Treadwell got home to his elegant old-world co-op on the Upper East Side a little after seven, in plenty of time to dress for this year’s Met Gala, the theme of which was the Roaring Twenties. He loved high society parties, although putting on stupid-looking period garb was beneath his dignity. Still, he had a lot more on his mind then trying to argue with Bernice about dressing in a costume. In any event, she would already have laid out what he was to wear.
He’d brought Duke Lawson, one of Hardy’s people, along for security this evening, and he intended to take the large, muscular man to the gala, though something like that was never done.
But with Whalen storming the gates this afternoon and still out there at large, plus the Russian hoods here in the city and the ones out in Brighton Beach, he didn’t feel safe. He even carried his father’s .45 in a holster beneath his jacket.
The doorman greeted Treadwell with his usual polite enthusiasm but didn’t acknowledge the larger man, who would remain in the lobby. Bernice would never have permitted someone like him to come upstairs to their two-story digs.
“I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” Treadwell told his security man, who merely nodded and stepped aside.
Upstairs, Bernice, already changed into a designer short silk flapper dress with a fringe above her knees, white gloves to her elbows, and a headband with a feather in front, was waiting for him.
She had been a spoiled, overbearing rich girl from the beginning, but Treadwell had to admit she was an attractive woman. Always had been.
“You look like your best friend, if you ever had one, just died,” she said.
“The market went to hell today,” he said, walking past her into their exquisitely furnished apartment. A large oil painting of Bernice’s late father, Thatcher Pike—in his day the stuffiest son of a bitch on Wall Street—stared down at him in disapproval.
“Isn’t it always going to hell?”
“No,” Treadwell said, taking off his tie and heading back to his bedroom wing.
Bernice was right behind him. “Considering who’s on the guest list, I want you to be your usual charming self. I simply won’t put up with any nonsense from you.”
Treadwell stopped and turned back to her. “What are you talking about?”
“For starts, the bimbo you had lunch with today, and no doubt bedded afterwards, will be there, though how someone like her could ever be invited in the first place or come up with the thirty grand admission donation is beyond me.”
Not good, Treadwell thought.
“Frankly I don’t care what you do with your spare time, Reid, just don’t embarrass me in front of my friends.”
“I won’t.”
“And make sure that if any of your other dreary friends—like Dammerman, who I saw manhandling one of your female employees in a Facebook video—show up, they stay away from us. People like him can’t be good for the firm.”
“Neither would BP taking a beating if another ’08 or even ’29 comes along,” Treadwell said. “Right now I have so much on my plate keeping the firm safe that I can’t be bothered with some domestic dispute.”
Bernice gestured him away. “I don’t want to be late. Get dressed,” she said, and walked away.
She’d never objected to his flings before, as long as they never went public. In any event she had her own personal trainer, a handsome male model half her age, who came over once a week. But Heather at the gala was more than disturbing, especially right now with everything else that was happening.
His costume of striped trousers, bow tie, two-toned shoes, a straw boater, and white gloves had been laid out for him, and when he got dressed he met Bernice at the elevator, and she nodded her approval.
But downstairs when she spotted Lawson standing to one side she pulled up short. “Is he really necessary?” she demanded.
“Yes, but he’ll stay out of the way.”
“He’d better.”
They’d come over from BP in the Maybach, Lawson driving, and he took them to the Met, opening the car door for his boss first.
“Stay close,” Treadwell said softly.
“Will do,” Lawson said.
Treadwell handed Bernice out of the car, and they followed the growing crowd up the sweep of the stairs into the neoclassical museum’s Great Hall, stopping every few steps to exchange handshakes and air kisses.
Inside, as they went through the receiving line, Treadwell automatically switched on what the press once dubbed his JFK mode, delivering handshakes, smiles, and pleasant commentary about the weather, the market, the situation in China, even the upcoming elections, which was the easiest because, except for a handful of Hollywood celebrities, just about everyone here this evening was a multimillionaire—or even billionaire—Republican.
Stephen Schwarzman, head of one of Wall Street’s most powerful buyout firms and longtime adversary of Treadwell’s, came over, smiling as Bernice drifted off with friends. “So, Reid, rumor is that you’re taking the firm to all cash. Any truth to it?”
“If there was, I wouldn’t tell someone like you.”
Both men laughed, and Treadwell looked to his left as Schwarzman moved off.
Heather was across the room, standing by herself, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was wearing her revealing red dress and spike heels, and she stood out from everyone else in the room.
Treadwell called Lawson on his cell phone. “I’m going to need you to take care of something for me,” he said in a lowered voice.
“Should I bring the car around?”
“No,” Treadwell said. “Just stand by.”
He broke the connection, and as he pocketed his phone, he happened to glance to the left in time to see Betty Ladd, martini glass raised to her lips, staring at him. She was dressed like Zelda Fitzgerald and wearing a cloche hat. She looked smug to him, even from across the room.