Chapter 4

Monday morning we had scheduled a meeting with Goldman-Sachs, where some investment bankers were helping us locate some bridge financing. Goldman's HQ is located near the very tip of lower Manhattan, at the corner of Broad and Pearl. When I think Manhattan I think Midtown with its canyons of glass and steel; however I think the Financial District is the most interesting part of the City. With its narrow, crooked streets and historic buildings it feels more like Boston than New York.

We could see the tall masts from the sailing ships at the South Street Seaport as we entered Goldman's building, though sightseeing was furthest from my mind. Dennis and I were there to pitch our restructuring strategy to a panel of granite-jawed and steely-eyed venture capitalists.

The meeting took all morning and afterward Dennis and I headed across the street to Fraunces Tavern for lunch.

"How do you think it went?" Dennis asked as we awaited our orders.

"How do you think?"

"I asked you first."

"Pretty well. Neither of us crammed our feet into our mouths."

"I think it went real well," Dennis replied.

"If this financing falls through, we've lost the battle, the campaign and the war."

"I can't see how they'll turn us down. I'll admit, Phil -- you may look a little dweebish..."

"Dweebish?"

" ... but you sure can hold your own under fire. Your presentation was a work of art. I'd never have been able to pull it off without you. If this financing comes through -- you've already earned your fee."

"It's all optics," I replied. "You do realize that once we've stopped the bleeding, paying off this loan becomes your gold-plated, number one priority. These venture cap guys are like loan sharks. If you don't deliver results, they become your worst nightmare combination of repo men and debt collectors."

"You're preaching to the choir, Phil. I understand full well the value of optics."

"Do you? Denny -- we've known each other a long time."

"Yeah..."

"I'm going to give you a bit of advice about optics -- as an old friend, not as a consultant."

"What's that?"

"I think for the duration you ought to give your little black book a rest."

"Why are you saying that?"

"Because -- any whiff of scandal could torpedo this whole thing. Above all, don't do anything to piss off Kathleen. Folks are going to wonder how you can hold a business together if your family's falling apart."

"I suppose you're right..."

"Besides -- I'm using your trysting-place, so you won't have a venue for your extra-curricular activities."

"How did you know that apartment..."

"Come on, Denny ... A luxury apartment conveniently located in midtown with a comfortable king-sized bed, a cooler stocked with fine wine and champagne, a bar loaded with the best brandy and whisky and the most discreet doorman on the face of the Earth? What else would it be used for? Why don't you put your book in a safe-deposit box somewhere and take the call girls off speed-dial? You can dust it off again once you're back into smooth sailing ... and I've gone back to Rochester."

"Speaking of call girls," Dennis replied. "I wasn't going to mention anything, but since you brought the topic up..."

"What?"

"That Black chick you were with on Saturday IS one of Martha's. Don't deny it."

"You called and checked on me?"

"She looked familiar, and my curiosity got the better of me. Of course Martha's too discreet to divulge any personal information, but I got enough pieces of the puzzle to see the whole picture."

I looked at Dennis and shrugged.

"She was good," he continued. "I'll give that much to her. She looked like she worshipped you, Phil. Even Kathy was fooled. She had you two standing at the altar."

"You're not going to burst her bubble, are you?"

"'Course not."

"It wasn't an act," I added. "Steffi and I ... We discovered ... we have chemistry."

"Chemistry?"

"Yeah ... We've spent a few evenings together and..."

"How many is a few?"

"Four or five ... Not counting the party."

"Holy shit, Phil! Don't tell me you're falling for a call girl!"

"The feelings are mutual."

"How do you know that?" Dennis asked.

"Because Steffi told me, and I believe her."

Dennis gazed at me, slack-jawed. "Phil ... It's all an act. Don't you get it? They'll tell you whatever they think you want to hear."

"Like I said, I believe her. Steffi's not like that."

"They're ALL like that. Now it's time for me to give YOU some advice as an old pal -- and as someone who thoroughly knows their ilk. Those girls are put on Earth for the same purpose as paper towels. You use them once and throw them away. She served her purpose, Phil. Mission accomplished. Next!"

