by R. R. Banks
All eyes turn back to me after a few seconds, as if they're expecting me to deliver a punchline. But, there's no punchline to deliver. It's simple fact. I nod, as if to confirm it, and the room erupts into wild applause. They all know the better we do each quarter, the fatter their bonuses will be. I always make sure they have plenty of incentive to hit it out of the park.
It's how I draw the best and the brightest to Bishop. Everybody loves making money, right?
“So, to celebrate a fantastic week, I wanted to treat you all to some breakfast.”
The doors swing open and I groan inwardly when I see an army of waitstaff wheel in carts loaded with food. They're all decked out for the holidays, and wearing Santa Hats. Even the carts of food are decorated with a holiday flair. I sigh, and shake my head, trying to focus on the positive – my employees.
“There is a mimosa station for anyone so inclined,” I say. “But, no getting drunk. No one wants to see a sloppy drunk at 9:00 a.m.”
They all laugh, and some shout their thanks to me.
“Enjoy, everybody!” I yell out, trying to be heard over the buzz of excited conversation. “You earned it.”
I walk to my office – the fishbowl, as everybody calls it. Three of the walls are floor to ceiling windows – the door is in one, the second overlooks the floor of the offices, and the last one has a breathtaking view of Central Park.
Bishop Financial sits on the forty-third floor of a large office building. When I'm stressed out, or need to think something through, I like to stand at the window and look at the view outside. It usually calms me down and helps clear my head. Sometimes, I think about how far I've come, and it boggles my mind. From a street kid in the Kitchen to a billionaire on Wall Street – I'm a living, breathing American success story.
If I really stop to think about it, it's almost overwhelming. There are days I seriously feel like pinching myself. I mean, I've worked my ass off to get to where I am, and I've sacrificed a lot on the journey here. However, there's also been a fair amount of luck to it. Pops likes to give me all the credit, but I don't think I deserve it.
I know if it wasn’t for Pops, none of this would have ever happened in the first place. I'd probably be stuck on the street running hustles and doing whatever I could to get by. Probably selling drugs or doing something worse. Who knows? I could even be dead right now. The streets are tough as it is, but the streets in the Kitchen are always tougher.
“Why are you hiding out in here like Ebenezer Scrooge?” comes the voice from behind me. “Surveying your vast kingdom again?”
“Just trying to decide what I'm going to conquer next,” I reply.
I turn and face Rupert, my right-hand man. He came on board shortly after Bishop Financial opened its doors for business, and he helps keep the office running smoothly. He's smart, and I like to bounce ideas off him. He's one of the most brilliant minds I've ever known – and a good man. Also, he doesn't take shit from anybody – not even from me – which, strangely enough, endears him to me.
More than that, he's also the voice of reason I sometimes need when I'm about to fly off the handle – which happens more than I'd care to admit. I value Rupert's input and rarely make a move without getting his advice first.
“You should be out there enjoying that breakfast feast,” he says.
I shrug. “A little too – Christmassy – out there for my liking,” I reply. “Besides, that's for them. They earned it.”
He nods. “Right, I forgot,” he quips. “You really are Scrooge. Bah humbug, am I right?”
“Something like that.”
He grins, shakes his head. “You really should let a little of that Christmas spirit into your heart,” he chides. “Worked out pretty well for Scrooge, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“He was also visited by three ghosts,” I reply. “If I'm ever visited by Christmas spirits, I'll change my mind. Until then, I prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“Man, you really are a downer around the holidays,” he jeers and chuckles.
“It’s never brought me anything good,” I reply.
“Fair enough,” he concedes, and then a moment later, whistles low. “Twenty-two million,” he says. “Damn, that's an impressive number.”
“Unbelievable,” I marvel.
I walk to the sideboard on the one wall that isn't made of windows. Half of it is devoted to a bookcase, the other half, my bar. I pour us both a drink and pull a couple of cigars out of the humidor, handing him one of each. Rupert looks at the glasses.
“Bourbon before ten?” he asks.
“It's happy hour somewhere,” I joke.
I take a swallow of my drink and let out a long breath, reveling in the feeling of satisfaction washing over me – and yet, I’m somehow hungry for more.
“I got a call that you hadn't accepted your invite yet,” he says. “You know you're going to have to make an appearance at the Sheldonhurst Holiday Gala.”
“Nah, I don't,” I say. “I'm not big on galas. Especially holiday galas.”
“You're receiving an award,” he laughs. “It's kind of traditional for you to be there to accept it.”
“And when have you ever known me to be big on tradition?”
“This is true,” Rupert says. “Although, you do deserve it. And it would look good for you to be there.”
“I wrote a check,” I say. “I don't deserve anything.”
“That's true too,” he replies and laughs. “It makes them feel better though. I think you need to be there. After all, you're the face of Bishop Financial.”
“You go in my place.”
“I'm not pretty enough,” he says.
“That's true.”
There's a long moment of silence between us, and even though I'm not looking at him, I can feel Rupert's eyes cutting into me. He doesn't have to say a single word. The man just has an air about him – like he has his own gravitational pull or something.
