We apologize for being late, then I give Jennifer a kiss, Jennifer and Susan kiss, and Rich takes advantage of the pleasantries to try to score a kiss on the lips with Susan (which she successfully evades). I take note of Jennifer’s new body—it has been honed and shaped by spinning classes and Pilates into a rock-hard leanness that teeters on the verge of masculinity. The excessive athleticism has introduced an asexual coarseness to her face. Too bad; she used to be among the most attractive of my friends’ wives.
Rich makes a sweeping gesture toward the French doors. “The bartender’s got a bottle of Grey Goose with your name on it, kimosabe.”
“Let’s have at it,” I say.
Honeywell directs us to the open-air patio overlooking an exquisitely manicured backyard of Kentucky bluegrass—an emerald carpet gleaming under a full moon. Predictably, Susan and I peel off in different directions. It will be this way for the entire night, but I’m cool with that. The blast of communal energy from the party lifts my spirits.
At the bar, a pimply-faced Greenwich High School kid gives me a double shot of Grey Goose on the rocks. Duly fortified, I meld into a nearby amoeba of acquaintances. They interrupt their debate about Robert Trent Jones golf courses to slap my back, shake my hand, and high-five me.
“I was just saying,” Ford Spilsbury says, “that the Lido course on Long Beach is as close to eighteen-hole nirvana as you’re ever going to get. The sixteenth hole is the ultimate par five, and you have an eagle opportunity if you can survive the double-water carry.”
The five of them—Spilsbury, Foster, Brightman, O’Clair, and Cantwell—are clubhouse friends, and, like me, they are all Wall Street jerks: bankers and brokers and traders and lawyers. The Ivy League degrees on this patio cost millions in tuition dollars, but they were worth every penny. The diplomas our parents bought for us are a license to steal. Collectively, we siphon off a disproportionate chunk of the country’s GNP, and trundle it north to our trophy wives in Greenwich. We buy expensive cars and homes and boats and pools, and go on obscenely expensive vacations, all of which is meant to inform everyone just how much we’re taking out of the American economy for ourselves. Our nine-year-olds are infected with this zombie-like consumerism, and are as tragically conversant with the iconic symbolism of Tiffany and BMW and Prada as their parents. We confuse wealth with class; we think they are synonymous, when they most assuredly are not. Inevitably, we will pass the former on to our children, but not the latter.
In this particular fishbowl, we wrap ourselves in an aura of effortlessness. We are expert at concealing the fears that haunt us at 3:00 in the morning: the TMJ-inducing toll our careers take on our stomachs and our mental health; the slow decay of our marriages; the warning signs that our children might not end up at an Ivy League university; the velocity at which our spending is outpacing our income. We hide behind the breezy accomplishment of breaking eighty on the course at the Stanwich Club, pretending everything is right in the world when we’ve come to know that the pursuit of this life is a cancer to the soul. I gaze up at the moon in the star-studded sky and heave a sigh. Maybe my spirits aren’t so lifted after all.
I’m mildly surprised to find my glass is empty. I break away from the group for a refill. As I’m waiting at the bar, a call lights up my cell phone. I flip it open. “This is Barston.”
On the other end an uncertain pause, then a soft fumble of the handset. A hand slips over the mouthpiece. Heated whispers, shushing, and the musical laughter of drunken young girls—a live feed directly from Fiona’s piss-up at Greenwich Point Beach.
I say nothing, just listen. More giggles and whispers, all unintelligible. Her nanny friends put her up to this, I realize, and it is juvenile, immature—a slumber party prank, for chrissakes—and then, the act of chickening out; the curt click of the line going dead. I’m staring at my phone, waiting for … I don’t know what.
I’m jolted from my reverie by the underage barkeep holding out my replenished drink. I take a greedy slurp, my temples throbbing with the pulse of curiosity over this au pair Lollapalooza taking place just a few miles away.
The night wears on, booze is consumed in disturbingly large quantities, and the conversation becomes edgy. The subject matter is friendship, fidelity, and minding your own damn business. Would you tell a friend if you knew his wife was cheating? Foster says, “No fucking way, it’s not my business.” Cantwell says, “Of it’s your business. It’s your buddy.”
