Returns and Exchanges: A Novel

By Yuri Kruman

Five brilliant twenty-somethings hungry for their piece of limelight, meaning and a chance at greatness take New York on with their zeal. Will sudden challenges derail their dreams or will they prove their mettle against odds?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483508085

Yuri Kruman

Yuri is the CEO of HR, Talent & Systems Consulting, an award-winning HR consultancy. A CHRO and Head of Remote for clients, he is also a certified SHRM-SCP, as well as sought-after speaker and expert on Remote Work, Digital Transformation, L&D and Employee Experience (EX). Host of the “Commander-in-Chief Podcast,” Yuri is likewise a Newsweek Expert Forum and Forbes Coaches Council member and contributor to Fast Co., Forbes, Entrepreneur, Newsweek and a number of other top platforms. He has consulted, built L&D programs and and spoken at numerous Fortune 500 and Inc. 5000 companies, VC-backed startups and top universities, including Google, EY, Medtronic, Columbia and UPenn, likewise appearing on network TV and top podcasts, including NBC's "Tipping Point," Leadership and Loyalty Podcast, Entrepreneur on Fire and Wharton Business Radio. In addition, his executive leadership coaching practice has impacted thousands of top executives. He is the author of "What Millennials Really Want From Work and Life" (Business Expert Press, March 2019) and the forthcoming, "Be Your Own Commander-in-Chief," (Ideapress Publishing, 2021).

Book preview

YOU.

PART I

1

Tell me about yourself, Conrad.

Dianne had cynical, impatient eyes, which managed to remain attractive despite age.

Grew up in Texas—Lubbock. Born in St. Paul, in Minnesota. Just graduated Duke, I’m sure you saw. Did History and Poly Sci. Planning to go to law school in the fall.

Smart guy. Why law school?

I want to end up doing public service of some sort. I think a law degree would really help.

Uhhuh. Her tone was unconvinced. She’d heard it all before. So why New York? How come not Dallas, Charlotte or Chicago, or back home?

I like it here. I always had the urge to live here, in New York. There’s a good chance I’ll end up here for school. He was freestyling well through teeth.

Columbia or NYU?

Applied to both, we’ll see.

Have you heard back from anywhere?

From Harvard, yes. They said I’m in.

Nodding her head, she let him in the realm of possibility.

Of course you’re going, right?

Not sure. New York’s my preference over Boston.

Come on. You don’t say no to Harvard. Plus, you’ll end up back here in three years, for the summers. No big deal.

We’ll see. But yes, refusing would be hard.

So, why this job? What do you hope to gain from this? You know it’s part-time, right? $15 an hour.

Just fine by me. I have another part-time job lined up—Kimball campaign.

Old Richard Lionheart. Well done. What do they have you doing there?

Mostly outreach to campus orgs, campaign events, coordination. You know, control the message, mobilize the troops. Then spray and pray.

So once again, what’s in it here for you?

I have a lot to learn from you, Miss Colton. You work with some amazing people and I’d love to help you with whatever projects that you need. I’m very good with research and I write well. Plus, I’m resourceful and quite quick to learn. I’m used to deadlines and high pressure from my internships in Congress.

One moment, let me get more coffee. Mari-Elena! Un café!

The woman came around from kitchen with a tray—an older, seasoned hand, dressed in an apron, with a stern expression. Humor’s no object here, he saw. There was Dianne herself, an iron lady by demeanor, in her early fifties, in a pantsuit. Her hair was short, splayed out like angled brushes. Somewhere online he’d read she managed to beat cancer. She was tough.

What did he want with working here? He could B.S. all day—and well—but what was there to gain? She had advised two mayors and two governors, while based here on Fifth Avenue, was all. There would be special projects, errands, research, writing. All that’s great. But would she give him entry—hell, a look—at rich and famous lives in this fantastic zoo of wealth and influence? He’d have to stick around and see.

