I couldn’t fault Madame’s slightly disdainful attitude—because I knew where it came from. She may have married a wealthy second husband, but she’d spent decades running the Blend—initially with Matt’s father and then by herself. It was hard, disciplined work running any business, rising at dawn every day, tracking and checking up on thousands of details, wrangling employees. And, over the years, Madame had done much more than simply roast and pour coffee for the people in the neighborhood. She’d become intimately involved in the lives of many of the people who’d come through the Blend’s door—the actors, artists, writers, dancers, and musicians who’d always populated Greenwich Village—giving them the Blend’s second floor couch to sleep on when they’d been evicted from their cramped studio apartments, pouring black French roast for the borderline alcoholics, holding the hands of emotionally fragile souls who’d come to one of the most brutal cities on earth to peddle their talents. So, it didn’t surprise me that Madame wouldn’t think much of a group of people who simply wanted to throw money at a business to feel as though they were a part of it. In Madame’s experience, blood, sweat, and tears made you a part of something, not simply placing ink on a check.
I felt the deck rumble under my heeled boots as the engine roared to life. Then the yacht bumped, sloshing the drink in my hand, and a moment later, a deckhand cast the mooring lines aside and we pulled away from the pier. The boat moved along the Manhattan skyline, its towers of lights shimming in the Hudson’s dark waters.
Speakers crackled, and an amplified voice filled the room. “A million lights. A million stories. A million opportunities for those who know how to find them, use them. My name is Tad Benedict, and I can show you how. You can participate in a number of ways—put a little bit down on every opportunity I will offer tonight. Or you might want to invest only in a single start-up…that’s up to you. There are no losers here, I assure you. The amount you gain depends on how aggressively you choose to invest….”
The interior lights dimmed, and everyone turned to face Tad Benedict. The stocky man with the elfin face stood in the center of a white spotlight, microphone in hand.
“Thank you all for coming,” he continued. “I thank you now because I can afford to be generous. Why? Because I know you are all going to thank me later.”
Then Tad launched into a spiel that was one third Tony Roberts can-do optimism, one third Wall Street get- rich-quick pep talk, and one third awkward metaphors—basically a lot of drivel about flames and moths being drawn to them, which explained the logo on the prospectus, at least. I had always found Tad Benedict likeable, but the result of this bizarre combination was bullish—and not in a good way.
“Madame,” I whispered, “this sounds like nothing but bull—”
Madame touched my arm. “A lady does not use such language, Margot. Hogwash will suffice. To tell you the truth, the only thing that really bothers me are his constant references to flying insects.”
Tad continued speaking another twenty minutes or so. Finally, he directed everyone’s attention to his prospectus while he began a Power Point demonstration featuring logos and growth charts of the investment opportunities represented there. Suddenly, the distinctive stretched
“TB Investing holds fifty percent shares in the phenomenally hot Lottie Harmon accessory line,” said Tad. “Lottie Harmon is a resurrected designer label that has seen over two hundred percent growth in the last year, a tiny caterpillar that’s come out of its cocoon, unfurled its wings, and really flown….”
Tad moved on to other names and logos, but I hardly paid attention. How could it be, I asked myself, that Tad Benedict is touting a fifty-percent share in Lottie Harmon stock if he owns only twenty-five percent?
Lottie had told me herself that only she, Tad, and Rena were shareholders—with a tiny percentage going to Fen—because that’s the way she’d wanted it. Lottie had waited decades to be able to express herself through creative designs, and maintaining control of her own label meant more to her than money. So either Tad was lying, or he had managed to gain control of either a portion of Lottie’s shares, or all of Garcia’s stock.
Finally, Tad wrapped things up.
“After a short break, I’ll be introducing several clients of TB. These visionary entrepreneurs are here to personally offer potentially lucrative shares in their start-ups and to answer any questions you might have. This is a rare opportunity to get in on the ground floor of exciting new businesses—a soon-to-be hot restaurant, two new magazines, a theatrical production, a coffee bar franchise, two designer clothing labels, a shoe boutique’s expansion, and an independent film are among the dozens of opportunities about which you’re going to hear. Rarely are investors offered a chance to board a train before it even leaves the station, just before it takes off for the wild blue yonder—”
Madame sighed. “These mixed metaphors are annoying me.”
“Yes, Madame.” I whispered nervously, secretly glad Madame’s eyes had glazed over enough to have apparently missed Tad’s mention of a “coffee bar franchise” start-up.
“Meanwhile,” Tad continued. “I’m going to circulate among you. Please feel free to approach me at any time with questions, or offers….”
I huddled with Madame as we formulated a plan. A few minutes later, as Tad mingled with his potential clients, Madame strolled up to him.
“I so love Lottie Harmon’s designs,” she began. “I wonder…would it be possible to make a block purchase of that stock?”
Tad turned on the charm. “Of course, Miss…”
“
“So delighted you’ve come,” he said, taking my hand. Behind my wig and tinted glasses, I held my breath, praying Tad wouldn’t recognize me. He didn’t. He simply turned and faced Madame. “Of course, the shares of Lottie Harmon are not cheap, Mrs. Dubois.”
Madame waved her hand. “Money isn’t a problem. But I don’t want to be selfish. I’m only interested in twenty or thirty percent….”
Tad Benedict nearly choked on his sparkling water.
“Of course, if the stock is reasonably priced, I might be convinced to purchase more.”
Tad set his water glass down and took Madame’s hand. “Please follow me, ladies,” he purred. “I’d like to handle the details regarding this transaction personally.”
Fourteen
With Madame on his arm, Tad Benedict led us across the packed ballroom. He threaded through the crowd so fast I had trouble keeping up. Fortunately, Clipboard Lady stopped him near the busy bar.
“Should I start the presentations?” she asked.
Tad looked around, nodded impatiently. “Yeah, let’s get the show on the road. Bring out one presenter at a time—and hold everyone to a five-minute limit. We’re due back at the pier in a little over an hour.”
Clipboard Lady’s brow wrinkled with concern. When she spoke, her whisper was loud enough to reach my ears. “There’s kind of an issue backstage about who gets to go on first. Two men are arguing…It’s getting out of hand.”
He waved the woman aside. “Do the job I pay you for.”
“But—”
“Send them out alphabetically, the way their names are printed on the roster. Who can argue with that?”
For a moment the pair huddled in conversation. I managed to pull Madame aside.
“This is so thrilling. What do we do next?” she asked.
“Press him,” I whispered. “We need to find out how many shares of Lottie Harmon stocks he’s willing to part with. If it’s more than the twenty-five percent I know he owns, then there’s something fishy going on.”
Suddenly the Clipboard Lady hurried away and Tad reached for Madame’s arm once more.
“I must apologize for the interruption. There’s just so much to do, and I only have a few associates here to take care of things.”
Tad said this over his shoulder as he hustled us through a door, and into a wood paneled hallway. We passed three other doors, one obviously a bulkhead that led outside to the deck. Tad opened a door at the end of the narrow hall. On the other side there was a small stateroom with a wall-sized window that offered a spectacular
