Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “It ain’t about nothing. I just screwed up on some ticket writing’s all.”

  Peter shoved Stuart, who seemed in no hurry to get out of Muller’s office. Once the door finally shut behind them, Stuart put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll take this as a down payment on all I’ve done for you. I’ve got a surprise.”

  “No thanks. This is surprise enough for one day.”

  Unfazed, Stuart said, “Once I finish rewriting these tickets, I’m taking you out to meet a couple of old friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Not who, but what.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  “Those spread-legged spinners from Gordon, Ashe are back in town, and Aimie St. Claire has cleared out the entire weekend for you—told her husband she had a convention to go to.”

  Just then, Howard Muller entered the trading room. His head bounced above the turrets as he strode towards where they stood, ten feet outside his office. A couple moments earlier and no fan would have been big enough to handle all the shit flying their way.

  Peter shook his head just as Muller shouted, “Numbnuts. Get those trades and reconciliations to my office.”

  “Better hop, dude. I’ll bring the girls by your place later.”

  “Don’t,” Peter said. “I won’t be there.” The image of ferocious animal sex with Aimie St. Claire made his heart race, but it also caused his stomach to turn. “I repeat, Stu. Don’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Peter went back to work, finishing his own paperwork. “If I’d known what he was up to,” he told himself, “I wouldn’t have helped.”

  A few hours later, Peter sat in front of one empty and one full cocktail glass. He would stay out all night if that’s what it took to avoid another interlude with the married woman, Aimie St. Claire.

  Billy Graham once said that the best way not to give in to temptation was to avoid being in the same room, alone, with a woman.

  Old Billy gave sage advice, Peter decided, continuing to sip in solitude.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SPORTS BAR HAD TELEVISIONS HANGING FROM EVERY ANGLE. A wall-to-wall mirror framed the shelves of liquor bottles, giving the appearance that the space—about the size of a high school basketball arena—was even larger. Six bartenders roamed behind a fifty-foot alley, serving as a watering hole for one-hundred thirsty bodies, all of whom mingled, sat, yelled, and cursed to the sounds of the main football game playing on a six-foot screen mounted in the center of the room.

  Peter pretended to watch a different game playing on a thirty-inch, ten feet away. He sipped a double Jack with a splash of water, tasting nothing, still waiting for the numbing effects to take hold. Potato skins, filled with petrified cheese and undercooked bacon, sat uneaten in the center of his round table. From his corner location, Peter shifted his attention to the singles scene: at least three men for every woman, everybody working to get drunk, happy that the workweek had ended and the weekend party had begun. The waitresses all wore short, green, strapless dresses slung low in front, and exposing crimped breasts. Best of all, Peter thought, the place had a decibel level sufficiently high to make thinking optional, or impossible.

  Peter checked his watch: 7:30. This promised to be a long night. Peter envisioned Stuart and the two Gordon, Ashettes hovering, waiting to descend on him when he arrived home. Stuart even had a key to Peter’s condo. They might be sitting in his living room, drinking his wine, watching his new television, while Aimie St. Claire stroked Henry’s fur. Maybe they had moved to his bedroom, doing God knows what.

  With peripheral vision, he vaguely noticed a woman coming from the restroom to his left. Although something struck him as familiar, he didn’t turn until she stopped at his table. “Mr. Neil?” she said.

  It hit him immediately. This was the girl who flirted with him that first day at Stenman Partners, who led him from the shrink’s office to the trading room door, and who said, “Call if you need anything.”

  “My, God!” she now said with an excited voice. “What luck, finding you here. You never called.” She gave him a look that left no room for anyone or anything else.

  “No, I, uh, I forgot your extension,” he lied, forcing a corner of his mouth to turn up.

  “Twenty-two, but no longer my age. I’m twenty-three now. Maybe I need to change my extension to twenty-three.”

  “Yeah. Good idea.” Peter partially ignored her, paying closer attention instead to a small man in a brown suit, moving in his direction, and staring at him through horn-rimmed glasses. When the man got within twenty feet, he stopped, went into an at-ease stance, and waited.

