by David Lender
Amazing old building, the Carlyle. Richard now absently looked up at the ceiling, eyeing 18-inch plaster moldings. He itched to know what was going on at the strategy session in the room next door. He bet Jack was pumped, remembering how Jack had sucked up the tension in the room in the Southwest Homes pricing meeting, like infighting was some drug for him.
Jack was so bored he was afraid that if he didn’t concentrate on breathing, his autonomic nervous system would shut off and he’d die. These strategy sessions were even worse than year-end bonus discussions. At least in those things you were talking about money. Here it was just Sir Reginald sounding off about “tactics and accomplishing our strategy” and shit like that. What a horse’s ass. Must be a riot getting stuck sitting next to him at a dinner party.
It was awful, but Jack had to listen. His logic was: even a nincompoop sometimes passed a multiple-choice exam, like when the Wall Street Journal had those monkeys pick stocks by throwing darts, and they occasionally outperformed big-time money managers. So Jack felt like he couldn’t afford to zone out while Sir Reginald was blathering on, just in case the potato-head, upper-crust Brit moron got lucky and had a brainstorm that could cause mischief.
Sir Reginald was in the middle of one of his monologues right now, acting all dramatic, looking like some stern-faced high school guidance counselor. He droned on about Schoenfeld & Co. and GCG sharing client relationships to springboard the Walker-Schoenfeld-GCG alliance into a global presence. Global schmobal.
“…it may admittedly take some years to do so,” and Sir Reginald extended his palms like he was cradling a globe, “but we’re building a business and we have plenty of time.”
The old guy was talking to everyone like they were little kids. Only the Brits were so arrogant. Except for the Frogs. If Jack hadn’t sat through a couple of hours of this already it might be comical. He spent half his time looking at Sir Reginald Schoenfeld’s belly bulging out of an open button on his shirt. Other than that, at least the bald old slug knew how to dress—he wore a Saville Row custom suit, a subtle chalk stripe on a bold blue. But the other half the time Jack spent looking up the old bird’s nose, given the way Schoenfeld tilted his head back. Jeez, somebody should buy the guy a nasal hair trimmer. Marvin Garden-Whyte, Sir Reginald’s number-two man, perched at his side like a lapdog. Philippe Delecroix, their partner from GCG, was a spindly little wisp who looked like a loud cough would blow him out of his chair on the other side of the 20-foot conference table. How a scrawny stick like that could be such a cagey in-fighter was always a surprise to Jack. Look at him, yawning, talking in French to his guys, waving those pixie arms that looked like you could snap them in half with a good twist. Jack reminded himself the Frog was nobody to mess with even if he did come off as Truman Capote. He glanced over as Mickey jumped up to take another call on his cell phone, heading out for the hall. At least he was getting some work done.
“Would you repeat that part about utilizing our clients? I’m uncertain I correctly heard you,” Delecroix said.
Sir Reginald cleared his throat. “Of course, Philippe. Let me clarify.” Sir Reginald took a long breath.
And now for a prerecorded message.
Sir Reginald carried on like he was running for President. Jeez, the way this fool goes on. Jack looked around the room to see if anyone else was as fed up as he was, wishing somebody would fart. He forced himself to stop fidgeting his leg.
Still Sir Reginald went on. After another few minutes Jack couldn’t listen to any more. He said, “I don’t see where we make a buck on all this. Underwriting profits on Eurobond issues are so tight that you gotta pucker your sphincter to squeeze a nickel out of a deal. Besides, the markets are in a coma right now with this credit meltdown freezing things up. So why go through all the effort if it means there won’t be any payoff for any of us?”
Jack searched Sir Reginald’s face for a reaction: nothing.
“Well,” Sir Reginald said. He leaned forward and set his gaze on the ceiling, the way the Brits did to avoid looking you in the eye when they were about to say something you didn’t wanna hear.