That night I lay in bed thinking about Steffi and what Dennis had said. I was reassessing my feelings for her. Steffi was bright, well-educated, well-read, well-mannered and she had sophisticated tastes. She was exactly the sort of woman I admired. She was right -- she was a bit young for me but that sort of difference had been worked through before. And, I was wrong when I stated her race didn't matter. It did matter -- and it made her more alluring, more special, more exotic and more beautiful in my eyes. I also had to admit I had been more than a little love-drunk over her, and it had affected my work.

I was a pretty good judge of character, I thought, and I sensed sincerity in her. I wasn't ignoring Dennis's advice, either; but I couldn't get it to gel.

I knew the sex was real -- I had no doubt of that. Meg Ryan's performance in When Harry Met Sally notwithstanding, I firmly believe no woman can convincingly simulate the physiology of the female sexual response any more than a man can fake an erection and ejaculation. Any guy who's taken in by such fakery either isn't paying attention or doesn't know much about women.

Steffi was right about one thing: she would be driven into a choice between a career she enjoyed or a steady relationship. Some guys might tolerate a steady girlfriend working as a pro skirt, but I wasn't one of them. And THAT was the rub. I didn't want to force her into a decision she would regret.

Finally, I decided to attack the problem like any other. I powered up my laptop and created a document:

Steffi: Talking points

o Lovely, sweet girl

o We travel in different circles

o Circles intersected but now on different paths

o Fun while it lasted

o Keep on good terms

o Remain friends

o Stay in touch

o

I saved the document and went back to bed. Getting my thoughts down helped me clear my mind, but it didn't make me look forward to Friday or Saturday or Sunday or whenever Steffi and I finally got together to sit down and have The Talk.

The next morning I arose and dressed. I went to my laptop, brought up the doc and reviewed it. Then, I closed it and deleted it. What sort of a dweeb, I mused, would use a PowerPoint presentation to break up with his girlfriend?

I took a cab to Dennis's headquarters and sat and waited in his office. We were both on pins and needles waiting for the call from Goldman. We knew the wrong answer meant, Game Over.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he told me.

"Neither could I."

"Phil ... You do put your heart into things, don't you?"

"Yeah ... I know. It'll be my downfall."

We sat through the lunch hour. Then around two in the afternoon the phone rang. My friend picked it up. "Denny Day ... Put him on..."

I watched Dennis's expression. He didn't speak more than an occasional "yes" or "no" into the handset. Then, he set it on the hook. His face said it all.

"We got the financing," he said quietly; then looked up at me and for the first time in years I read true humility and gratitude on his face. He extended his hand. I took it, he grasped mine and shook it.

"Now the real work begins," I replied. "Some other advice -- from an old pal. If you really want to be serious about cutting costs, you must set the lead. In any organization the troops take their lead from the top -- whether it's the army or the phone company. If they see you tightening your belt, they'll tighten theirs. Take a pay cut. Lose the corporate jet -- fly economy."

"You sound like a Dutch uncle," Dennis replied.

"My middle name isn't Voorhees for nothing."

"The closing on the loan is tomorrow."

"I'll be there."

Dennis stretched back in his chair. "Have you decided what to do about your call girl?"

"I think so."

"Are you dumping her?"

"I think I am."

"Do it now, pal ... before the feelings get any deeper."

"Yeah, I know..." I sighed. "I'm not looking forward to it, though. I don't want to hurt her."

"When she looks at her bank account from all those fees you paid her ... it'll take the sting away, believe me."

Wednesday I was back at Goldman-Sachs with Dennis for the loan closing. It was an anticlimax -- a few signatures on documents, an order to wire money ... By three that afternoon, Dennis's corporate account was topped up and by five, checks were being cut and mailed.

We both knew the loan was only a transfusion. The patient was still hemmoraging money, and the surgery to staunch it would be much more of a challenge. At least we bought enough time that the patient wouldn't die on the table.

