by David Lender
Now the bad guys really don’t stand a chance. He cracked open a pistachio nut and popped the meat into his mouth.
Croonquist looked up and saw Charles Green, the SEC Chairman, walking toward his office. He leaned back and smiled.
“Charlie, what a surprise.”
Green sat down facing Croonquist. “Yeah. But it’s never a nice surprise when your boss just drops in unannounced, is it?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.” Croonquist didn’t have any reason to feel uncomfortable. He leaned forward and moved the picture of Ellie and the girls to the side so he could see Charlie, then settled back into his chair.
“You keep eating those things, you’ll get gout,” Green said, pointing to the pile of pistachio shells on Croonquist’s desk. “I won’t beat around the bush. I just got back from the Hill, and it wasn’t lost on those guys that you just pulled off the sexiest insider trading ring bust of the decade.”
Croonquist patted himself on the back.
“Time to stop celebrating. Now they’re all asking, ‘What have you done for me today?’ And that fat bastard Carmichael from North Dakota actually referred to the cost of MarketWatch as a ‘bad case of gas bloating the SEC budget.’”
“The guy does have a way with words.”
“You wouldn’t say that if he was sticking them in your face.” Green leaned forward and put his forearms on Croonquist’s desk. Croonquist now started to get a more ominous feeling about this visit. “I need something to take back to them. The Appropriations Committee is squawking about MarketWatch running $280 million over budget—and I know that wasn’t your fault, you did a great job—and the fact that the Kowalski ring bust didn’t need any fancy technology.”
Croonquist nodded, thinking about what he might have.
“So if you don’t bring in a big fish with our new pole damn quick, I think we’re both gonna land in the drink, my man.”
Croonquist let that sink in for a moment. This not only wasn’t a social call, but he now saw that Green was breathing heavily, and the big guy was hard to rattle. Croonquist thought for a moment. He saw Green give him a look that said, “Well?”
“I’m thinking,” Croonquist said.
“You don’t have anything?”
“C’mon, Charlie, it’s only been two months.”
Green sat back in his chair and shook his head.
Croonquist said, “We benchmarked 5,000 deals against 10 known insider trading deals with MarketWatch. It was a lot of numbers crunching, but that’s what the big Crays that MarketWatch runs on are for. Some interesting things popped out,” and he turned to point at a pile of computer printouts on his credenza, “but we’re still analyzing them. It’s premature.”
“What’s all this benchmarking give you?”
“The ability to correlate recent deals with known insider trading patterns. And if anything looks suspicious, then trace it back to the people who did those deals. Then analyze it.”
“You’ve had two months of correlating and analyzing, my man. We need a big bust, and fast. How long?”
“Shit, I don’t know. You know as well as I do that catching one of these characters isn’t much different than any other form of police work. You have to have a hunch, a great lead, and then trace every piece of information until you find what you’re looking for. The only difference between today and two months ago is that we’ve now got the means of tracing the data trail based on all the trading activity in a stock.”
Green pointed to the pile of printouts. “What’s the one on top?”
“Walker & Company.”
“Why’s it on top?”
“Eight suspicious deals in four years. High correlations with previous insider trading deals. I’ve got a gut feeling about this one.”
“Good. Squeeze it until it talks to you.” Green stood up. “I’m counting on you, Roman.”
Croonquist watched him leave, then picked up his phone to call his computer jocks. He pulled open the bottom desk drawer and fished into the bag for another handful of pistachios.
CHAPTER 2
NEW YORK CITY. THE NEXT time Richard entered the reception lobby of Walker & Company, on June 15th, it was as an employee.
He was one of six new Associates to join that day, two from Harvard, one from Stanford, one from Wharton and one from Kellogg. He entered a series of movable office cubicles; his new world of tan, fabric-covered partitions where his fellow Associates were setting up their desks like rookies at their lockers in spring training. He felt a twinge of nerves as he walked past them. The place smelled like a new car. Nerves or not, his whole body seemed to be smiling. He put his orientation papers down on the desk next to the woman he was told was Kathy Cella, his cubicle-mate, who had started two weeks earlier. Kathy was hunching over her computer screen, typing at the keyboard, squinting, with the light turned off.