All right, Conrad. I’m liking what I hear. You have the job. House rules. I’m a demanding boss. Deadlines are sharp. My clients always get the highest quality of work, and I expect no less. When I give out a project, write instructions down. I don’t care to repeat myself. My expectation is for you to ask your questions at the start, not all throughout. I’m harsh, but fair. I do think you will learn a lot. I need you close to twenty hours a week. Is that fine?

It is. Thanks for the chance, Miss Colton. Monday through Thursday, I’m in Jersey City one-six, so I would have to leave at noon. On Friday morning, there’s a meeting until ten, so I can be here at eleven. So nine to twelve, four days, eleven to whatever-suits-you, Fridays. That’s eighteen-nineteen hours.

Fine, that would work. Now, do you have your laptop with you?

Yes, let me take it out.

Can you start now? I have a letter I need drafted right away. Here, sit at the dining table. Take off your jacket, have a seat.

She wasn’t one to waste much time. Out came his trusty Asus, on. He rushed and clicked on Word.

Listening.

I want you to write up a letter on behalf of Straight Texas Poker, Limited—they’re based in the UK, my client. Address it to ‘Commissioner.’ Research the gambling laws of Singapore. Say STP has done a lot of tournaments around the world. They’ll follow all the laws—X, Y and Z. The point is that my friend Michel Guttmann-two n’s-who runs the company now wants to organize a tournament in Singapore. He needs my help to do it. Off you go.

She got up and proceeded to her desk, which was within earshot, across the living room. Conrad was on his own, without much sense to navigate left-right. What was this bullshit with a poker tournament? What kind of shady legal consultation was this, anyway? And who-what-in the hell was she? Not quite a lawyer, a consultant, speaker, strategist, a confidante to bigwigs? What a whirlwind.

He got up slowly from the chair, a high-end, plush affair before a glass-top table, light wood panels all around. The living room held stately couches, leather wing chairs. Under a fancy chandelier, she’d sit herself across from guest—just as she’d done with him—and make him feel important, taken care of. Between the bookshelves— cookbooks, biographies and photos, well arranged—were paintings from Japan, small landscapes, Cubist prints. Signed pictures with two presidents—the Bushes—stood solemn among tasteful souvenirs and such. Conrad slid off his jacket at the window and looked out. The morning sun was shining on the Park. Ladies with dogs and joggers running on the paths. The Met Museum was just up, a break in trees. So this was it, The Dream. One cutthroat, rushed and anxious dream. How would he manage two demanding tyrants and their stooges? He’d stepped into a giant cowpie, Conrad Falk. Now sink or swim, you fool. Welcome to Gotham.

2

Clutching his fifth and last, least pleasurable drink—a caipirinha, Lisandro tired from his salacious dance, a samba with two girls at once—brunettes from Rio, missing home. Blissful debauchery was standard for his birthdays. His rhythm of youth its most assured and virile, demigod of newly 24 years old had world at his disposal, not content with slow and steady bites. The week had brought an extra cause célèbre—the mandate of prestige and long awaited validation with a Goldman offer. Sandro could now resume his plan to learn the secrets of the best, eventually to open his own shop of quants.

The past two years, his first from college, on his own, had been silent humiliation. While Pablo started at the top, Lisandro had been left outside the pale, ending his awful jobless search at Ayers Rock Capital, when Papa got involved. Well, he had labored like a woman scorned, the grueling hours worth but $60k and change, but he’d outplayed them all, yes Sir. With every drinking contest and big O, he had outlasted and outfoxed his classmates with his hunger and sheer will. When on vacation, he was all too keen to lead conspiracy of his high-living friends in island-hopping, chasing skirts on patriotic holiday, living quite well, in all, outside his means. The standard tour of Monaco, Ibiza, Istanbul, Milan and London had been covered long ago; neither Marbella nor old St. Tropez, or Casablanca, Cannes yet quieted his solicitude. With Zara, Nico, Pablo and of course the ebony temptress, Cleo, they’d hit up Tel-Aviv and Goa, then Shanghai and Mother-of-All-Orgies, Moscow. This moment was but fitting vindication.

