by David Lender
“Good night, Richard. I look forward to working together. It’s been a fun evening.” She wasn’t going to wait for him to do anything but wish her good night as she spun and slid her key into the latch. She turned her head back, “You know where you’re going?”
“Spring and 6th,” he said. “Good night.” She hurried the door shut behind her and stood in the lobby for a moment. She felt a funny sense in her tummy, like when you swoosh over a rise in the road and drive too fast down the other side. She smiled and punched the elevator button.
American Airlines Flight 785 to Houston. From his seat in coach Richard could hear George Cole and Milner’s lawyer from Sterling & Dalton, Howard Blaine III, carrying on up in the first class cabin like fraternity brothers. They were laughing and slamming down drinks, overly loud, like, “Notice us. We’re a couple of hotshot Wall Street types.” They were already shitfaced and the flight was still two hours out from Houston. It was embarrassing.
And distracting. He was trying to reread the SEC documents—10-Ks and 10-Qs—on the homebuilding company comparables to Southwest Homes, prepping for the visit. The rush of thoughts and the emotions racing his pulse were distracting enough. His first business trip as a banker. It’s really happening. Who could he tell? Mom and Dad were already proud enough. Joan Godburn—his college girlfriend’s mother who’d referred to him as a deadbeat—what do you think now, bitch? He laughed at himself. What crack in my subconscious did she just crawl out of?
Richard picked up the 10-K for Pulte Homes, one of the comparable companies he had analyzed as part of their due diligence for the Southwest Homes initial public offering.
A week earlier, Jeannie Peters, the Assistant Vice President who worked for George Cole, had started him through the paces. “You’re lucky,” she said. “You’ve only been with the firm for a few weeks and you’re already working on your first deal. That might be normal if you were with Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs. But at Walker, working on a 1.2 billion dollar IPO is a privilege.” She narrowed her eyes. He already noticed she did that a lot, probably thought it was intimidating. “And it’s not just any IPO. Milner’s selling 100% of the company to the public in the deal.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Remember we’re doing all the real work, first thing. Some senior officers of Southwest Homes will be involved, and every one will have lawyers. And Southwest’s accountants will be around.” She said it like Richard was too stupid to understand, but even if he did, it would be too late to save his doomed soul. “But remember, we’re doing all the work, which means you’re doing all the work.” This woman was like an abused puppy that grew up into a nasty bitch. He could see it coming; weeks with her on this deal.
She grabbed a book of financials on her desk, turned them toward Richard. “Run financial comparable on Southwest versus these companies. Have one of the Analysts run the comps model, but I want you checking all the numbers by hand.”
Richard was trying hard not to smirk, having a hard time taking her seriously. Not what she was saying, but her attitude and tone: the ‘no, asshole’ voice. Like ‘No, asshole, don’t do it like that, do it like this.’
“Are you getting all this?” she asked.
Of course he was, now starting to get pissed. He knew all the numbers and ratios cold from his practice spreadsheets. “You think I’m gonna blow it on my first deal?” he said.
It seemed to surprise her. Then she said through her teeth, “Go tell George I told you to run all the standard stuff, see what else he needs.” The ‘no, asshole’ voice again. Richard realized he should have kept his mouth shut. The word probational kept running through his mind. Dumb. He reminded himself he was standing with his toes over the edge of a cliff.
Later that day when Richard walked back to Jeannie’s cubicle, he heard Cole and her talking. He stood outside to wait for them to finish. When he heard Cole say, “Guess I’ll have to start whipping him into shape on the road,” he decided to bolt into the Communications Room until Cole left. Managing the Comm Room was Richard’s “probational” duty. Something nobody else would want to do, but not something the firm could trust to a clerk; so they gave it to one of the new schmucks who didn’t have a choice. The Comm Room was the site of the firm’s general faxes and email accounts. With all the crap that came in, overseeing it was like weeding through the daily garbage bin. But once in a while something real found its way: a lead on a deal, a referral or a resume that warranted forwarding to an officer. He listened for Cole; he heard the computer cooling fans whirring, the fax in the corner spewing pages.