“You’ll go blind like that,” Richard said.
“We all will. You’ll figure that out in a week.”
“No, your light is off.”
“Burned out. And I’m too jammed to go get a new bulb. You’ll figure out what that feels like in less than a week.” She looked up, extended her hand. “Kathy Cella.” She had the thoroughbred looks of the models in the Polo ads.
“Richard Blum. You’re from Harvard?”
“Yeah. You the University of Michigan guy?”
“Yeah.” Richard felt his face flush. Yeah, from that “other” school.
Kathy turned back to her computer and continued typing numbers into a spreadsheet. “In that case we’re cubicle-mates and competitors of sorts,” she said without looking up again. “I gather we’ll get to know each other pretty well. We’re both assigned to George Cole in the Industrial Group.”
Richard checked out his other classmates. They all looked human, no different than his Michigan classmates. But he reminded himself their route here was well-worn, with thousands preceding them; his was a grinding, solo trek that was only beginning. You’re the great impostor. They belong here. You don’t. You have to work to earn this.
When Richard was introduced to George Cole, his new boss, a Managing Director in the Industrial Group, Cole grunted a hello without looking up from his desk.
Pretty absorbed bunch, these bankers. “Pleased to meet you. I look forward to working together,” Richard said.
When Cole finally made eye contact, it was penetrating. “Strap on your engines, my man. You start right in on a Harold Milner deal. Heard of him?”
“Who hasn’t?”
When Cole paused, staring through him for a moment be fore responding, Richard figured a simple “yes” would have done. “Good. Because it’s the IPO of his Southwest Homes. Not your average deal. And I don’t mind saying I’d rather have my only other Associate from this year’s class, my rock star—Kathy Cella—on it, but I already put her on two others last week. You screw this up, probational, and you’re toast.” He looked back down at the papers on his desk.
Dismissed. No matter. He felt like he did after his first beer. His first assignment a Harold Milner deal. I should savor this. I may never feel this great again.
Kathy and Richard rode down the elevator together that evening. They got separated on the elevator by a crush of bodies. All Richard could see from over someone’s shoulder was her hair. It was shoulder length, brunette. He didn’t think it was anything special. They emerged from the elevator, and she half turned toward him, waiting. The orange light from the twilight sun reflecting off the former American Express building shone on her hair. He noticed the whiteness of her teeth against the light that glistened on her parted lips. She seemed frozen there as if in an art-directed commercial. Soft-focus. Wow.
Richard decided there was something interesting about her after all. He was looking over the curve of her shoulder, his eyes following her bra strap as it ran down toward the whiter flesh at her chest, when she said, “You’re lucky.”
“What?”
“Southwest Homes. I j
ust heard you got assigned to it.” She tapped two fingers to her temple as if saluting.
He nodded, then looked beyond her at the light coming off the old Amex building.
She turned to follow his gaze.
He said, “That’s the old American Express building. Before they moved to the World Financial Center.”
“Uh-huh.” She sounded bored.
After an awkward moment, Richard said, “I’m heading up William Street.”
“So am I.” She gave him a smile.
That’s better. Richard guided them through the preliminaries: he was from St. Paul, she a New Yorker. She’d attended some private school, Sacred Heart, in the city, then majored in Econ at Harvard, then Harvard Business School.
Richard noticed small beads of perspiration broke out on her upper lip when she walked in this early evening heat.
“I went to Michigan State,” he said. “English major, sociology minor.”
“Sociology, the science of common sense.” She smirked at him. “Are you a man with common sense?”
Richard noticed her breasts were small and round and that they bounced with her steps. “Depends on the subject.”