Foster: “I can’t be the one to tell him something like that. It’s too … heavy, man. I’d be ruining his life.”
Rob Brightman chimes in: “So you’d keep it to yourself? How would you sleep at night?”
O’Clair says: “I get Foster’s point. Why is it his responsibility to break the news that the wife is banging the tennis instructor?”
I jump in. “He’s your best friend, Chris, that’s why. You couldn’t look him in the eye at a party like this if you knew his wife was being unfaithful. You’re duty-bound to tell him, and let him take the appropriate course of action. Case closed.”
The passion with which I deliver this point brings the debate to an abrupt end.
Brightman breaks the uncomfortable silence: “So any of you assholes have something to tell me?” The group explodes in laughter. Everyone, that is, but Ford Spilsbury, who has kept conspicuously out of the conversation.
Forty-five minutes later, when a preoccupied Spilsbury quietly approaches me during the Chicken Kiev dinner and asks to speak to me alone, I feel my stomach knot. I somehow know what’s coming.
“I heard what you said on the patio,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “About friends.”
I nod.
Spilsbury almost whispers it. “I think I’m the kind of guy who would tell a friend about that.”
“You have something to tell me, Ford?” I reply, my voice warbling. But I already know he does.
Friday evening has segued somehow into Saturday morning. Newly armed with the knowledge that my wife has been having an affair for the last six months with her college friend’s husband, I plunge through the darkness of the Backcountry, heading to the other side of the looking glass. I recognize this quest can only end badly—scandal, ruination, utter self-destruction—but it no longer matters. I’m powerless to stop the forces that have overtaken me.
A fantasy torments me: I arrive at the beach and she spies me … She pulls away from her friends and comes so close that I can feel her breath on my cheek. “I knew you’d come.” She locks up my eyes in hers as she says this, a note of triumph in her voice. She is such eye candy, I can barely contain myself. We are intoxicated—ot just by alcohol, but by the electric danger of being so close. I spirit her away to a secluded beach at the ass-end of Sound Beach Avenue. With the languid hiss of low tide in our ears, the au pair steps forward. She kisses my neck, puts her hot hands up my shirt. I grab her apple-bottom ass and pull her toward me. She responds with a tongue-loaded kiss. I can taste the salt on her skin and smell the soap in her hair.
This is going to happen, I convince myself. This is redemption. This is revenge. This is justice.
I punch the accelerator and push on toward Greenwich Point Beach.
I arrive within minutes, and the scene is surreal. Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba” throbs in the background, and yet the Nanny’s Ball has come to an undignified end. Five Greenwich police cars have pinned down at least a hundred stoned kids, all tongue-studded, belly-ringed, lip-pierced, and tattooed. Blinding blue-and-red strobes light the beach in psychedelic hues, and the squawk of the radio dispatcher says backup is on the way. The acrid smell of pot is heavy in the salt air. Six half-naked, soaking-wet party animals are led by in cuffs. I’m numbed by the commotion, but amidst the crowd, I see the object of my desire. Fiona Ranieri’s au pair is in the epicenter of this frenetic scene, crying her eyes out. She looks scared and vulnerable and … oh, so incredibly young
I swing the Aston Martin into a dark corner of the parking lot and kill the headlights. I do
n’t take my eyes off Fiona’s face as I begin to formulate a daring rescue mission. How far away is she? Thirty yards? Forty? I could edge up on the far side of the crowd, grab her by the arm … then a short sprint back to my car, and we’re home free. I can almost hear the sweet relief in her voice. “I knew you’d come.”
I open my car door and step out. And nearly fall.
Just then I realize how intoxicated I am. My head is swimming in Grey Goose, my legs are jelly, and I’m now bathed in a panic-induced sweat. I climb back in my seat and grip the wheel. Static blasts from a nearby police radio, and I jump. I can’t make out the words, but when I squeeze my eyes shut, they become clearer. The words are my own:
Where you going with this, Barston? You put yourself in the middle of this—to what end? So you can wind up in the police blotter for DUI and God knows what else? And for what—some chick who chatted you up in the bar car for less than an hour? This is your grand plan to get back at Ranieri—fucking his nanny?
