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He looked at me, and furrowed his eyebrows. He seemed slightly confused.

‘Million, Eddie. Forty-five million.’

[ 23 ]

I HADN’T ANTICIPATED earning that kind of money so quickly – not having imagined, in the first place, that the MCL-Abraxas deal would be so lucrative for Van Loon & Associates. But when I thought about it, and looked at other deals, and at the way these things were structured, I realized that there was nothing unusual about it at all. The combined value of the two companies concerned would be somewhere in the region two hundred billion dollars. Based on that, our brokerage fee – point something of a per cent – would yield, well … handsomely.

I could do plenty, I thought, with that kind of money. I devoted quite a while to thinking about it, in fact, but it didn’t take me long, either, to feel aggrieved that I wasn’t in possession of any of the money now. It took me even less time to get working on Van Loon for an advance.

When he put the folder aside and I had his attention again, I explained to him that I’d been living on Tenth Street and Avenue A for about six years, but that I felt it was time for a change. He smiled awkwardly at this, as if I’d told him I lived on the moon – but he perked up considerably when I added that I’d been looking at a place in the Celestial Building over on the West Side.

‘Good. That sounds more like it. No disrespect, Eddie – but I mean Avenue A, what the fuck is that all about?’

‘Income levels, Carl. That’s what it’s about. I’ve never had enough money to live anyplace else.’

Obviously thinking he’d put me in an awkward position, Van Loon mumbled something and looked uncomfortable for a moment. I told him I liked living down on Avenue A and Tenth Street, and that it was a great neighbourhood, full of old bars and weird characters. Five minutes later, however, I had him telling me not to worry, that he’d arrange financing immediately so I could buy the apartment in the Celestial Building. It’d be a routine company loan that I could settle later, further down the line, whenever. Sure, I thought, nine and a half million dollars – a routine loan.

I phoned Alison Botnick the next morning at Sullivan, Draskell, the realtors on Madison Avenue.

‘Well, Mr Spinola, how are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

I told her I was sorry for having run off that day, making a joke out of it. She said, oh, not even to mention it. Then I asked her if the apartment was still on the market. It was, she said, and all the work on it had just been completed. I told her I’d be interested in seeing it again, that day if possible, and in talking to her about entering a bid.

Van Loon had also said he’d write a reference letter for me, which would probably make it unnecessary for Sullivan, Draskell to pry into my tax returns and credit history – and would mean, if everything went well, that I could sign the contracts almost immediately and move in.

This had now become the controlling dynamic in my life – immediacy, acceleration, speed. I shifted rapidly from scene to scene, from one location to another, with little sense of where the joins met. For example, I had to see several people that morning, and in different places – the office on Forty-eighth Street, a hotel uptown, a bank down on Vesey Street. Then I had a lunch appointment with Dan Bloom at Le Cirque. I squeezed in seeing the apartment again after lunch. Alison Botnick was waiting for me when I arrived up on the sixty-eighth floor – almost as though she hadn’t left since my last visit and had been waiting patiently for me to return. Barely recognizing me at first, she was then all over me, but within about five minutes, probably even less, I had put in a bid at a small but strategic amount over the ask price and was gone – back to Forty-eighth Street and another meeting with Carl and Hank and Jim, to be followed by cocktails at the Orpheus Room.

As this last meeting was wrapping up, Van Loon took a call at his desk. We were now very close to announcing the deal, and everyone was in an upbeat mood. The meeting had gone well, and even though the hardest part lay ahead – seeking Congressional, FCC and FTC approval – there was a real sense of collective accomplishment in the room.

Hank Atwood stood up from his chair and strolled over to where I was sitting. He was in his early sixties, but looked trim and wiry and very fit. Even though he was short, he had a commanding, almost threatening presence. Landing a gentle punch on my shoulder, he said, ‘Eddie, how do you do it?’

‘What?’

‘That extraordinary recall you’ve got. The way your mind processes everything. I can see it working.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

He went on, ‘You’re on top of this thing in a way that I find almost …’

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.