The thought of stunning women on the sea, picked for his pleasure, had already drawn his plans for the Memorial Day, two months away. The victor picks his prize, at last. Nico and Pablo can now watch and grind their teeth, but he would give up nothing.

The high of escalating drum-fuelled frenzy breathed its last. Damn, what a night! The sirens bursting out before him now demanded his attention as he looked around, accounting for his scattered guests. There was attrition, but one thing was sure—he was with hottest two in the establishment. Zara was with her childhood friend Aidan, green journalist for GNU, dispensing her charisma, dark-eyed charm. Pablo, the bastard, has of course long left for greener pastures, probably a club down block. Nico was off to catch his plane to boring old Geneva, where he did his shtick, scheming again in secret after some old fling, after another break-up.

Cleo! Now there she was, writhing her way into and out of some poor sucker’s mental grasp. Wow, what a tease! There was a time in freshman year, when in the heat of strong delusion, Sandro tried to charm this cat out of her miniskirt, only to be apprised at moment critical in courtship that his skinny Roman ass had snowball’s chance in hell to hope for pilgrimage to Cleo’s shores. Said charge was leveled ever skillfully as guillotine onto ambitions, whispered into quivering ear as he leaned in for close exchange. Sandro was shocked, an animal well-trapped, but hardly overwhelmed. The least and most he hoped for after then was friendship of rare equals.

Unable to escape Brazil so easily (the taller one appeared to be an Italian stock; the shorter, a well-crafted native mix), he lingered in a French way with each beauty. He simply was unable to resist, in drunken haze, suspecting vaguely they’d mistaken him for movie star. He took down numbers without care, not focused on his phone, yet angling it away from each with deftness from the others’ prying eyes. Beyond repair, he was drawn in again for their sweet torture. This was like college, even better. He tore himself away at last and lurched toward the other corner of the dance floor.

He breathed out in relief and narrowed eyes, locating Cleo’s figure from behind. Getting a grip—Good Lord!—he sidled up and tapped her on the shoulder, pardoning himself. The hapless player with her had it coming, good or bad, depending on dear woman’s mood. She pulled aside for him. They spoke in French, as always, just to square their sentiments on objects caught in their respective webs. Tonight, she was a hunter.

Her own concern regarding his condition was returned, stamped with dismissive expletive over the worry of a horny mother hen. He kissed her on the cheek adieu, confirming his great time, not least for her magnetic presence. They laughed at Pablo’s shiftiness and Nico’s dancing antics, still too good.

Sandro rang off toward the bar. Zara remained the last goodbye before a cab and prompt face down in bed. He lavished her with compliments, a kiss on cheek prolonged, and asked her friend Aidan if he’d enjoyed his evening, with a flash of charming host. Assured, he whispered into Zara’s ear, the music starting up again, "My dear, I’m thrilled you came. The samba band did well, but your in-house DJ is better. Maybe he’ll make the next-year’s mix himself.

He looked into her almond eyes, those pools of darkness, warmth and mischief. Hers was a subtler beauty, yet still virile, her appetite for love subdued by need to have and hold and crush and tease. She was astute, reserved, even as Cleo gave up little in her wit and manhood-whipping charm. Both were too heavy for his blood, this way or that. With women such as these for friends, enjoyment came on easily, adventure all too easily obtained. He knew Zara would chat all night. He gave her brother’s hug and bid good night to both, escorted by their serenade. No more a host, Sandro now left behind that nest of noise, fast through the portal into night, so oddly warm and free.

His breath appeared almost with gratitude in streetlight’s glare. Sandro pulled on his jacket. His ears rang with a soundtrack from the zoo, euphoric embers and his moment ecstasies intact, but fading. Varied and wonderful, they filled him with a grinning mirth, untold hilarity. It was a brilliant coup to be alive and young on nights like this. The promise of the spring’s return was swell, chastising winter’s cruel intentions.

