“Norb Vonnegut offers a gleeful peek at the world of hedge fund moguls in The Gods of Greenwich, a funny, savvy book that can be as absurd as its title.” –The New York Times
"The black comedy of life in the fast lanes of high level finance powers a wonderful new thriller by Norb Vonnegut, The Gods of Greenwich, set in the poshest reaches of Connecticut and Manhattan... the secret of how Cy “hedges” is the Gods of Greenwich plot equivalent of what the callow young lawyer in The Firm found out about his too-good-to-be-true Memphis law office — and Vonnegut ratchets up the suspense and the laughs as we are taken deep into “Hedgistan” (i.e. Greenwich)." --The Connecticut Post "The pieces of this plot mesh as smoothly as a well executed trade." --Bloomberg News "A riveting thriller… racing relentlessly from the bedrooms of Manhattan to the boardrooms of Connecticut to the banks of Iceland. Bravo!" --Jeffrey Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of Edge
" This is way beyond just being a fast-paced financial thriller. I've not read such a rich portrayal of downfall through hubris since Tom Wolfe's Bonfire Of The Vanities." –Peter James, internationally bestselling author of Dead Like You
" The Gods of Greenwich is compelling, suspenseful, high-energy, a terrific read!”-- Thomas B. Sawyer, best-selling author of No Place to Run and head writer of Murder, She Wrote
"The Gods of Greenwich is a fast-paced and satisfying locomotive of a financial-based thriller, Dominick Dunne meets Barbarians at the Gate. Vonnegut has opened the vaults of Greenwich's elite, and oh what secrets and schemes pour out!" –Andrew Gross, #1 bestselling James Patterson co-author
“Vonnegut follows his debut, Top Producer, with another invigorating dip into the shark pool of Wall Street's hedge fund industry… Vonnegut, a financial professional himself, not only gets the language and tone of Wall Street right but has an instinctive feel for dialogue and action. Especially enjoyable is the rip-roaring finale at the Bronx Zoo.” –Publishers Weekly
"[Vonnegut's] gift for portraying certain social sets positions him as a satirical heir apparent to Louis Auchincloss. " --National Post (Canada)“This novel ponders the age-old ramifications of greed, but Vonnegut gives it a fresh, timely twist.” –USA Today on Top Producer
“The gold standard for financial thrillers.” –Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Top Producer
"A ripping good yarn." – Raymond Benson, author of several James Bond novels and co-author of Homefront—The Voice of Freedom
"Filled with enough insider info to send the feds to your door." – Hank Phillippi Ryan–Anthony, Macavity and Agatha–winning author of Drive Time
Things go from grim to worse for rising hedge-fund star Jimmy Cusack when his company collapses and the fund that recruits him is targeted for destruction by cutthroat bankers in Iceland and a sheikh in Qatar…. The novel moves at… a fast clip, spilling goods on recession-era wheelers and dealers as it goes.” --Kirkus
“The Gods of Greenwich is better than most financial thrillers… a page-turner plot. (Serial murders plus the Great Crash of 2008.)… The cast is an unusually motley and enjoyable crew.” –The New York Journal of Books
“Vonnegut follows up his debut (Top Producer) with a first-rate thriller set in the world of hedge fund managers during the 2008 financial meltdown…. Vonnegut's skill at creating characters at risk will make even less wealthy readers root for Cusack to survive his financial debacle with millions intact. This thriller will appeal to fans of Joseph Finder and might serve as a cautionary tale to anyone who envies the seemingly idyllic life of the superrich. But don't we all like to read about them?” –Library Journal
About the Author
NORB VONNEGUT, a longtime veteran of private wealth management, writes thrillers and non-fiction commentary about Wall Street. Top Producer, his debut novel, was a featured pick of Today, SmartMoney and is published in eight languages. The Gods of Greenwich will be released on April 26, 2011. Norb has appeared on Bloomberg as well as the Laura Ingraham and Judith Regan shows. A Harvard college and Harvard Business graduate, he splits his time between New York and Rhode Island. He is a member of the Board of Trustees for the American Foundation for the Blind and bicycles whenever possible. Visit his website, norbvonnegut.com, to learn more.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
DECEMBER 11, 2007
“I want my money.”