  “Maybe you and I could have a drink,” the girl said. “I don’t know if you caught on, but I hoped you might ask me out. I hear you’re doing real good on the trading floor.”

  Peter had ceased listening. The bone-thin man looked practically vaudevillian, except for his eyes—they were lasers, intense and unyielding, magnified behind thick lenses. Peter decided he had better find out what this guy thought he needed.

  “Sorry, uh . . . I forgot your name.” Peter kept an eye on the brown suit while he spoke.

  “Katrina. You can call me Kat. Purrrr . . .” She raised her hands and hung her nails like a cat. She then ran her tongue over her upper lip.

  “Kat. That’s cute. Listen, I’d love to buy you a drink and all, but that guy standing behind you? He’s meeting me.”

  “Bad luck. If I don’t hear from you, Mr. Neil, I might just call.”

  Peter didn’t watch her leave. Instead, he looked to the mysterious man.

  With his hands folded on the table, Peter said, “Your turn, Bub. Whatever you’re up to, I hope it has nothing to do with wanting to seduce me.”

  “Who was that?” Dawson asked, referring to Katrina.

  Peter wore a blank expression. “Let’s start with who are you, and what do you want?”

  The small man chose not to sit. With his back to the rest of the bar, he leaned in, his voice sounding urgent. “I work for the Enforcement Division at the SEC. Name’s Dawson.”

  “You have some I. D.?”

  “First,” said Dawson, subtly using his head to indicate Katrina, “does she work at either Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers or Stenman Partners? Or was she just a casual pickup?”

  “I asked for I. D.”

  The man reached into his shirt pocket and produced identification. He cupped the tag in his palm, shielding it from any other eyes.

  “Okay. Assuming your identification is real and you didn’t make it at Kinko’s, since when does the SEC do business in barrooms? Am I under some kind of investigation?”

  “Look over my shoulder. Is silky thighs still staring at you?”

  Peter looked, but didn’t answer the question. “I asked if I’m under some kind of investigation? I assume this isn’t normal operating procedure.”

  “No. You’re not under investigation.”

  “Good. Then how about enlightening me as to what this is all about.”

  “My interest in you was prompted by your mother.”

  “My mother’s dead.”

  “You know Sammy’s Restaurant? A half mile down the beach?”

  Peter’s expression indicated he did.

  “I understand you ran track in college,” Dawson said.

  “You have a point?”

  “After I split, order another drink. Make it look like you’re camped here for the night. Go to the men’s room. Use the back exit, but don’t let anyone see you. Take your athlete’s legs south on the railroad track path to Sammy’s—nobody’ll be able to follow you.”

  “You bring up my mother and then expect me to follow—”

  “If anyone asks”—Dawson spoke so quietly that Peter had difficulty hearing him—“you tell ’em you told me to shove it. Here. Take these insurance brochures. Tell ’em I was a salesman who recognized you from a previous pitch.”

  Peter pushed the life insurance materials away
.

  “I’ll wait at Sammy’s for an hour,” Dawson said

  The agent left, shaking his head, playing the part of a scorned salesman. On the way out, he handed several strangers insurance brochures.

  Raising a hand, Peter caught the attention of the waitress. When she came, he said, “Another round, please. And by the way, I’ve got to hit the head and make a call. Hold my table. I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes. Here. Take my Gold Card. Run a tab. See the cute blond over by the bar?”

  “Sure do, sweetie,” the waitress said with a wink. “She’s been ogling you, hasn’t she?” The waitress also ogled.

  “Yeah. Chill a bottle of DP. In a couple of minutes, pop the cork and tell her I had to go to the head and make a call, but pour her some of the bubbly and ask her to wait.”

  Peter handed the waitress a twenty. “Thanks,” they said in unison.

  He shuffled to the restroom, found the rear exit, and constructed a timetable for completing his next annoying task. A mid four-minute miler in college, he figured he could run the half-mile to Sammy’s in under three minutes, even in Top Siders. With the cool air, he might not even work up a sweat. Allowing for five minutes to find out what Dawson wanted, three minutes back, and a few minutes slippage time, he’d be sipping champagne with Katrina—Kat—in fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. Not too long for a piss and a phone call.