Another squawk of static and I realize it’s coming from the radio of a Greenwich cop glaring my way. As he strides toward my car, I fumble the door closed. The cops is shouting something, but somehow I get the vehicle in gear and kick up a cloud of sand, which I pray obscures my license plate.
Miles from the beach, I pull over. I’m sweat-soaked and shaking, and I rest my head on the steering wheel and gasp for breath. And suddenly I’m pounding the dash in fury and self-loathing.
What were you thinking, you pathetic, sorry-ass sonuvabitch?
It’s nearly dawn when I get home and stumble to the front door. On the third attempt, I jam the key into the lock. At first I don’t see the white envelope propped up against the door, and I kick it across the foyer. I stagger toward the stairs and almost leave it there on the Kashan rug, but something catches my eye and pierces the alcoholic fog around my brain: the Fischer Brothers logo.
I have to sit to retrieve the envelope, but I manage. Crosslegged on the floor, I thumb-wrestle it open and look inside. And I know instantly.
It’s nothing short of a miracle: the last-ditch Hail Mary pass thrown desperately with seconds to go, the game-winning homer in the bottom of the ninth, the sudden-death eagle on the eighteenth hole at the Masters—impossible victory from certain defeat. It is the life preserver that will save me from going under for the last time, that will save me from myself.
“Terri,” I whisper reverentially, the papers trembling in my hands. I say my loyal assistant’s name over and over.
I enter Ranieri’s glassed-in corner office on Monday morning, and I am ready to bite the ass off a bear. For his part, my enemy is bouncing a blue rubber stress ball off the windowed wall. He receives me exuberantly.
“Happy Monday, Sparky. How was the weekend?” He resumes throwing the ball against the glass.
“Must you do that?” I ask pointedly.
“You mean this?” He sidearms the ball again and smirks. “Why? Does it bother you?” I decline to engage in this lame banter, and silence prevails.
Moments later, Brian Horgan arrives with my thick personnel file. Sauntering in right behind him is Senior Managing Director Ian Becker. Becker is Ranieri’s ultimate boss, and mine too—here to see that I’m officially terminated, and that the empire I’ve created is handed over seamlessly to his Harvard roommate.
“Guess this is show time,” Ranieri says. We lock eyes for a moment and he quickly looks away, shoving the door closed. He ceremoniously circles back to his chair, slouching into an elaborately casual posture. “Let’s pick up where we left off on Friday. Ian, you care to kick things off?”
Becker clears his throat and speaks in an authoritative British baritone. “Let me start by saying we commend you for the contribution you’ve made to this firm. You’ve gotten us off to a respectable start, a decent standing in the league tables. But, candidly, you’ve developed something of a reputation for not being a team player, especially when it comes to matters involving your co-head. So, it’s the consensus of senior management that we need to have a single focal point for the future of the business. Regrettably, that means that one of the two co-heads needs to move on. It’s nothing personal, Mark, but—”
“Not true, Ian. It absolutely is personal.”
“If that’s how you feel about it, then fine.”
“That’s exactly how I feel about it. As for my people, let the record show that they consider Ranieri to be a rodent-faced, backstabbing, Mickey Mouse amateur who will crash this business into the ground within a year. By which time they’ll be poached away by our competitors.”
Ranieri’s eyebrows climb his forehead in offense, but he holds his tongue in check.
Becker’s face softens in saccharine compassion. “Be that as it may, Mark, you should know that there will be a formal announcement about a restructuring shortly, possibly as early as Wednesday. I’m working to find a proper place for someone with your skill set, but we’ve got headcount pressures from upstairs. If these efforts fail, well, we’re committed to ensure proper protocol is followed with regard to your termination. We’ve all pushed hard to be fair—no, to go way beyond being merely fair—and we’re—”
I yawn theatrically.
Becker draws back in outrage. “Am I boring you?”
“Matter of fact, yes, you are. Even worse, you’re wasting my time.”
Becker sputters, furious at this insubordination, when a sharp rap sounds at the door. The cavalry has arrived, and right on time. All heads turn as David Rosenman, the firm’s Associate General Counsel, opens the door and leans in.