She went on as if he hadn’t answered. “I minored in Italian. I’m Italian. Did a summer of intensive study at Middlebury and then six weeks in Italy. I went to all these little villages, researched my ancestors, visited their graves.”
“Ahh. And a historian.” He squirmed inside, figuring he’d have to start sounding a lot more clever if he was gonna get anyplace with her. Now he noticed that her nipples jutted through her bra and cream-colored silk dress. At Hanover Square Richard said, “That’s where Kidder stood for over eighty years.”
“Who?” He couldn’t tell if she was putting him on.
“Kidder Peabody. It was an old-line Wall Street firm. They got bought by PaineWebber. PaineWebber got bought by UBS.”
“Oh.”
“That’s Harry’s restaurant there on the left, in the basement of the India House. They’re both famous old Wall Street institutions, too.”
“Sounds like you’re the historian,” she said. She smiled. Richard now felt thoroughly stupid about the historian comment.
“Not really, I’m just into all this Wall Street lore.” They were at the triangular building at the corner of One William Street. “That’s where Lehman Brothers was founded and stood until the 1980s.” He pointed up ahead to the right. “Up there is Exchange Place, where First Boston was, before they moved midtown and then got bought by Credit Suisse.”
“You seem like you’re in the right place.” She seemed at least a little interested.
They continued on the narrow, curving street between the tall buildings, and Richard felt nestled in the history of Wall Street. Marble, sandstone and granite walls cradled him. Gilded ceilings and carved beams showed through the arched windows on either side. What a feeling. They made the left onto Wall Street itself.
“This street has quite a history,” Richard said, turning to Kathy. She didn’t look up, walked in silence. She had a lean body and a firm ass like a competitive swimmer’s. It curved tightly from her slim waist, her silk dress clinging to it. “That’s Trinity Church framed at that narrow gap at Broadway.”
Kathy nodded. She seemed relaxed, enjoying herself, letting it happen.
“The gray sandstone building on the left near it is the old Irving Trust building. And that building on the right with a rectangular patch of bright orange sunlight…” Richard paused and turned to look at her again.
“He’s a poet, too,” she said, nudging him with her elbow.
Encouraging. The only thing between me and her is about five thousandths of an inch of silk. “And on the right, at the corner of Wall and Broad, that’s Federal Hall, once a U.S. Treasury building. That statue’s of George Washington.”
“And the New York Stock Exchange is just to the left,” she said. He saw her smirk.
“Yeah. I forgot. You’ve been here before. Born and raised in New York City. So tell me about Italy,” he said.
“Beautiful…”
Yeah, beautiful. The only thing between me and her is that little tiny dress.
After a few moments, Richard asked, “You free for dinner?” He sucked in his breath, waiting.
The sun shone off Kathy’s hair again like it had in the lobby. She was about 27, Richard guessed. She smiled. “Sure.”
The Polo girl with the swimmer’s ass is mine for the evening.
“Where to?” he said to her, holding onto the strap handle in the subway car as they headed toward the Spring Street stop.
“I know just the place,” she said, smiling.
When they walked into Raoul’s, Kathy realized Richard was still checking her out. Even so, she liked how he looked at her: a fair amount of lust, yes, but also flattering awe, all of it discreet and not at all disrespectful. It was kind of like he’d never seen a girl up close before. Intense, but also earnest. And not cocky and pushy like most of the other guys she’d already met at the firm. She could do a lot worse for a cubicle-mate. At least he hadn’t hit on her in the first five minutes like most guys from New York. Still, she’d make it clear this wasn’t anything more than a dinner for two new colleagues to start to get to know each other.
Rob, the maitre d’ with Coke-bottle glasses, walked them past the stainless steel shelving with the restaurant’s Provençal china through the clatter, heat and smoke of the kitchen to a walled garden in back. It was cool, quiet and intimate. The air smelled like garlic, French fries and lavender. She was surprised: she hadn’t known the garden dining area existed. She’d wanted them to eat dinner in the 1950s style booths in front, amid all the bustle. An unintended miscue.