  A minute later, Peter felt the uneven gravel under his pounding feet. He knew pace, and this was just as he predicted: roughly a six-minute mile. He could do better, but at night, with a railroad track flanking his right side, and the festering thought that this was insane, he remained content to cruise.

  Peter had last been to Sammy’s with Kate Ayers. Spotting the restaurant lights, he thought about what had happened between them these last few months. Since she left in July, things had degenerated, and he blamed himself. They spoke every so often at first. But then Kate had invited him up to LA to attend a party, and he claimed that work kept him too busy to travel. Why, he asked himself, did he have such a hard time dealing with serious feelings? Countless times he had decided to call, invite her to visit, talk things over, but each time he failed to follow through. No wonder she quit taking the initiative.

  At the edge of Sammy’s parking lot, he committed to making contact with her, tomorrow. He’d go see her. They’d go back to being friends, maybe more.

  Catching his breath as he passed parked cars, Peter did a quick survey of the area. The valets milled around and joked with one another, having little else to occupy their time. With a picture window fronting three miles of beach, Sammy’s did gangbuster tourist business in the summer months, but not much in the off-season. This time of year, the bar and restaurant had only locals as patrons, and not many of them at that. Across the darkened bar, Peter spotted Dawson, perched at a rear table, sipping a Coke, and showing no surprise that Peter had arrived so soon.

  Peter wove his way through the tables, looking side to side, making certain nobody recognized him. When he got to Dawson’s table, he said, “I only came because you’re SEC. Since you already said I wasn’t under any kind of investigation, how about we cut through the bull and you get to your point? I’d like to go back to enjoying my weekend.”

  “Mr. Neil, my full name is Oliver Dawson. Have you heard of me?”

  “Dawson?” As Peter said the name out loud, a memory began to assemble. “Agent Dawson. Yeah. You’re the one who tried to nail Stenman over her T-bond trades.”

  “That’s right. I tried and unfortunately failed.”

  “If you’re here about that Treasury investigation, I wasn’t even employed at Stenman back then. But I’ve been briefed about it, and told not to say anything to you or your department without an attorney being present.”

  “What do you know about the T-auction?” Dawson asked.

  “I know your case got tossed because it had no merit.” Peter immediately regretted saying anything.

  “No merit? Let me educate you, Mr. Neil.”

  “No thanks. Is there anything else of relevance? If so, I suggest you contact Jason Ayers at Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers.”

  “This is not about the damn Treasury case,” the agent said. “Sit down and listen. Your life may depend on it.”

  “My life? Give me a break.” Despite his skepticism, Peter leaned forward.

  “Since you brought it up, let’s start with the Treasury situation. Stenman and her CIO, Howard Muller—in league with several New York investment banks and other scumbag hedge funds—cornered an auction. They squeezed the shorts working an arbitrage against the futures market. You understand how that works?”

  “More or less,” Peter said. “But so what? Those are the risks—”

  “Not if there is manipulation, collusion, failure to make appropriate regulatory disclosure.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of that.” And, Peter thought, I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.

  Dawson ignored Peter’s remark. “We had a case against Stenman until two things got in our way. One: the SEC didn’t want to disgrace two of the most powerful investment banking firms in New York that had participated with Stenman. They were afraid a scandal of this magnitude might disrupt the markets. Or maybe some powerful people pulled some political strings. Or maybe both. Two: everybody and their brother refused to cooperate. Documents couldn’t be found. Phone tapes were garbled. Kind of like the Nixon Watergate situation.”

  “And your own department forced you to drop the case,” Peter said. “That’s pretty much the end of that story. Unless you have something more interesting to tell me, I need to get back before I’m missed.”

  “If you’re not worried, then why the need to rush back?”

  Peter did a double-take. He did sound high-strung. Why was he so worried? Without time to think, he came up with the best explanation he could manage: “Because . . . nobody’s gonna be happy I’m talking to a guy who’s spent so much time going after investors just because they’re successful.”