“Ian, I need to see you,” he says.
Ian Becker is annoyed by the disruption. “We should be done here in about fifteen minutes, David. Can we circle up at 8:15 a.m.?”
“It wasn’t a request, Ian,” Rosenman says sternly. “Step out of this meeting now.”
Becker is puzzled, but there’s no mistaking the serious-ness in Rosenman’s voice. He mumbles something under his breath, rises from his chair, and disappears around a corner with Rosenman.
“What the hell was that about?” Ranieri says to no one in particular.
“Oh, that?” I say. I produce a cigar from my jacket pock t and light it. “That would be about the Eagles Mere III CDO. The ‘kitchen sink’ collateralized unit.”
Ranieri freezes, color draining from his face. The transformation is astounding: He ages ten years in an instant—exhausted, pallid, scared. He knows exactly what I’m talking about
I push on. “According to a routine compliance check on personal trading that was run over the weekend, both you and Becker have sizable positions of these Eagles Mere III units in your personal trading accounts. Sizable positions.”
“You fucking son of a bitch,” Ranieri whispers hoarsely.
“So I imagine right now Rosenman is asking Becker how it is that a security that cost him $50,000 a unit is throwing off $11,568 in interest—a month. That would be about $140,000 a year, risk free—”
“You’re going to regret this, asswipe.”
“What kind of security pays nearly three hundred percent interest a year with zero risk? I don’t know, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” I exhale a luxurious cloud of smoke. “But maybe—and this is just a theory, mind you—maybe it’s a dummy security concocted by you. And maybe—just maybe—it’s a little something you cooked up to divert hundreds of thousands of dollars a year from the firm’s institutional clients to you and your greedy-ass butt-buddy. Now, why would you do such a heinous thing? I don’t know—perhaps quid pro quo for Becker naming you to a certain co-head position in equity derivatives? It’s just a theory, of course.”
“This conversation is over.”
“You’re goddamned right it’s over!” I yell. “Sun Tzu is required reading at Hah-vahd b-school, isn’t it? You must know The Art of War by heart. A mortal enemy must be crushed completely. More is lost stopping halfway through than through total annihilation: the enemy will recover and will seek revenge. Crush h
im, both in body and spirit.”
Ranieri regards me with a superhuman loathing. He remains mute
“Hey, Brian?” I say, getting up to leave. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”
Brian Horgan is open-mouthed with awe as I shut the door.
Checkmate, motherfucker.
My head is spinning. Events have been set into motion that will be impossible to stop. There will be lawyers and compliance officers and regulators piling onto this situation in the hours, days, and weeks to come. Both Ranieri and Becker will pay an enormous personal price for fucking with my livelihood. There’s even a good shot that they will be thrown out of the industry. So be it. Kill or be killed—that’s Wall Street in its purest form, isn’t it?
As I cross the trading floor, I receive another standing ovation. Apparently, Terri Aronica has spread word of the Eagles Mere scandal among the trading floor personnel, and I am acknowledged as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. This time, though, I don’t bask in the adulation. There is little sense of accomplishment in my Machiavellian maneuver, because with this second bullet dodged comes a second epiphany: This is no victory.
I have crushed Ranieri, but his voice is playing in my head: You can postpone the inevitable only so long, Sparky. And I know he’s right. How many more Ranieris are even now lining up to take what I’ve built? How many of them are in this room, smiling and clapping for me? And if not one of them, then it will be Susan and her cadre of lawyers. How many more bullets can I dodge?
There are handshakes, back pats, light punches on the shoulder, as I make my way to my seat. The applause subsides and the normal trading room chatter rises. Random static from a speakerphone fills my ears and I think of the other night with Fiona. Even if I’d whisked her off that beach, she too would have turned on me eventually, gotten lawyers of her own, tried to pick my bones clean. Maybe it’s destiny or some law of nature: Once you’re at the top of your game, everyone becomes your enemy—rivals, friends, lawyers, lovers, superiors, subordinates. They plot and scheme and come after everything that matters to you, everything you love and care about.
Wall Street Noir Page 3