Lisandro felt a rush, a third wind, irresistible, infectious, bearing him aloft despite the voiding pull of dehydration, an ever-present poor relation in his quarters. He waved down, then dismissed, on second thought, a rare cab at this G-d-forsaken hour, even for New York. The clock would soon strike 5 AM, not quite dawn finish for the night’s events. Dinner, his friends, their clever gifts, much roaring laughter, loud congratulations all retreated to the matrix recess of posterities.

Sandro walked east on Houston, then up Broadway toward Astor. Not sure why, he remembered winter nights in Oslo, sneaking out with his cousins Jan and Rich from their grandparents’ house into the fields, the edge of town, to watch the Northern Lights, three troublemakers—two so blond, the other, an outlandish Roman sculpture with his dark and curly mane. In fact, the brothers only stopped their teasing at fifteen, when they got wind of his precocity with girls in school, through Kristian, who was bit older and respected. A mere four years between them, S&K, but they had grown apart as Kristo branched out with his own good friends and posse, moved to U.S. for school, asserted firmly his first child’s strong-headedness. At one point he could not recall precisely, admiration left respect of age, then bare politeness on his part. The bastard called him still and wished him happy birthday. Kristo and Cassie, now his wife, would take him out for brunch to celebrate, affirming elder statesmanship, like every year.

Cassie was beautiful, a slender, tall brunette, precisely what the womanizer needed least, per protocol. She was a menace— smarter, sharper, even more to point than Kristo, ruthless with wit to point of broken balls. What a vaccine against Kristian’s worse judgment! One somehow wondered, would it be enough, forever more? If Father Dearest was an indication, fresh talent would be pouring in some day into the den of conjugal belief. Yet even so, Kris must have had disgust at Father when the scandal broke with shapely secretary. That was the end of patience and humiliation for them all. Kristian was hardened for a time by messy break, the cynicism, betrayal into concrete poured, the wounds of broken trust patched up but later. Women were playthings suddenly at fifteen, nothing but dolls and objects to admire.

Cassie had changed him, straightened him and made him a philanderer no more, or so he claimed. He was now focused, working hard, VP at JP Morgan, full steam ahead to bigger, brighter things, no doubt. There must have been some love between them, one would guess. They looked quite good, those two, envy of friends and quite the power couple. He’d see them near their place tomorrow on West 12th, at noon for brunch.

Sandro exhaled. He crossed on Astor to 3rd Avenue. The streetlamp inspiration had now run its course. Fatigued, his eyelids drooped; his posture sagged. He gently slowed his gait. The throat felt dry and scratched uncomfortably when he swallowed. The last of the obnoxious student alcoholics trickled onto one and then another NYU construction. Pathetic little amateurs, he smirked, half-heartedly. He was himself not far enough removed from pitiful debauch, which lingered in his memory no more than t-shirt stain before a laundry run. He was too proud of context to compare himself and even then, too old to brag.

Sandro escaped the trap of hold-nose B&Ts, transvestites off the train from Williamsburg, and sauntered further up on 3rd. Two unsuccessful jocks chowed down on pizza, boasting of legendary female curves they’d never know, as they zigzagged irregularly home. One yelled out to Lisandro, questioning his skills to hit that. The lad steered deftly to the side, leaving the drunken athlete in his place, dumfounded and incredulous, riled up and yelling threats. Dunkin was open to the shadiest of late-night hungries. A couple of police academy recruits managed to cross his path. What were they doing up so early on a Saturday morning? Didn’t this f-ing place just sleep or close for business, ever?

He badly wanted peace, elusive quiet one could never find in this damn town. His pent-up winter energy was bursting forth this night, somewhere inside. To orient himself, he looked up at the moon. March 21st, it was the equinox! He was too tired—what had he learned about it in astronomy? A certain something warmed in mind, which energized Lisandro, piqued his curiosity about the spring night’s sky. As he detected more such characters approaching from uptown, Sandro turned east on 25th, disgusted, needing an escape. At last, some quiet!

He exhaled lustily, diminished noise making his ears perk up like a wild cat’s. He picked up speed, now turning sharply left onto the squalid Second Avenue. The denizen with speedy stealth, observing eastern side of avenue, detected shady characters all crowding under projects’ rafters. This public housing was no place for white boys late at night.