He sat down at one of the computer screens in the room and figured he’d check the incoming emails. He could hear Cole’s and Jeannie’s voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He hunched over the keyboard and opened the latest email on the screen, still listening. The email message he’d opened was a mundane series of trades being sent overseas with attendant wire transfer instructions. He scrolled down the numbers of shares and prices in the email, still listening.
The computer beeped with an incoming message. Richard turned back and read it.
[email protected]:
Message previously received. Confirmation previously sent.
Duplicate, or are we to double positions? Please advise.
It was signed [email protected].
Richard didn’t know what the message meant, but he checked the computer’s outbox and realized he must have inadvertently resent the last message. The recipient must have been sitting at his computer at GCG and believed Richard was walkerl@netwiz. net, the person he was corresponding with.
He looked again at the message he’d resent. It was a series of account numbers with many similar trades, all in common stock and put options in a group of companies. It looked like someone was buying securities in the hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe more. Oh, man. Richard didn’t want to be any part of anybody taking twice that big a position, so he typed back the answer:
[email protected]
Message erroneously duplicated.
Regards,
[email protected]
He wheeled and left the room fast, feeling his blood pumping in his temples. He’d talk to Jeannie later. But he couldn’t help wondering about the emails. Walker had instantaneous electronic trading technology downstairs on that football-field-sized trading floor. Why would somebody from the Comm Room be emailing lists of account numbers and trade instructions to Paris to buy hundreds of millions in stock and put options in some group of companies?
A few days after that Richard plunked himself into his chair next to Kathy’s in their cubicle with a sigh.
“Jeannie Peters?” Kathy asked without looking away from her computer screen.
“Yeah. Anywhere else in the world she’d just be another bitchy, wasp-waisted little girl…”
“Bitchy wasp-waisted woman.”
“…but in here she’s Queen Elizabeth.”
“With attitude. Welcome to the club,” Kathy said. “Hates us all. Worked her way up without going to B-school. We’re all a bunch of pasty-faced dilettantes from hotshot schools. Think we’re cool but aren’t worth a damn.”
“Tell me about it. I crank out and hand check 144 hours of public comparables analysis in 48 hours, she takes it without a word, finds a couple of mistakes and looks at me like I should stab myself seven times.” Richard paused and glanced over at Kathy. Always rubbing my nose in it that she was born into the business, but overall she’s okay.
Kathy smirked. “Actually it was about 72 hours. I was sitting here crunching my own numbers the whole time. Remember?”
At least she had a sense of humor. And she worked hard, no prissy attitude. They’d gone for beers a few nights at about 1:00 a.m. on the way home.
Kathy said, “Shouldn’t you be getting home?”
“Why?”
“I heard you’re flying to Houston tomorrow morning with Cole at the crack of dawn for management interviews on
the Southwest IPO.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Mind some advice from my grandfather and father that I got around the kitchen table?”
“No. What?”
“A banker misses the plane on his first deal, he doesn’t get a chance to miss another.”
Richard smiled. Yeah. She was alright.
Washington, D.C. Croonquist sat on a stool at the counter facing the windows in Starbucks. Outside, typical no-time-foranything Washingtonians strode by. Inside, he could barely hear with the noise, but damn, the place smelled great, like some coffee-chocolate-pistachio aphrodisiac. He wanted a coffee, but decided to wait for Mike Dolan to show up before getting in line to order. Dolan arrived about ten minutes later, totally soaked and looking pissed. Croonquist couldn’t help laughing at him.
“The spy who came in from the rain,” Croonquist said.
“Kind of a wise-ass for a guy who’s asking for a favor, aren’t you?” Dolan stuck out his hand. They shook.
“How about that coffee I promised you?”
“I’ll take a venti,” Dolan said and sat down on the stool next to Croonquist’s.
“What?”
“A large, you dinosaur.”
“Large what?”
“Something exotic. Gotta prove I’m not a cheap date.”
