I knew before I answered it that it was Randolph Kinney, punctual as always. My father came out of his bedroom and I held my hand over the receiver and pointed next door. “Team meeting,” I said softly. “Do we go?” I had slept well after our steak dinner and long stroll through lower Manhattan, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept a wink. I had been dimly aware of him pacing around during the night, and he had deep circles under his eyes that made him look a little like a hooded owl. “We go,” he said. “But on our own terms.” “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” I told Mr. Kinney. “We’ve got some stuff to do first.” I hung up. Ten minutes later we knocked on the door, and the hedge fund titan himself greeted us. He looked impatient, but he was clearly trying to mend fences. “How are you, Daniel?” he asked. “Morris, come on in.” We hadn’t gotten more than ten feet inside the door when he said: “Pratzers, we want to extend a sincere apology for what happened last night, put it behind us, and make a fresh start.