Before he could say anything, Delecroix said, “While as Jack says the markets are now frozen, we have made money which is important to us on Eurobond deals. And when you split that into half—or thirds—why, then it should be obvious that hurts us. If we, and Schoenfeld & Co., are to achieve more as partners, it must be from an addition from Walker and not merely sliding profits around. Or worse, giving them away.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Our people are not so easily motivated without financial considerations.” He poked his index finger on the table for emphasis. “I will not so easily relinquish our lead underwriting position under the GCG name unless we share more disproportionately in the finances.”
Jack wondered how anybody could massacre English so badly and still be drop dead clear. Even a stooge like Sir Reginald had to understand it. Sir Reginald turned and met Delecroix’s gaze. His face was now stony and his eyes were hard. Jack saw a definite chink in the relationship.
Jack said, “Fellas, regardless of the split, there just isn’t a way to make as much money on anything right now as there is on mopping up after this credit mess.”
“Go on,” Delecroix said.
“You take a step back and look hard at this housing collapse and the worldwide credit freeze and you can see an obvious way to make money out of it. Ask yourself what comes next. My bet is we’re headed for a doozy of a recession. And what happens then? Bankruptcies, tons of them.”
Jack looked around the room. Delecroix wandered over to the credenza and poured himself a cup of coffee. Jack wasn’t sure he had his attention. The little guy was hard to read.
Jack went on. “And our competitors have gotten creamed in this thing. Merrill Lynch: 8, 10, 12 billion dollars of write-offs in mortgage-backeds and more to come. Citigroup: even more losses in mortgage-backeds than Merrill’s. Bear Stearns: teetering. Morgan Stanley and Lehman: scrambling not to be the next to get clobbered, with their stock prices off 50%.”
Now Delecroix was nodding in agreement. Good. Jack looked over at Sir Reginald. He was tilting his head back, giving Jack another bird’s-eye view of his nose bush.
Jack went on. “But us? No losses and it looks we’ve got almost no exposure.”
Delecroix had turned back from the credenza, now scowling at Jack. He said, “Where is this going?”
“We gear up big time to be players in bankruptcy restructurings and refinancings. And not just in the U.S., but Europe, as far as Schoenfeld & Co.’s and GCG’s relationships reach. We step into the vacuum and suck out all that business before our competitors can get off their backs.”
Sir Reginald said, “That is an unsavory business.”
“Since when are we concerned about ‘unsavory’?” Jack said.
Sir Reginald looked at Delecroix, then back at Jack. No one said anything for a few awkward moments. Then Sir Reginald said, “But we don’t have a restructuring team.”
“We’ve got GCG to provide all the financing, and a crackerjack mergers and acquisitions team in New York. We hire a couple of big shot bankruptcy restructuring guys, then move all the M&A team over into restructuring. We’ll all make a fortune on fees.”
Jack looked over at Delecroix, who’d sat back down and was looking into his coffee cup, thinking. Sir Reginald shook his head. But no response.
“Come on, guys, whattaya think?” Jack asked. He saw Sir Reginald move in his chair and look over at Garden-Whyte.
“Shall we break, and flesh out the discussions after tea?” Garden-Whyte said.
Sure, why not waste the whole day?
Richard watched the senior management team file out of the conference room for a break. He saw Jack pull the door shut, then heard raised voices, then shouting. After a few minutes Jack opened the door.
“I should fire you on the spot,” he heard Sir Reginald say.
Jack turned his head and laughed. “Fire me?” he
said over his shoulder. “You can’t fire me. I’m the firm’s biggest producer. You’re my bitch.”
Richard looked over at Kathy. She leaned back in her chair, trying to seem nonchalant, but looked scared stiff. Now she turned to Richard, eyes wide.
“Not like Morgan Stanley, huh?” Richard said.
Kathy didn’t respond. Jack strode past, smiling, walking cocky. Richard didn’t wait for Sir Reginald to walk by. He went and took a long piss, splashed some water on his face. This is it. Europe for three months.