The man is also tenacious as hell, and very, very persistent. Usually those are things I love about the guy. But now that he's turned that one-track mind on me, I'm feeling like less of a fan.
“You're not going to let this go, are you?” I ask.
He takes a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving mine, and not saying a single word. The meaning of his silence is crystal clear. I roll my eyes and sigh loudly.
“Fine,” I concede. “Have Cindy tell them I'll come.”
“Good call,” he says, smirking at me.
“Like I had a choice.”
“I like to let you think you do,” he says.
I sigh and light my cigar, shaking my head. He's smirking because he knew he was going to win that fight. The bastard. He always does. Which makes him an even bigger bastard. I know I'm going to have to go to this thing even though I don't want to. It's part of the price I pay for being a public figure. Taking a deep draw from my cigar, I exhale a thick plume of smoke.
“You know they're going to be all over your ass about smoking that in here,” he states, though he's eyeing his own cigar.
I shrug. “Fuck them,” I respond. “For what I pay to rent this floor, they can throw in a little air freshener.”
I turn on the overhead fan though, just to be somewhat considerate. It's the least I can do, right?
“The calls on the Decker and Blumenthal stocks were brilliant,” he says.
“Lucky,” I reply. “Had a gut feel and decided to go for it.”
“Your instincts are making a hell of a lot of money,” he says.
“I'm on a hot streak,” I say. “I'm not stupid enough to think it's going to last forever though.”
“This is true,” he replies. “Which is why –”
There's a soft knock on the door and I turn to see a youngish, dark-haired kid with a thick beard – a beard I notice is sparkling with silver and gold glitter – and black-rimmed glasses, standing on the other side of the glass. He's thin and awkward looking, his suit looks like something he got
off the rack – of a thrift store. I guess he's doing that whole hipster-hobo chic thing.
“Do you know who that is? I ask.
Rupert chuckles. “Yeah, that's Peter,” he says. “Our new analyst.”
“How new?”
“About two weeks,” Rupert shrugs.
I look at the kid on the other side of the door. He stands there, looking through the glass, an expectant, yet hesitant look on his face. He swallows hard and pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose.
“What does he want?” I ask.
“Maybe you should open the door and ask him.”
I wave the kid in and he steps through the door looking as meek as a mouse. He stands before Rupert and me like an awkward kid standing in front of his school principal.
“Peter, right?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Why is your beard all glittery, Peter?” I ask.
“The caterers – uhhh – they blew some glitter on me,” he stammers. “For a joke. For fun.”
I nod. “Uh-huh,” I say. “So, you don't normally glitter your beard?”
He shakes his head. “I don't.”
“So, what can I do for you, Peter?”
He looks down at a file in his hand, looking reluctant to say whatever is on his mind. I take another draw off my cigar and aim my smoke at the ceiling fan as he struggles to find the words. The longer his silence continues though, the more annoyed I find myself getting.
“Come on,” I say. “Spit it out, Peter.”
His eyes grow wide and he looks startled – like I'd just pulled a gun on him or something. I sigh and shake my head when he finally starts to speak.
“I was just going over the transactions for the last couple of weeks,” he says. “It was – your choice to invest in both Decker and Blumenthal, they...”
His voice trails off and he looks down at the ground. He suddenly starts to look like a balloon that's losing air and is rapidly deflating.
“Yes, what about them?” I ask.
“They were just – irregular choices,” he says. “Two unknown defense contractors –”
“And?” I say, snapping my fingers, my patience starting to dwindle with Peter and his glittery beard. “What is your point? Get to the point.”
“It's just that – if the SEC regulators look into it, they might think you got tipped off, and –”
I turn to Rupert for a moment and then turn back to the kid, my irritation starting to boil over.
“What are you accusing me of, Peter?” I snap. “Insider trading? Are you suggesting that I broke the law?”
“Yes – I mean, no,” he stammers. “I mean –”
“What do you mean, Peter?” I ask, my voice rising.
There are a lot of things people can accuse me of being, and not be wrong about it. But, I've never cheated when it comes to my business. I never cut corners. I never do anything illegal. I pride myself on my knowledge and my skill – and of course, my intuition. I run big risks. That's just who I am.
As they say, go big or go home.
But, one thing I don’t do, is engage in shady shit. I run a clean game here and it pisses me off beyond belief when anybody suggests otherwise. I have never accepted inside tips on stocks that are about to skyrocket – or fall straight into the shitter. I will never play a fixed game. Ever. Suggesting otherwise is not only offensive, but abhorrent to who I am.
“Peter,” Rupert, the voice of reason steps in, “you're new here, so you don't quite understand the way Mr. Bishop works –”
“It just seems strange,” Peter says, feeling a little more confident talking to Rupert, instead of me. “I mean, those are two very small, previously unknown contractors. We invest heavily in them and then all of the sudden, they're awarded multi-billion government contracts. The timing of it all –”
I close the distance between Peter and myself in the blink of an eye. He looks up at me and swallows hard. My rage is bubbling over and I can feel the dark expression on my face. Rupert puts his hand on my shoulder, and tries to draw me back, but I shrug it off. I'm not having it.