  “Even if you won’t admit it to me, you’ve seen enough in your job to know things.”

  “Don’t tell me what I do or do not know. I have no interest in making an enemy of you, but I cannot—will not—help you.” Peter stood and prepared to leave. “This is pointless—”

  “Two more minutes.” Dawson reached across and grabbed Peter’s hand.

  Peter pulled his hand away. “I told you: go see our attorneys.”

  “Your mother sent me some documents, a few weeks before she died.”

  The words hit bull’s-eye and Peter sat back down, drawing a skeptical bead on Dawson.

  The agent continued: “The papers came anonymously. It took me until this week to track down who sent them. That person was Hannah Neil.”

  Peter put his palms on the table and leaned his upper body on his rigid arms. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I traced the paper to her law firm—also Stenman Partners’ law firm—the firm you keep telling me to contact. We lifted fingerprints from the letter she sent to my attention. I had them matched with all the employees, but came up empty.”

  “Empty? What’s your point?”

  “Think about it. I got no matches because your mother is dead. I couldn’t figure it out at first. Then, I checked a list of employees from April. The name Hannah Neil, deceased, jumped at me. It took a while—since nobody at her law firm had any interest in cooperating—but we finally got a match.”

  “What was on those pages?”

  “Information implicating a couple of clients of Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers in fraud, manipulation, pumping and dumping.” Dawson hesitated to let the revelation sink in, then continued. “Jackson Securities. Man by the name of Cannodine and another by the name of Drucker. I’m sure you remember them both.”

  Peter sat up, thinking back to that final morning with his mother. These revelations fit with her anxiety over certain clients. “You’re suggesting what?” Peter asked.

&nb
sp; “Did your mother say or leave you anything?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? Maybe she gave you an envelope. Even someone else’s name—a contact.”

  “My mother was upset the day she died, and maybe what you’re telling me has something to do with that. But she didn’t say much of anything. There were no documents, no names.”

  Peter didn’t know how to react to this strange man. By people he worked with, he’d been told not to trust Dawson. His ignorance felt like a blessing.

  “Here’s my card,” Dawson said, sliding it across the table. “If anything turns up, call. Who knows? One day you might need me as a friend.”

  “I won’t need this,” Peter said. “I already told you: I don’t have any information.”

  “You never know. Something may—”

  “Nothing’s going to show up. Goodbye, Agent Dawson.”

  “I’m not going to be far away, Peter. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll eventually come calling. Without someone on the inside, or additional papers from your mother, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  The words “go to hell” popped into and out of Peter’s head. “You make that sound like some kind of threat,” he said.

  “I’m not the one you need to be afraid of. I told you about Cannodine. This Zerets person took out a dozen others in that little massacre. Then there’s your mother and that money manager, Stanley Drucker. People are ending up dead, which means somebody’s playing for keeps. In a way, you’re lucky. Since you don’t have much family, you’re a tougher nut to crack than the others. They’ll go after your friends if they need to, but family—for them, that’s the best leverage.”

  Peter tried and failed to control his mounting anger. “Who are you after? Leeman, Johnston, Ayers? Maybe Morgan Stenman? Some other hedge funds? Who? And why?”

  Dawson’s flattened palm slammed on the table. “Isn’t it obvious? The bad guys. And that’s bad in capital letters.”

  Dawson took a swig of cola. The pause had no effect on his passion. “Originally the bastards were just plain old crooks,” he continued with mounting zeal, “bending laws, trading off inside information. You know, doing all that stuff everybody knows is rampant—stuff we wink at in the locker rooms of our swank country clubs before a round of golf. Well, Mr. Great Expectations, I don’t play fucking golf, and these guys I’m chasing aren’t doing garden-variety lawbreaking any more. They’ve gone big-time on me. Financial titans have married their operations with thugs, using the time-proven tactics of intimidation, elimination, deterrence. Call it whatever you want. And like it or not, you’re the man who’s smack dab in the middle of it all. And that’s likely to make being stuck between a rock and a hard place look like Fiji.”