit around all day and worry.” What was new? Patrick mused. “And you know how my indigestion can—”
“Got to go,” Patrick cut him off before he started a running list of his never-ending ailments. Almost an after thought than real concern, Patrick added, “take care.”
Patrick took his time walking to the firm’s main conference room. As the man of the hour, he didn’t have to rush. They wouldn’t start without him. Hard to give a promotion to someone who wasn’t there to accept.
Upon entering the firm’s boardroom, Patrick was brought up short. Not only had they not waited on him, but his customary seat, next to R. W., was already occupied as was every other seat. Standing room only, he would have to suffer the peanut gallery filled with lower management and select interns.
Knocked slightly off kilter, Patrick hesitated. Not long. He wouldn’t have made it this far up the corporate ladder in such a short time without keeping a cool head. If he hadn’t, the sharks would’ve devoured him before he even made it out of the mail room.
Not missing another beat, Patrick sidled over to the perimeter of the group. He ended up standing next to a perky, blonde intern who always went out of her way to pull him into conversation. Was her name Sydney or was it Paige? Patrick mentally shrugged. He didn’t need to remember her name. She was an intern after all and would be gone before Thanksgiving.
Like a heat-guided missile Sydney/Paige turned and gifted him with a mega-watt smile. Patrick acknowledged her with a wiggle of his eyebrows, inducing a deep-throated giggle. Sexy, with long legs, Patrick would’ve fucked her once, maybe twice under different circumstances. He was a red-blooded American male bordering on man-whore, but he never shit where he ate.
“This year was a banner year for the Morrissey Group,” Roger Morrissey boomed. Stout and round as a barrel the founder of one New York’s most profitable venture capital firms believed he could make up for his height with his voice. “Despite the recession, we posted gains in every quarter, especially within the Canadian and Brazilian markets.”
While Roger droned on like white noise, Patrick eyed the reason for his being bumped down the food chain. Tall, mid-thirties and impeccably dressed, the other man looked familiar, but a name eluded him. Not surprising. With more than one hundred and fifty employees in three domestic offices and four international, he had a hard time remembering the people on his floor.
The other man must have felt the knife twisting in his back because he turned slightly, made eye contact and smiled. An innocuous gesture, and yet long enough for Patrick to finally recognize who’d stolen his seat.
Xavier Silva. His counterpart in the firm’s Sao Paulo offices, but a virtual stranger since the other man, only checked in with the main offices in New York City every six months. Still, he’d moved up the company ladder in record speed, becoming managing director of the South American market in five years.
Poker face in place, Patrick nodded in return. Due to the current circumstances and the strange foreboding brought on by the man’s unexpected presence, he couldn’t dredge up a smile even if he tried.
A round of enthusiastic applause drew Patrick’s attention back to Morrissey who was flapping his hands in an effort to tone down everyone’s enthusiasm. Good luck on that one, Patrick mused. Company bonuses paid off his graduate student loan eight years ago.
“I see you all are satisfied with this year’s bonuses,” Morrissey shouted above the den. “Checks will be handed out at the end of the day. Everyone here deserved them and we strive to do right by our talent. Plus, you’ll be less inclined to jump ship to a competitor.”
Morrissey smacked his hand on the boardroom table and chuckled. As if on cue, Patrick’s coworkers and peers joined in. Patrick remained stoically silent. He was barely a team player, much less a sycophant.
“Next year’s outlook is even brighter,” Morrissey gloated. “We are especially excited about the overseas market, which we would like to see grow exponentially.” Morrissey paused dramatically, looked in his direction and then looked away.
Or was he looking at Silva? Patrick felt a strange tug at his gut, but he quickly dismissed it. Doubt was such a remote possibility it was almost laughable. In truth it hadn’t been in Patrick’s vocabulary in more than a decade. Since becoming an adult, everything he’d done had been deliberate and well thought out for the most likely outcome. This promotion was practically guaranteed.
“And that brings me to this year’s promotions.”
Patrick drew himself up, rechecked his platinum cuff links and cleared his throat. After all, he was the man of the hour and he always put his best foot forward.
“This year we’ve decided to go in a new direction.”
Patrick never sweated. At least not in a suit or outside of bed, but he couldn’t deny the cold, clammy feeling permeating his skin specifically his palms.