His profane tempers flared, he kept to shadows on his side. He passed a Spanish bank (to whom did this make sense right here?), parking garage, a couple greasy restaurants. Bodega now still open let out conversation in an Arabic that paused as he approached, in wonder at the presence of a normal person at this hour. There was the 99¢ store on 28th and then the little park with playground up on 29th. He carefully scanned it for the slightest twitch or breath. Safe, he exhaled. Recalcitrant eccentrics stood outside an Irish whiskey bar with smokes, some talking sports and others, drunken trash. What fellows stayed this late with booze, save hopeless cases? Sandro just slowed to listen in, his brow furrowed pre-emptively. Ahead, across the street, the cinema was lit, as always and a stretch of safe and normal Murray Hill spread out welcoming arm.

Lisandro was relieved, the cloud gone from his psyche. He waited patiently as cars trickled on by, creeping with laziness across or turning right to go downtown. He looked left to confirm his privilege to go. Sandro heard screeching and a dull thud right behind him, turning to see the matter. The revelers’ attentions were diverted to what looked like a large sack, next to a bike sprawled on the pavement, wheels still spinning. He focused, hearing muffled screams from women standing under canopy. He ran back down, seeing the police cars out of nowhere, cops blocking the street, the driver of a black jalopy step out of the running car. An ambulance appeared, spilled out its contents—EMTs—1, 2, 3—holding stretcher. One of the patrons yelled out, I’m a doctor! He bent over the body of a black kid, seventeen or eighteen, tops. The doctor now secured the neck and head. Lisandro did not fail to notice a red trickle, dark, from the head back, a gruesome stream of wasting life, toward the gutter opening. He winced and clapped his molars shut. A pulse had been detected. Would the boy survive? The medics placed a board beneath and lifted on a stretcher. At least the hospital was just a block away. The kid was lucky not to die right then and there. A feeble breath was coughed out. The shock, a pincer vice, was clearly seen. There was no doubt of ugly bone breaks and head trauma, quite the worst. The bike, of course, was without lights, a soft projectile target on two wheels. Two thirty-something women cried in shock, with covered mouths. The others whimpered, shaking heads. The sight of life hung up by hair’s breadth was a stark reminder. Oh, what a mess! The situation stabilized, the boy was lifted slowly from the ground on stretcher, carried over, oriented into ambulance like clockwork. Lisandro stretched on tip toes, glimpsing the face of death, immobilized, just long enough to brand in memory.

The body was locked up and sirened off. The cops cleared all the evidence and spoke with driver, who looked shaken, not himself. Lisandro sighed and turned reluctantly away to home. A hushed and empty 30th remained such all the way through. The twisted face was jammed, a faulty gear, intruding in his mind with urgency. He sought to calm his ruffled nerves, needing to sleep quite badly at this five to six. He took deep breaths and felt his heart resume uneasy walking rest. ’Twas just a kid, got hit because he rode the streets in dead of night, without a light, going the wrong way without looking. It was unclear if he would live the night. What cretin! He could imagine what activities preceded frantic pedaling across the avenue, a small machine unable to escape a large one.

The face, its flattened sacks for cheeks and puffed-up eyes, large nose, was awfully familiar, more he thought. The features rang with metal from a corner of existence Sandro could not quite evince. Fatigue would not permit a guess. Who was that somebody—someone from Duke or maybe from a trip somewhere? Damned, if he knew. He narrowed eyes and shook his head of the affair. The stretch was dead, even on 34th. He turned the corner, dragged himself up to third floor. Lisandro flung himself straight on his bed, face down. The felling avalanche removed the last of hope to lay the keys and wallet on the desk. The prying dawn chased him under the covers in short order.

Finding himself head first in trough of throbbing wretchedness, the wayward sheets and clothing half-removed, Sandro regained the sovereignty of his function. Contorting face to channel off the cruel, persistent sunlight, he recognized familiar headache from hangover. The thought of movement racked him, but he had to run, and fast.

