Rather than just provide an excerpt of my newly released novel, I thought it would be fun to share some of my intentions by annotating the excerpt. You can read the opening words of the novel in the form of this brief prologue. Below that, the prologue is reproduced with some notations.


imagesIn the town of Greenwich, Connecticut, office buildings rarely betray the power of the players inside. Consistent with that principle, a man who privately called himself The Mean had chosen to occupy the second floor of a modest four-story brick building within easy walking distance of both Putnam and Greenwich Avenues. The former was a major thoroughfare, two lanes in either direction. The latter, which locals simply called The Avenue, was a one-way street on a steep hill between Putnam and the railroad tracks. Lined with tony shops and expensive restaurants, it furnished a promenade for people who drove Maybachs and Ferraris, Bentleys and Land Rovers. At two key intersections, traffic cops policed both moving cars and pedestrians, who often received tickets for jaywalking.


Leon G. Cooperman is a very fortunate man. The son of a plumber, he went on to run the asset management business of Goldman Sachs. Presumably, that made him quite rich (the math: Goldman partner = rich), but he didn’t stop there. He next founded his own hedge fund, which, according to Forbes, manages $6.1 billion. His net worth is said to be $2.2 billion, which puts him comfortably in the middle of that obnoxious record of acquisitiveness known as the Forbes 400.

I have Leon Cooperman on my mind because I recently read Chrystia Freeland’s New Yorker piece entitled “Super-Rich Irony: The billionaires battling Obama.”

John H. Bryan: in fits and starts

Steven H. Strongin: in an Ambien tent

J. Michael Evans: like a log

William W. George: like a log cresting the first descent of a flume

John S. Weinberg: like a log resting mightily atop a sleeping lamb

Richard J. Gnodde: floating in a 24-acre sensory deprivation chamber

Kevin W. Kennedy: face down in an infinity pool of his own vomit