“You’re more serious about Wall Street than most,” she said once they were seated in the courtyard.
“I think I’m flattered. But in what way do you mean?”
“You actually have a respect—almost reverence—for the history of the business.”
Richard sat in silence, as if turning it over in his mind. What was he thinking? She guessed he had a reflective side to him. He ordered wine—Riserva Ducali—a decent Chianti. Does he know about wine, or is he ordering Italian to cater to me? He seemed to have a sensitive side, too.
“And you? How do you feel about the business?” he asked.
“It’s not my first job on the Street. I did a three-year stint as an Analyst at Morgan Stanley before B-school.”
He nodded.
“I threw myself into that,” she said, “and that’s what I’m doing now. Watch out, Wall Street. I’ve made up my mind I’ll be the youngest woman Managing Director ever on the Street.”
He was silent again, still holding the menu in his hands, but not looking at it. Thinking again. She noticed his hands. They weren’t large, but powerful and perfectly shaped. They looked like something a sculptor would use as a model. She remembered feeling his eyes on her as they had walked along Wall Street. If his hands worked the same way his eyes did, that could be magical. Down, girl.
Richard said, “That’s what I’m gonna do, too, throw myself into it.” He looked up at her, now speaking directly into her eyes. “I’m gonna really make something of myself here on the Street. And I’m not approaching it from the standpoint of ‘don’t screw it up’ because I’m surer of myself than that.” There was that intensity again. But he said it with such clarity that it wasn’t corny. He kept his gaze on her. Still intense. It made her want to push the conversation on.
She said, “I didn’t want to go back to MS after HBS. For me, been there, done that, and I want to do it all. I came to Walker because it offers more opportunity. It’s much less structured, more a meritocracy. Particularly for women. And the place is really making a splash. We’re hot and getting hotter. You and I are in for quite a ride.” He was still looking directly at her. It made her uncomfortable and she averted her eyes. She felt her face start to color and reached for her wine glass, picked it up.
“A toast. To Wall Street to the max.”
“To the max,” he said and smiled. That was better. He was lighter now.
“I’m from a long line of I-bankers, by the way. My grandfather was a partner at White, Weld before Merrill bought them and my father was Dominick Cella, the international mergers and acquisitions banker.” She saw Richard’s face show recognition of Daddy’s name. He obviously hadn’t put it together when they walked up Wall Street, giving her that history lesson. That’s okay. He was charming about it and it showed her that he had the business under his skin. “My father was the youngest partner ever at Kuhn, Loeb and then at Lehman Brothers. He died with his boots on, so to speak, at 54, on the Concorde to Italy to pitch a deal to Gianni Angelli.” There. She’d gotten it out in the open. She didn’t want him to feel stupid later if somebody else told him.
“So, you said you’re from St. Paul. Any juicy tidbits in your big-town life?”
He shrugged. “Pretty ordinary.”
“Scrapes with the law?”
“Studied too much. And sports.”
“Family skeletons?”
“Only at Halloween.”
“Nicknames?”
“Just Richard.” He smiled.
She liked his smile. She’d been right earlier: he wasn’t cocky or pushy. But any guy who held eye contact and smiled like that at a girl he didn’t know yet must be sure of himself. Maybe it was a Midwestern thing. And she liked his curious mix of sophisticated brains and naiveté. He was like some high school spelling bee whiz, in town for the national championships and walking around Times Square all starry-eyed. But the straight-arrow side of him was appealing.
Kathy tried to talk him out of walking her to her apartment on Sullivan Street, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Still, it was quaint in a farm-boy rube sort of way, and she appreciated it. The cobblestones made her footing uncertain. He saw it and offered his arm; she took it and felt her breast press against his side. Oh my God, I hope he’s not going to try to kiss me good night.