11:15 on his wristwatch, birthday gift from Kristo, five years to the date. Stretching his limbs, Vitruvian Man restored to life. The veteran of two zodiacs touched off the seismic shift he knew was imminent. Lisandro groaned worse than a neighing ass, a signal to himself to stop the booze, this time for good. At least he had gone out in style.

He raised his head, squinting in pain. He realized in a moment through the haze, an awful dream had made a waste of much his sleep. Whatever he had seen, he’d been both victim and the punisher.

Sandro alighted to his feet unto the wooden floor planks. Focus was difficult, but needed. He didn’t want to give cause for old Kristo to upset his apple cart and blow his lid. Cassie was nicer, more respectful on the phone last time, in any case. Come on, keep focused. ’Twas half past.

He stood up, wavered sheepishly to left, grabbing the wall outcropping to prevent a fall. He looked down, smirking, found his jeans half down to ankles. Idiot. He sat back down, leaned back on edge of bed and strained to coordinate his muscles for the simple task. Big Fail-in style, but no less stupid. He let out a dry laugh, sat up, then slipped first left, then right leg through the pant holes. Freedom.

He poured a glass of water from the tap and downed it with a convalescent’s thirst. Next came an Advil, extra strength, with piece of stale bread from the fridge. It smelled like rotten veggies, mold galore. That fucking bastard, Rob. None such had heard him from the next room. 11:35, he should be long on way to a fantastic day, a long walk in the Park, with company. His dry rage quickly shifted, favoring haste. The leonine specimen now showered and dressed and occupied the throne in record time, ridding his face of lipstick streaks and dry saliva in the mirror. Hero of conquest, proud and filthy. Ugh.

11:50. He shot like mad on out the door and ran toward the corner. He trapped a cab in sights and flagged it down. West 12th and Hudson, please. Ahmed Ahmed was at the wheel. Where was he from, he wondered?

They sped past scene of morning’s accident. He shot a glance at pavement for a sign. Lisandro thought he could make out a thin, dark line toward the drain. His dream came into sharp relief, played as in front of him. He’d been the driver of the death mobile-black-and sped up gravely to annihilate the moving target, a cruel and vicious game of murder lust. Score: +500. Ding! The biker’s face-eyes huge, glazed over, gaping mouth atwitch with fear—like woodcut, it was carved into the pane of his perception. The dream had seen him cruel, by turns repentant, crass and empathetic. Now, he was a bloodthirsty shark, now hunted bait. Sure, he was blameless to the law, but no less Marie-Antoinette. What horror all this was!

He hyperventilated frantically. The lazy window lowered slowly just to let him breathe. Well on the way west down 14th, they were already nearing 7th. He realized the nightmare had played out on repeat all the while he slept. It had quite well gone viral.

Lisandro yelled to Ahmed Ahmed just to stop. He slipped a twenty out and tossed it, balled without much thought ahead into the void. He was in utter panic, stomach churned. His head spun. What the hell?!

On terra firma, he could calm himself. He got his bearings, stabilized. The threat of nausea was too real. He breathed in slowly, hoping to avoid undue attention. Sandro waved off and nodded thanks to strangers’ inquiries. He sank down to the sidewalk edge and gripped his knees, then closed his eyes. He willed himself to calm the seas inside. Relax now, slow and steady, it would pass. F-ing mojitos. Never returning there. Ffffff. He exhaled, clenching fists, establishing a baseline of his common sense. He stood up slowly, checked the time. 12:10, Cassie had called. He dialed, assuring he was close. He crossed the street with unfamiliar mindfulness. A further five and he arrived.

Les Deux Tableaux. Never been there, looked cute. He walked in, looking ’round for Kristo’s mane. In the back room, he only could see Cassie window-side, toward the garden. He could have sworn she was yet more attractive that before, her dark and lustrous hair a perfect frame for elegance. He wondered where his brother was—the bathroom? Cassie assured him Kristo would be late—he’d spent the night at work, wrapping a deal.

