Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,36

I whispered to Madame.

“Yes, my dear. Well, some people are just used to letting their money speak for them, and in my opinion, money alone has absolutely nothing to say.” She smiled, leafing through Tad’s prospectus. “Look at these obviously high-risk investment opportunities: a new restaurant, an independent film. Why do you think these people are here, Clare? Not for money. They have that. What they don’t have is excitement. They’re bored, you see. These start-ups are the kind of thing that makes them feel they are participating in the world.”

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 L and H of the Lottie Harmon logo appeared.

“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