Even though we had won the first battle of a long campaign, I already felt like I had been through a war. By the time I headed back to the apartment, my ass was dragging. I was ready for a shower and bed, and I hadn't even had dinner yet.

The intercom buzzed. "Mr S..."

"Yes Ralph?"

"Steffi's on her way up."

"I wasn't expecting her tonight..."

"I'm sorry Mr S. Should I have detained her?"

"No, Ralph. I'll see her."

The bell rang and Steffi stepped in. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. "Oh, God, Phil!" she exclaimed and started wailing.

"Steffi -- calm down. What's wrong?"

"My roommate ... Candy ... Candace ... She was murdered!"

"Murdered?"

"Yes," she blubbered. He slit her throat and I saw it. I watched her die! Oh God oh God!"

"Just now?"

"Yes ... He must not have known I was in my bedroom. I heard him come in so I hid behind my door. I heard them argue and then a struggle. I peeked through a crack in the door and saw the whole thing! I came straight here!"

"Where IS your apartment?"

"In Chinatown."

"Chinatown?"

"Yes ... the rents are low there."

"Do you know who did it?"

"Yes. Oh, God if he finds out I know, I'm dead, too! Phil, help me! I don't know what to do!"

"First thing is we gotta get the police involved. I'll call." I picked up the phone and punched in 911.

"What is the nature of the emergency?"

"I need to report a homicide..."

From that point on it was yellow police tape and detectives ... Conversations with lieutenants and looking through books of mug shots ... I was along for the ride and to give Steffi some moral support. Then, she was taken into an interview room while I twiddled my thumbs. A police detective came into the waiting room to help himself to some instant coffee.

"They don't think she had anything to do with it, do they?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "Naw ... It's a gang or mob thing ... some deal gone bad. If she knows who did it, she's a material witness ... and maybe the key to busting open some of the shit going on in Chinatown." He swigged his coffee. "You do know what kind of a girl she is."

"What kind is she?"

"Call girl ... You're not one of her customers are you?"

"She's an escort ... not a prostitute. There's no law against that."

He snorted. "Yeah, right ... and I'm the man in the moon. I'll tell you, pal -- stay away from 'em. Some of these chicks walk a tight line between what's legal and what isn't. You wouldn't want to end up with a solicitation rap."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Any time, pal."

A sergeant led Steffi from the back. I stood. "Are they done with you?"

"For now."

"We'll have some more questions." the sergeant replied. "Give us a call if you need to leave town."

"Come on, Steffi ... Let's see if we can get a cab."

The taxi dropped us off outside my building. Ralph was long off the clock, so I used my passkey to open the door. We rode the elevator to my floor and I let her into my apartment.

Steffi sat on the sofa. She looked numb.

"Oh, God, Phil," she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do, now."

"You don't need to decide right now."

"I can't even go back to my apartment. They have it all taped off. I don't want to go back there. I don't know how or when I can collect my things."

"Let's not worry about it, now."

"I know one thing for sure. I want out."

"Out?"

"Out of the business. I'm done. Through. No more. I don't want to end up like Candy."

"Was she an escort, too?"

"Yes..."

"One of Martha's?"

"No..."

"If you want out, I certainly respect that, Steffi."

"They think the murder was drug-related."

"Did you know she had drugs in the apartment?"

"No ... Oh, God! What if she stashed it among my stuff?"

"We'll deal with that eventuality when we have to. I'm hoping we won't have to."

"Oh, God..."

"Steffi -- you can stay here for ... for as long as you need. There's a spare bedroom you can use. I'll make up the bed. It'll be a space you can call your own."

"I don't know..."

"Here's what we'll do ... I'll call Dennis in the morning and tell him I have a family emergency I need to address. Then, you and I will go shopping and buy some clothes and supplies ... enough to hold you 'til we can retrieve your belongings. Okay?"

"Okay..."

"Right now, why don't I draw a nice warm bath? You can soak and relax, and then I'll tuck you in and you can try to get some rest."