On Friday night?! Lisandro thought and nodded. Something was fishy here. This wasn’t like him, hot air, moodiness aside.

Cassie could tell her brother-in-law’s skepticism, detecting disappointment.

Look, Sandro, I know you wanted Kristo to be here on time to celebrate, but something’s with him lately. He’s always late, having to stay some nights at work, comes home dead, never wants to go out anywhere. He’s spending too much time with friends. I barely see him anymore, myself. So have you seen him, talked to him since Thursday? She looked at Sandro as a callow overgrown teenager— approvingly, with criticism, at once. They were three years apart, but un certain je ne sais quoi would always separate them like a gulf. The gravitas of misery, perhaps, or just her status—wife.

He shook his head, concerned. Dear brother would be last to call his little shitty second iteration, just only when some trauma left no choice. Was Kristo up to his old tricks under her nose? There was a lot here boiling under surface, not so hard to guess. Had they been fighting? Was he sneaking out? If so, he was a moron of obscene proportions. With such a woman! She was a stunner, really, sharp as anything and sexy. A Russian bombshell, but with class. She was the type to push a man quite far in life, herself accomplished far beyond her age. If things were thus, he pitied her. The sting made cringe. Unappetizing prospect.

Switching the subject to Cassie’s affairs, he drank in every word with warmth. She was learning Italian now for work, and could maintain a conversation briefly, but not more. They laughed. It was about time, anyway. She’d been promoted lately, well along as corporate litigator. A brilliant start for her at Simson and Delillo. She wasn’t boastful, yet she spoke of work with fondness, even despite long hours and the foolish fratboys. Cassie exuded dynamism and curiosity, her cynic’s streak deep-seated and unbudging.

Cassie was Jewish, born in Moscow, raised in Boston. Apparently, she had become estranged from her step-father after Mom remarried. The guy was quite religious, lived in Brooklyn. They had moved down to live with him some years before. He didn’t know other specifics, but imagined well that forced observance after Soviet atheism was putting fish to swim in lemon juice. His own brief introduction by his Nonna, lectures on catechism, Four Gospels, Pope’s authority, et al., had brought him to the point of keen disgust. Given how much she was resentful of her mother’s choice, he guessed, he’d never ask beyond the basic things.

Cassie now paused, her eyes becoming narrowed, sly. She smiled sardonically, a package lifting out from purse, wrapped in a frilly box with navy bow. He started, played along. Lisandro hesitated briefly, tearing into box. A book, The Partnership: Making of Goldman Sachs and a small gift box. It was a Montblanc fountain pen, how nice. He had quite little use for this, but anyway was touched. He was no Sade, Montaigne; he never even wrote those thank you notes by hand. That was for older people with their silly continental rules. He thanked his sis-in-law sincerely with a kiss. Was this Kristian’s idea or hers? He’d give his bro the doubt and benefit.

They ordered finally. Lisandro needed carbs like mad, some toast to settle stomach. His eggs were Benedict and hers poached simple, on the side. Her main dish was en endive salad with blue cheese and walnuts. Yekh. He dug in with ferocity, just barely slowing, not to choke. The rush of glucose brought relief. For a quick moment, he regretted juice for a mimosa, but remembered plainly symptoms from before. He needed a day off from celebrating, yes, to walk and breathe fresh air. This was no way to be just days before beginning a new job, no less at Goldman.

The subject came up of his love life, Cassie wanting gossip, not least to save her own. He paused. The last thing needed was for K to start his yapping mouth to tell Mom of his drunken one-night stands and such. Lisandro opened up selectively. There was that Charlotte, on and off, nothing spectacular, nothing too serious or worthy of discussion. She laughed, trusting his oath like a male whore’s.

All men were bastards, more or less, Lisandro saw expressed in her green piercing eyes, reserves of ready wisdom like a painted frost on windows to her scorned clairvoyance. A woman of this bearing always would be hermit queen, superior in all, even when pride unraveled for a man or whim of sisterhood. The solace was in home, not company, and when it went, there would be hell to pay. There was no telling how far she would go, unwound.