“This year we wanted to reward someone whom consistently exceeded their performance metrics. They’ve contributed substantially to our annual profit margins, but most recently helped us behind the scenes to revamp our business model to better succeed in both the domestic and international markets.”
Several months ago, Morrissey had grilled him about possibly overhauling the company model only last month over lunch. Having ingrained that very model and seeing it as his blueprint for his present success, Patrick suggested that they not change a thing, especially when it was working.
Feeling a crack in his mask, Patrick held it in place with a well-placed hand over his mouth. The twinge in his gut had also returned with a vengeance like a sucker punch with brass knuckles.
“We want to give voice to new blood and this person is an out of the box thinker. And we really admire that, especially when we’ve remained so on course we’ve blended in with every Tom, Dick and Gordon Gekko out there. So it’s my pleasure to introduce to you our newest partner, Xavier Silva.”
To a round of applause, Silva stood and shook Roger’s hand. Morrissey’s newest partner fiddled with his tie and even had the gall to look sheepish. Patrick’s hands balled into involuntary fists. There was no way someone at his level in their line of business still had a humble bone in their bodies or much less a conscience. There were too many skeletons in the closest for that to be still possible. Patrick ought to know. He’d dismantled so many companies, a reporter from the Wall Street Journal once dubbed him Godzilla. Humanitarian of the Year would never find its way on his resume.
Luckily, Patrick didn’t have to suffer through Silva’s bullshit. His reality had suddenly shifted to a different frequency. Akin to being underwater, all he saw were the other man’s lips moving and an odd ringing in his ears.
Lucky for Silva. If Patrick heard “this is such an honor” or “this was totally unexpected”, he wouldn’t be held liable for the medical bill when the ER removed his fist from the back of his throat.
Of course, eighty percent of Patrick’s anger was self-directed. He’d been tested and he’d failed. He had no one to blame but himself.
“Are you coming to celebrate with us, Patrick?”
Patrick blinked. He’d been so self-absorbed with analyzing the past several weeks…year…heck his entire tenure with the Morrissey Group, he’d missed Silva’s entire speech and even the perfunctory congratulations to the new ass they all needed to kiss. In fact, many of his colleagues were already filing out the door. The only people who remained were Morrissey and two partners practically salivating over Silva.
He adjusted his gaze to look down at Roger Morrissey, at six-one, Patrick had to look down at pretty much the half the staff.
“Unfortunately, sir, I won’t be joining you.” Patrick thought of a reasonable lie to back out of a celebration that should have been his. In order to release some of the heat scorching his starched collar, Patrick pretended to smooth his tie. “I have a ton of things I need to handle. Fires to put out and all.”
Head reeling, Patrick watched Morrissey shake his bald head. “You’re always putting out fires. That’s why you’re coming with us. Plus, it’s tradition that all managing directors attend company celebrations.”
The same tradition that cheated him out of the partnership? Patrick gritted his teeth. ‘Fuck tradition’ was on the tip of his tongue. Instead, like always, he followed the rules and fell in line behind the others.
Out in the hallway, Patrick hesitated. If he witnessed one more pat on the back or round of congratulations, he was going to put his fist through the nearest wall. How in the hell was he going to make it through lunch? He needed an outlet. Too bad he didn’t carry a change of clothes or he could’ve hit the gym. And Elley, the perky accountant on the fourteenth floor, was out of town on business or he would’ve pounded her into her desk. In love with him, she was always down for any and everything he suggested. Needing to regain his bearings and with no alternative in sight, Patrick made a beeline for the men’s bathroom.
He’d barely splashed his face with a handful of cold water when Thad Anderson walked in followed closely by his lap dog Saul Gould. Like him, they were smartly dressed in three-piece button suits and oxfords. Anderson in the latest Armani, Gould in last winter’s Cerruti.
“Godzilla!” Thad smirked. “Planning your next corporate invasion?” Thad stuck out his arms, opened his mouth wide and started trashing air.
Saul laughed and smacked Thad on the shoulder as they stepped in front of a pair of urinals.
“Just washing my hands,” Patrick replied, keeping his tone non-committal. If the sharks sensed blood, they’d move in for the kill. Patrick even took his time drying his hands, but his ruse didn’t save him from what came next.