Croonquist had no idea what Dolan was talking about, but got in line, studied the menu. This stuff was expensive. What the hell were they putting in it, cocaine? A few minutes later he brought back Dolan a venti Brazilian Mocha. It’s what his young guys in the office drank. Croonquist had one for himself, too. He figured he’d see what the fuss was all about.
“Sorry about the rain,” Croonquist started out, “and thanks for coming.”
Dolan made a face that said, “Cut to it, I’m busy.”
“I need a favor.”
“You already told me that on the phone.”
Man, Dolan was on edge. He worked for the National Security Agency, the U.S. government’s little-known intelligence-gathering arm that monitored all international communications. The agency’s budget and manpower exceeded the CIA’s. If the SEC had half their financial resources, Charlie Green could have buried MarketWatch as a rounding error. It had been a year since Croonquist had seen Dolan. Then, at Dolan’s request, he’d called in a marker for a favor from Stankowitz at the FBI. Stankowitz monitored some guy for Dolan for something that Croonquist couldn’t remember and was glad to forget. But Croonquist was happy to set it up, and Dolan was grateful. Anyone who’d been in the federal government for over 26 years had friends in all the various other branches, and those friends did things for their friends that went outside their friends’ jurisdictions. Croonquist regularly did favors for CIA, NSA and numerous congressional subcommittees. And they did favors for him, even the Democrats. Croonquist always thought that if the American taxpayers knew about all the black holes in different agency budgets for this stuff, they’d shit their pants, especially the Democrats.
“Why the hell’re you so edgy?”
Dolan scrunched up his face. “Sorry. Budget cuts, too much work, too many scumbags trying to kill us all.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So what can I do for you?” Dolan asked.
“I’m working on a case where I don’t have enough to get formal surveillance. It’s got international elements to it. If you could monitor this company’s international transmissions—phone calls and emails—you could help us break it wide open.”
“You say international?”
“I wouldn’t be coming to you otherwise.”
“Any national security issues?”
“No idea.”
Dolan paused for a few moments, looking Croonquist in the eye. “I said any national security issues?”
Croonquist got it. “Absolutely. It’s right up your alley. That’s why I came to you.”
“Okay, what you got?”
Croonquist handed Dolan a piece of paper. He’d written the names Walker & Company, Groupe Credit Generale and Schoenfeld & Co. on it.
“Who are these guys?”
“Financial institutions. Suspected money laundering, or whatever you need to call it to make it work for you.”
“You mean for you,” Dolan said, smiling.
Croonquist paused for a moment, sipped his Brazilian Mocha. “Right. I owe you one,” he said.
Houston, Texas. At 8:15 a.m. the next morning at Southwest Homes’ offices in Houston, Richard ate breakfast alone. Except for George Cole and Howard Blaine, who sat at the other end of the table, the team had already finished eating and scattered. Blaine was still making cowboy jokes in his perfect Harvard accent—“Ro-day-o, ro-day-o.” Richard was thinking Cole probably wasn’t a bad guy deep down inside; Richard just hadn’t seen any evidence of it yet. Like when standing at the curb at the airport with Richard and Howard Blaine, he pointed to Richard and said, “Get a cab,” as if Richard were a bellboy. Like when he’d shown Richard it was he who taught Jeannie Peters the “no, asshole” voice in reply to Richard asking if he should have the cabbie leave the meter running. This after Cole’s admonishment, “Make sure we have a cab to take us to dinner,” while they were checking into the Ritz-Carlton and dropping off their bags before heading to the restaurant. Like when he didn’t bother introducing Richard to their dinner colleagues—two Associates of Howard Blaine’s, Southwest’s General Counsel and Southwest’s accountant from KPMG. And like when he’d replied, “In the lobby, checked out, ready to get into a cab at seven a.m. sharp,” in response to Richard’s “good night” at the elevator.