The senior management team was reassembled for about 15 minutes before Jack poked his head through the doorway and motioned for Richard to come in. Richard felt his pulse pound in his temples, a flutter in his stomach. Kathy gave him a thumbs up. Richard thought of her breasts silhouetted in the orange sun in that little tiny dress. As he walked through the door and took his position at Jack’s end of the table, he could see Sir Reginald’s gigantic nostrils twitching open at him as the old man arched his head backward to observe him. Everything else kind of muddled together after that.
Voicemail again. It was the third time Jack called Mickey after they’d scattered following the kids’ interviews. Give Mickey an hour before dinner and God only knew how many phone calls he’d jam in. Jack didn’t want a drink, but he was headed for Bemelmans Bar anyhow. See if he could jawbone Delecroix a little. He figured Sir Reginald was stewing in his hotel room right now, what with the pistol-whipping Jack had given him earlier. That’d been a long time coming. But even that was too civilized to really satisfy him. Back in Canarsie he’d have called Sir Reginald a soft old fuddy-duddy and popped him in the nose.
The old boob needed it. He had no market instinct, no understanding that these wild-ass markets could make you rich in a heartbeat if you played them right—or kill you just as quick if you didn’t. That was a real concern with a moron like Sir Reginald trying to call strategy for the firm with all this volatility and panic out there. Jack knew from watching years of market cycles that you held onto your balls with both hands in times like these, or else. Sir Reginald should’ve remembered that quote from Socrates: guys who don’t read history are doomed to repeat it. Stupid putz.
At least spanking Sir Reginald was more fun than sitting through those interviews, the Brits all serious about which of the two kids would get their dumb-ass secondment. Then wanting to talk about it for an hour afterward. The Frogs must’ve made up their minds the minute they saw Cella walk in. Jeez, Delecroix sitting with his mouth open, looking her up and down. Blum never had a chance. He’d call the kid later.
Richard came up behind Kathy at the bar at Raoul’s. He’d just gotten the news from Jack on his cell phone.
“Hi. I’m Richard.” He smiled, like it was an opening line.
Kathy smiled back, looking confused at first, then her eyes showing a spark of understanding, playing along.
“I’m new in town,” Richard continued, “but I’ll be here for at least three months.”
Kathy’s eyes softened, like she fully understood, then coy.
Richard went on. “I don’t usually do things like this, but I saw you sitting alone, and I thought, what the hell.”
Kathy smiled again, then turned away, sipped her drink.
“How’m I doing so far?” he said.
“Not so great with your spiel, but you’re the second best looking guy I’ve ever seen.”
“Who’s the first?”
“A girl’s gotta keep a guy guessing sometimes.” Kathy patted the stool next to her. “Hi, Richard, I’m Kathy.” As if she did it all the time. Barfly.
“You drinking alone, or just been stood up?”
Kathy shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it.” Still playing along, now looking like she was ready to take the lead. Sucking on the straw of her drink again—looked like a daiquiri—come-on look in her eyes. Maybe she would surprise him tonight. He sat down on the stool next to her and leaned in. Her hair was a little tousled, windblown. She smelled great, that Estee Lauder fragrance she wore. Her eyes were done just so. He could tell she’d reapplied her makeup after the offsite. All good signs. He felt warm in his chest.
“So what do you do for fun?” he asked.
“Kick guys’ asses at squash.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“I’m drinking alone, aren’t I?”
“Not anymore.”
In the clunky service elevator to her loft, Kathy was still roleplaying like the girl taking her pickup home for a drink. She wanted out of it. Not out of bringing Richard home, but out of the game. She didn’t need any role-playing to feel the sexual energy between them.
She looked over at him, remembering him as he was that first time in the elevator at work, all business, earnest and serious. She thinking he hadn’t noticed her, then all of a sudden him coming alive, attentive. Richard escorting her up Wall Street, his Wall Street. Giving her a history lesson, enjoying himself. He looking sleek in his freshly pressed charcoal gray suit, foulard tie with the perfect dimple snuggled up against his starched collar. He with his strong hands constantly in motion, and his eyes always on her.