“What happened out there?” Thad even had the temerity to look appalled. “Saul and I expected this would be your year, Patrick.”
“We all believed you were a shoe in for sure,” Saul added as if they’d rehearsed the rubbing-it-in speech in the hallway. “You’re the only one in the office with a perfect record reading the market. To say we’re in shock is an understatement.”
Patrick watched Thad glance at Saul, and they looked anything but shocked, more like smug.
Let them gloat, he fumed. Neither man was anywhere near making partner. Anderson had a gambling problem he attempted and failed to hide by taking out a company loan. And Gould’s department was essentially ineffectual. Lucky for him, his department seeded social ventures, investing in bullshit endeavors like clean water wells and goats for women in Romania, or he would’ve been pink slipped years ago.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I—” Patrick didn’t complete the sentence. The man of the hour had walked into the bathroom. Suddenly deciding he needed to take a leak, he walked over to the urinal and unzipped his pants. More so to keep from shaking the douche’s hand than actually relieve his dick.
On the other hand, Thad and Saul couldn’t wash their hands fast enough to offer up congratulations to the new junior partner. They even offered to buy the first and second round of drinks at the Rainbow room. Patrick gritted his teeth while the two suck ups salivated over the new head man.
Thirsty bastards.
Patrick had to admit the guy walked the walk, moving like a predator to the urinal next to his. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick checked him out from his Alden wingtips to his three-piece glen plaid suit. On closer inspection, the other man reminded Patrick of himself. Just a few years older and inexplicably more polished–his attire was immaculate.
Patrick glanced down at his own suit and frowned. It was expensive, but woefully cookie cutter. Unlike Xavier’s suit which fit him like a second skin. Custom, Patrick deduced. His jaw clenched as he zipped up his fly a little too abruptly. He hated anyone having an advantage over him. Especially this man, who’d single-handedly, snatched the partnership from under his feet.
Better to keep one’s friends closer and his enemies closer. As he walked over to the row of sinks, Patrick found Xavier in the bathroom mirror. “I hate to ask a personal question like this, but where do you acquire your suits?”
Xavier swiveled his head around, his green eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I won’t just tell you. I’ll give you their card.” Xavier zipped up his pants and walked over to the bathroom sink.
He washed his hands, dried them and then reached inside his suit jacket, pulling out a platinum plated business card holder. Patrick admired the cover’s sleek lines and made a mental note to have his assistant Google the maker.
“I frequent a haberdasher uptown on 65th,” Xavier said in perfect, textbook English. His Brazilian accent barely detectable, yet silky smooth. The man was so effin’ polished, Patrick wavered between rearranging his face or becoming his best friend. “The place is called Haufman’s. Her work is so well done its art.”
“Her?” Stunned, Patrick took the crème Egyptian linen card from Xavier. Haberdashers were a dying breed–a relic of a bygone era, and female tailors were just as rare.
Xavier’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Yes. Shoshanna Haufman. Third generation haberdasher. She took over as head tailor about eight months ago.” Silva must’ve noticed the flicker of doubt Patrick tried to cover up because he chuckled. “Don’t worry, the workmanship is just as impeccable as her father’s. Every suit’s handmade, quite old school as you Americans would say.”
Patrick reread the cursive lettering on the card. He imagined some stout, bull of a woman lording it over a stuffy bespoke store when he finally remembered his manners, “By the way congrats on the new promotion,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thank you,” Silva gushed. “I had no idea it was coming.”
That made two of them. When Patrick got back to his office, he’d have to take the Cristal out of the chiller. Other than a five figure bonus, there wasn’t anything else to celebrate.
“Well…ah…maybe we can have lunch before you head south.”Patrick offered, automatically following the rules of business etiquette not because he actually wanted to break bread with the bastard.
“That would be nice,” Silva said, pumping Patrick’s hand. His enthusiasm and unaffected demeanor almost made him wish he’d washed his hands. Feeling somewhat guilty, Patrick turned on his heel and headed for the exit.
“Do me a favor will you, Patrick?” Silva placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder stopping him. “Don’t share Haufman’s with anyone. It’ll be our little dirty secret so to speak.”
The haberdasher wasn’t the only thing dirty between them, Patrick mused as he followed Silva from the bathroom.
RELEASE DATE COMING SOON!