Jimmy Cusack gazed out the window of his office in the Empire State Building. Most days he savored the southern view of downtown Manhattan. To the east was Goldman Sachs, its Broad Street headquarters an impregnable fortress in the world of finance. To the west was Lady Liberty, her harbor a vast cluster of skyscrapers rising from the sea. New York was a city that attracted great fortunes—and epic brawls to manage them.
There were times inside his hedge fund when Cusack could taste the adrenaline. He reveled in the rush of competitors waging war from their granite towers, new-age monuments that celebrated the triumph of capital. There were no cease-fires sixty-one floors below. The struggle to win clients never stopped, and the ethos was “Kill or be killed” among soldiers suited in the battle rattle of Armani pinstripes and Gucci loafers.
Today was no ordinary day. Those four words, “I want my money,” haunted Cusack’s thoughts. Gone was the crooked smile. The creases around his lips, sometimes mistaken for a good-natured smirk, had long since vanished. His eyes a bitter blue, Cusack’s face resembled the dark clouds outside his bluff of sixty-one stories.
The ambush was cold and ruthless. “Here’s how it is,” the lead investor said. “Tomorrow morning, James, you’ll get a FedEx. Not the afternoon delivery, but the one at ten. Inside are eight redemption notices. Each one is signed and notarized, ready to go. I want my money. So do my friends who invested in your fund.”
“Who else wants out, Caleb?”
“Everybody I put in.”
“Not Whitney,” insisted Cusack.
“Yes.”
“What about Gould?”
“Everybody,” Caleb repeated. “By my calculations, our stake totals one hundred and twenty million dollars.”
“You agreed to a lockup,” argued Cusack. “We’re talking eighty-five percent of what I manage and—”
“My lawyers say your documents are a joke.”
“You talked to Ropes and Gray?”
“What difference does it make? Just get us our money, James.”
“That the way it is?” Cusack sounded hard, but he was wobbling inside.
“My hands are tied.”
“Yeah. To an ax.”
“I may run for governor,” said Caleb. “I can’t ask my buddies for contributions, not when they’re losing their shirts at Petri Dish Capital or whatever the hell they call your hedge fund.”
“And you think pulling your money is smart in this market?”
“Not open for discussion.”
Nearly six hours had passed since then. The markets were closed. The sun was setting. And Cusack racked his brain for a Hail Mary solution, a glimmer of hope, anything to save his business from redemptions that would leave him with less than $20 million to manage.
It could take years to replace $120 million from Caleb and his fellow deserters. Until then, revenues from the remaining $20 million would not pay the light bill. Cusack had no cash left to fund operations. He had gone “all in,” Texas Hold ’Em style, every chip in the pot.
With the grim reality of Caleb’s words unfolding, Cusack lacked his characteristic focus. His thoughts drifted from New York’s office towers to the “Irish battleships” of his youth, the three-family homes of Somerville, Massachusetts.
Jimmy had always been the scrappy kid with promise. Long ago he traded membership in Somerville’s blue-collar CIA—Catholic, Irish, alcoholic—for a career on Wall Street. He was thirty-two and Ivy educated, a graduate of Columbia and Wharton. His pedigree included a one-year Rotary Fellowship in Japan and five years at Goldman Sachs. He was his family’s hope for the future, the son, the entrepreneur his parents had backed.
Those were yesterday’s dreams. Cusack’s money-management business was going down. It was taking on water through a Titanic-sized hole in the hull, the lead investor’s words tearing at him still. “Nothing personal, mind you.”
Caleb, you made it personal.
“And we expect you for Christmas dinner, James.”
Copyright © 2011 by Norb Vonnegut