“Are you calling me a cheater?” I hiss. “Are you calling me a liar? A crook?”
Peter quickly shakes his head. “That's not what I'm saying –”
“Then what are you saying?” I snap. “Spit it out. Now.”
He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. “I just – the SEC – the –”
“Speak!” I roar. “Open your mouth and speak!”
He takes a deep breath and turns to Rupert, trying to gain some confidence by talking to him instead of me, I guess.
“I just – I think it looks suspicious, that's all I'm saying,” he meekly states. “I just think we might want to do things a little more by the book, and –”
My fists are balled at my sides and I can tell my blood pressure is through the roof. Rupert pulls me back and inserts himself between me and the new kid. He gives me a look I know all too well, having seen it more times than I can count. It's his way of saying “calm the fuck down already.”
If only it was that simple. I got to where I am because I worked my ass off to get here. I don't take shortcuts, and the mere suggestion that I'm cheating the system infuriates me. It's a slap in the face and minimizes everything I've done. Everything I've accomplished.
To me, it's the ultimate form of disrespect and I'm not having it.
“Get out,” I say.
Both Rupert and Peter turn to me, confused expressions on their faces.
“I said get out,” I snapped, my eyes locked onto Peter. “Clean out your desk and get out of my building. You're fired.”
His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open. “You're firing me? Are you serious?”
“Nobody comes into my office and questions my integrity. You've got some serious balls on you, kid.”
“Let's all just take a step back –” Rupert says.
“I don't need to take a step back,” I say. “If this kid thinks we're running a dirty shop, then he needs to get the fuck out. I don't need that kind of bullshit in my office. I won't tolerate that bullshit in my office.”
“Mr. Bishop –”
I point my finger at him, my eyes narrowed, rage burning through me. Rupert plants himself between the two of us again, putting his hands on my chest to hold me back.
“Get out of my office,” I say. “You're done.”
“But, sir, I only –”
Peter takes a few steps back and looks like he's on the verge of either crying.
“Who the fuck does this little asshole think he is?”
Rupert looks at the kid over his shoulder. “You should probably go,” he says. “You're obviously done here.”
The kid makes a small squeaking noise, turns, and flees my office. I watch Peter run to a desk, throw some things into his satchel, and run out the office doors like the devil himself is on his tail, a look of absolute panic on his face.
It's then I notice everyone else in the office has stopped the festivities and is focusing on the melodrama playing out in my office instead. I realize belatedly that the doors are standing wide open, and my employees probably heard everything that just happened. I look over at Rupert and shrug.
“No one comes in here and accuses me of being a crook. Nobody questions my integrity, Rupert,” I say. “Especially not some guys two years out of college.”
Rupert laughs. “I sometimes forget you were raised in the Kitchen,” he says. “At least, until moments like these.”
“Yeah, that tenacious little street kid lives on inside of me.”
He shrugs. “Not always a bad thing. Gives you an edge, and keeps you sharp,” he says. “Not a bad thing for the business we're in. At least, not until you start threatening your employees.”
I let out a long breath and roll my shoulders, willing myself to calm down. It's not easy to do once I get my blood up. But, he's right. I need to dial it back. I look through my window wall
and see most of my employees still sneaking peeks at us, their faces pensive. The atmosphere out there has most definitely gone from festive to apprehensive.
“I guess I should probably go out there and say something,” I say.
A cheeky grin crosses Rupert's lips. “Yeah, you probably should.”
Clearing my throat, I step out onto the floor. The room is silent, and I notice people cutting quick looks to each other. They’re probably wondering if they're next on the chopping block.
“Sorry to rain all over your parade, guys,” I say. “What happened in there was unprofessional and not cool. I shouldn't have lost it like that. I just tend to lose my shit when somebody accuses me – accuses us – of being dirty. Of not playing fair. We all take great pains to run a clean shop here, am I right? I take enormous pride in the fact that we do it the right way here, and we’re still successful as hell.”
There are nods and murmurs of agreement around the room, though everybody still seems a little on edge, not wanting to say something that will incur my wrath.
“Our teamma – excuse me – former teammate, believes otherwise,” I continue. “Let me make this as clear as possible for everyone. We run a clean shop here. We don’t cut corners. We do shit the right way. We do not accept or trade inside information. We take big risks – but we do not cheat. You all work your asses off and do things the right way – by the book. I will not tolerate your reputations – or mine – being tarnished or minimized by accusations of wrongdoing. That's bullshit. I will not put up with it. We’re better than that. You all deserve better than that. And I will not let anybody suggest otherwise.”
And just like that, the air in the room goes from tense and pensive to relaxed again. Knowing I'm on their side and fighting for them as well, seems to have placated my team. Everybody is nodding, and soon enough, the atmosphere is festive again. Somebody cues up the holiday music, and everybody goes back to their breakfasts, feeling confident that I have their backs. And I do.