Cole said, “We’re on in ten minutes. Two doors down on the right. Ron Peters, the CFO.” He and Blaine got up and left. Richard relished that much peace based on how the last half day had gone. He was beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, starting a career in this business. Jeannie Peters and George Cole were a couple of gratuitous ball breakers. They made the Senior Account Execs in advertising seem enlightened. Ten minutes. Then time to get kicked around again. He heard someone come into the room behind him.
“Breakfast for half a brigade, I see.”
Richard turned to see Harold Milner walking toward the credenza that held the catered breakfast. Richard stood up. “Hi,” he said, not so much tense as caught off guard. “Nobody told me you’d be here. Richard Blum.” He extended his hand. “Remember me?”
“The long-suffering Vikings fan.” Milner shook Richard’s hand with that big paw of his. He walked over to the credenza.
“How was your flight?” Richard asked.
Milner had his back to him, fixing coffee at the credenza. “Long. I hate them.” Milner turned and sat down. “But at least I’m not flying commercial. And this little number makes it easier.” He held up an iPod Nano.
“We all have one of those. In my generation you’re a nerd if you don’t. But the sound’s disappointing.”
“That’s because MP3 recording quality cuts out the highs and lows, compromises the sound in order make the data files smaller. Makes it sound tired and sloppy. I record everything in lossless mode. Tons more data, same amount as a CD.”
“Yeah, but it takes up a lot of iPod memory.”
“Top quality but less songs is a good trade. Listen to this.” Milner handed Richard his iPod. Richard plugged in the earpbuds and turned it on. The sound was liquid, like he was in the studio, or better, at Lincoln Center. “Amazing.” Richard knew the piece. It was one of his father’s favorites. Richard said, “Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A.”
“I’m impressed. Go ahead. Keep it.”
“You kidding?”
“Nah, it’s yours. I’ve got a dozen or so.”
Richard laughed.
“Yeah, not bad for a man who still has to check his emails through his secretary. Richard, you keep that,” he said, pointing to the iPod.
“Okay, Harold.” Richard still felt odd calling him by his first name. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome
. Spread the gospel. Music’s one of our last uncorrupted refuges. A purity nobody can mess with. In there,” he said, pointing to the iPod, “we’re all equals.”
“Thanks again,” Richard said.
“Where’s Cole?”
“He just left. We start our management interviews in five minutes.” Richard looked at his watch. He’d milk this down to the last second. How many more chances would he get to BS one-on-one with Harold Milner?
“He’s a good banker. You’ll learn a lot. He giving you a hard time?”
“Is the Pope Catholic? I’m rubbing a lot of tummies.”
Milner gave him a questioning look.
“My dad used to say, ‘Sometimes you have to rub people’s tummies to get them to accept you.’ Part of the game.”
“He’s right. So keep toughing it out. And if you can manage to get face time with Jack Grass, jump through hoops to impress him and you’ll make it. We all pay our dues. Just don’t forget where you came from. Rule number one.”
“And number two?”
“Never let anybody take it from you once you’ve made it.” The casualness in Milner’s manner was gone. He was looking at Richard but his focus seemed elsewhere. Then Milner’s gaze went up over Richard’s shoulder. “Here’s the Pope now.” Richard turned to see George Cole in the doorway. Richard’s ears burned and he felt his face flush. If Cole heard what he’d said, he was cooked.
“Harold,” Cole said. “I didn’t expect to see you. What a pleasure.” His voice went higher than usual, Cole gushing.
“Yeah, well, just slumming.” Milner stood up and he and Cole shook hands across the table. Cole had a brightness in his eyes and an eagerness in his face Richard hadn’t seen before. Golly, Mr. Springsteen, I’ve got all your CDs. Some hotshot Wall Street type now.
On the way to the CFO’s office, Cole said, “Must be a really important deal to Milner. He wouldn’t normally show up in person for something like this.” His tone was almost collegial for the first time, Richard wondering if maybe Cole felt like Richard’s audience with Milner had rubbed off on him. It wore off when they entered Ron Peter’s office. He pointed at Richard’s yellow pad and glared at him. “Take notes.”