His pocket shook with moment vigor once, then twice. ’Twas Kristo, reappeared through text.

Hey, desolé, frero. Was up ’til 7 finishing a deal. Slept through our brunch. I’m really sorry. Let me make it up to you.

With Cassie looking on, Lisandro typed out, We’re here still waiting for you, but we ate. Gonna show up?

A tense and pregnant thirty seconds.

Let me take you for drinks this week to celebrate. We need to talk. J’ai fait une grosse connerie. Will explain later.

Ok, but call me. Wanna see you. Thanks for the gifts, K.

There was no answer and would not be ’til His Highness chose to reappear. The writing on the wall was bad and worse. Lisandro never in their years heard an admission, guilt and all. It’s clear these two were not on speaking terms. Things looked quite bleak. Why was she here? Not for his sake, quite sure. Was he the go-between? Hell no, he wouldn’t get involved.

She guessed his thoughts.

Did Kristian text you?

Hm, well . . .

I know it’s him. I bet he doesn’t want to show his face.

Look, Cassie, I don’t want to get involved. I see you’re fighting, but don’t think it’s smart for me to jump in. I’m just a kid.

He twisted up a sheepish smile. She wasn’t having it.

I understand you, Sandro, but there’s no one else. I’m not about to call your Mom—she’ll take his side, I know. I’d never call his friends, those awful frat boy wanker shmucks who drink with him. There’s no one here who knows him better and just frankly, gives a damn. I’m sorry, little brother. Can you talk to him? Just tell him to come home and stop behaving like an ass. He owes me that, at least.

Lisandro nodded his assent, his eyelids pressed in a solemn duty. Things sounded downright toxic in their neck of woods. Now he was drafted and could not escape. Fine, he would speak to Kristo, and then what? Report and hear recriminations? He had enough his own to deal with, mainly Charlotte and new job. She’d surely hear of the two girls upon returning from San Fran. They had been on a month and she’d raise hell, even if they had made a deal, no exclusivity. He had to buy a new shirt and cuff links. It was 2 PM.

They both refused dessert, then Cassie waved away his feeble try to pay.

Please call me after meeting him. This has to be resolved today— tomorrow or my patience with your brother will run out.

They parted with a heartfelt hug. Theirs was a sort of understanding without terms. She seemed on verge of breaking down under her stone façade. The distance between Iron Lady and a tender wench was but a bocce toss. He was no martyr stoic, but could empathize. This left a mark. And with their family story, too! If it was true—it smelled as such—there would be no defense. Auto-da-fé!

He dialed K, but then got no answer.

Rappelle-moi vite. C’est urgent.

Enough of this. He was the birthday boy, not call-a-friend. Let these adults sort out their problems by themselves. He viewed this matter dimly, anyhow. Kristian was far from ready for a family life. He loved women too much, said so himself. What was he doing, dragging Cassie through his mud? More to the point, why did she marry him? The history was known. Because he was a real European, maybe? What a joke. Only a Russian could maintain this fiction from a Tolstoy tome. Was she escaping from herself with him? Could be. They’d been together since the end of college, so inertia, maybe? There could have been no shortage of fair suitors. Her mother must have bucked like hell when she first heard—her wedding smile betrayed more grief than happiness. At least there were no kids.

The whole affair frankly depressed him. Not that divorce was an eternal hell—it ended, life moved on—but the idea of beauty weakened by neglect, a selfish and execrable man’s need to conquer and spread seed, this rather soured the pot. Was this a way to celebrate life’s triumphs, with a thankless headache?

Headache, it was, hot damn. He popped into a deli for a Tylenol and water. His rather aimless walk had brought him near to NYU. Lisandro plopped onto a bench with fountain view, a listless, worn-out man with eyes dry and a grizzled mug. Some Latin lover, damn it.

Legs-bare were on parade; the days were starting to get warm. NYU’s talent pool was out in pasture. Last night’s unscripted threesome on the