Chapter Eleven
* * *
EVEN UNDER IDEAL circumstances, getting from the Upper East Side down to Wall Street would be time consuming. We were not under ideal circumstances. The subways were still shut down. Cabs were scarce. Buses were slow, crowded and confusing.
“Where is your car and your driver?” I asked as we stood on the corner of Sixty-third and Madison with our hands in the air, trying to hail a cab.
“The Tesla is in a lot downtown and my driver can’t get into the city from his place in Queens.”
“Don’t you have a backup car and driver? Aren’t you a billionaire or something?”
“Not yet,” he said through gritted teeth, after glancing at the time on his phone again. “The backup car and driver are also stuck in traffic.”
“What about Citi Bike?”
“Good idea, Jane.” He gave me a quick kiss on the lips, grabbed my hand and we rushed over to the nearest docking station, in front of the Plaza Hotel at Fifty-ninth and Fifth Avenue, just south of the park.
“Aw come on!” Duke shouted at the empty docking station. “My luck has f*cking run out.”
I winced. That was my fault. Maybe. I looked around, hoping to spot a cab. Everyone was unavailable or off duty. Oh hell and damnation. He couldn’t miss this! And then my gaze landed on something unexpected: the Regency answer to transportation. A horse and carriage, empty, and awaiting a customer.
“Excuse me, sir, can you take us down to Wall Street?” I asked.
The driver laughed in my face. “I can’t leave the park, lady.”
“Please,” I begged. “He’s got to get down to Wall Street by 9 a.m. to rig the opening bell. His company has a $20 billion IPO this morning.”
The carriage driver looked over at Duke, with his disheveled hair, Project-TK T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He burst out laughing. Again.
“I’ve seen plenty of fat cat business men and he ain’t it, honey. Cute story, though.”
“I know what you mean,” I said to the driver. “When I first met him, I thought he was an out-of-work actor tending bar at some hovel in Brooklyn. But it turns out, he’s the founder and CEO of Project-TK. Which, as we mentioned, is about to have a $20 billion IPO this morning.”
The driver eyed me and Duke.
I turned to Duke: “Can’t you offer him stock options or something?”
“If he’d believe me,” Duke muttered.
I glanced around, hoping for something to just . . . work. My gaze settled on an old man on a bench reading a copy of the New York Post. Duke’s picture was splashed across the front with the headline declaring him the Brawling Bad Boy Billionaire. The accompanying photograph showed Duke throwing a punch at Sam. I snatched the paper out of the old man’s hands, apologized profusely, and held it up next to Duke’s face.
“See! He’s about to be a billionaire and he’s very generous.”
“And dangerous,” the driver muttered.
“Jane . . .”
“No, this is your moment,” I said. “I can’t let you miss it. And neither can this driver who I will immortalize in my next book as either a hero or a villain, depending on if he’ll drive us downtown or not.”
For a moment, he thought about.
“You’ll cover the fines I’ll get?”
“And more,” Duke said. He held out his hand to shake on it.
“Climb in, kids,” he said gruffly. We did.
Before we could get comfortable on the red velvet upholstered seats, the driver cracked the whip and the black horse burst into a trot and pulled us out into traffic. We rode down Fifth Avenue, past Tiffany’s, the Prada Store, the line outside the Abercrombie store (Or more to the point: the line of girls waiting to have their picture taken with the scantily clad model with his six pack abs and low slung jeans). We passed Saks, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockefeller Center, the New York Public Library where I would have to work a few hours from now, and then down past the Empire State building.
Around Madison Square Park we got caught in a snarl of traffic. The police cars and fire engines I saw suggested we might be parked here for a while and time was running out. I drummed my fingers along the side of the carriage, trying to calculate how many blocks we’d have to run in order to make it on time. I looked over at Duke; his head was bent over his phone.
“What are you looking at?”
“A YouTube video on how to ride a horse.”
“Why?”
“Because I think we have to do that next if we’re going to make it.” Duke then leaned forward to chat with the driver, Gregory, who would certainly appear favorably in my next novel.
“What’s this horse’s name?” Duke asked.
“Scout,” Gregory answered.
Before I knew it, Gregory had climbed down and was unhitching the carriage from Scout and giving Duke instructions on how to ride.
“Ready?” Gregory asked me.
“No! I don’t have the right outfit for this,” I grumbled. Heels and a skirt were not ideal for riding astride. I had not factored horseback riding into my outfit selection this morning. I was wearing a skirt for lord’s sake.
But ready or not, this was our only chance to get downtown in time. Gregory cupped his hands, indicating that I should step there to launch myself up onto the horse.
“You’re kidding,” I said flatly.
“You paid for a horse, not jokes,” Gregory replied.
I climbed atop the horse and Duke climbed on after me. We both held onto the mane. Then Duke dug in his heels and we were off. On horseback. Through Manhattan.
The horse galloped down Broadway, past Houston, past Canal Street, past City Hall. Its hooves clattered on the macadam. The cars didn’t seem to bother him at all. In fact, the horse seemed happy to be untethered from the carriage and exploring the city. Horns blared at us, people shouted at us, pedestrians got out their phones to take pictures and video. I held on tight, curled my toes in my shoes to keep them on, and held my breath.
By some miracle, no one was hurt, including the horse.
By some miracle, we arrived on time.
After being rushed through security we found ourselves on the podium at 8:59. A sea of guys in suits—traders—stood on the floor before us. Duke squeezed my hand. After a quick kiss on my lips, he rang the bell and the day of trading began.
By the end of the day, it was official: He was the Bad Boy Billionaire with the cash in the bank to prove it.