Even now, even knowing him these months, he had that air of confidence with an undercurrent of vulnerability that only she thought she could see. Not cocky, but the undiscovered champion with the gentle look in his eyes.
She had that feeling in her tummy again, that airiness, like driving too fast. Then the same feeling, but lower, as if her legs were disconnected from her brain and were going to wrap themselves around him. She bet he was a great kisser. She was sure he didn’t try to force his tongue into your mouth the instant your lips touched, like most guys, trying to act sophisticated. Like they’ve kissed all kinds of girls, showing you how cool they are. No, she bet Richard kissed you like he meant it. Tonight might be difficult. She didn’t want to say yes to him. How silly women could be. Knowing what they wanted, and not wanting it at the same time.
By the time they’d finished a bottle of wine, Conan O’Brien was coming on the television. Kathy was now sitting in an armchair by herself, having gracefully slipped off the sofa when it looked like Richard was moving toward her—twice. If he did it again she was going to get pissed off.
Near the end of Conan’s monologue, she bent over in the chair laughing. When she sat back up, Richard had walked over from the sofa and was standing right there. He did it smoothly; leaned over, kissed her. She pulled away.
“Richard, don’t.”
He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He just looked into her eyes and smiled; very confident. He put his hand on her cheek and came toward her again.
“Don’t,” she said and stood up. She balled her hands into fists, narrowed her eyes and stuck out her jaw. “Stop it!”
“I don’t get it.” He stood there, eyebrows furrowed.
“What don’t you get?”
“Calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when you back off.”
Richard shook his head and put his hands up as if in surrender. He crossed to the sofa and sat down.
“Don’t look so shocked. You’re acting like you’ve never had a woman say no to you before. Besides, what were you thinking? God, we’re cubicle-mates.”
He smiled and chuckled. “It was pretty clear to me we were moving in this direction.”
“Maybe clear to you. But you’re not thinking clearly; you’ve been pining away over me for a while now. And it’s beginning to get in the way.”
“I’m not trying to hide that I’m interested, but I’m getting mixed signals here. You were downright coquettish in the bar. And how often do grown women invite male friends over for TV after a few drinks, then a bottle of wine if they aren’t at least thinking about something more?”
Kathy let out a long sigh and sat back down. She looked him in the eye and said, “At least once.”
He didn’t say anything for a few moments, maybe waiting to see if she had anything else to say. All of a sudden she just wanted
him to leave. Maybe he was right: she’d probably been putting out what she was thinking as they got to her apartment. But still, after two failed passes he should have backed off.
“I think you should leave. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Message received.” He stood up. “Thanks for the wine.”
She didn’t get up to show him to the door.
She felt lousy. But after Morgan Stanley, there was no way she was ever getting involved with anyone from the office again. My God, it was downright humiliating with everybody finding out about Frank and her within a few weeks. Separated from his wife or not, a Managing Director and an Analyst was juicy gossip. And it made it worse that she was working for him in the Healthcare Group. Under him, some snickered. At the time she tried to tell herself she was above the gossip because she loved him, but it hurt, made her feel cheap.
And she wasn’t blind to the fact that it was the only time she let a man get in the way of what she wanted. In prep school, Harvard undergrad, even HBS, her relationships never lasted more than a few years, if that. The shrink she saw for six months after Frank helped her see that a man wasn’t important enough to her to let the obligation of a commitment slow her down—at least up until then. When Dr. Oldman started probing her on why it took a man ten years her senior to open her up for the first time, she stopped going.
Now she wished she could ask Daddy for advice about Richard, but at the same moment she knew what he’d say: that crude aphorism about not shitting where you eat. Thinking of him now made her ache. How could she still miss him so much after all these years? She realized she was just staring at the television. She got up, picked up the wine bottle and glasses and walked into the kitchen.
