3
The market was down four hundred and sixty-five points and it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. Pandemonium ruled the investment offices of Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir. Phones were ringing so regularly that junior executives couldn’t keep up with the volume of calls. Account representatives wore anxious looks as they pleaded with account holders to weather the storm and hold on to their stocks. Days like this had ruined hundreds of firms in the past, and everybody in the room knew it. The lives and financial futures of countless wives, children, mistresses, bartenders, bookies and drug dealers hung in the balance and in the hands of a few desperate, fast talking young men.
From his desk Peter focused his concentration on Gerald Jankovic, a horse-faced account representative who had been hired the same week as Peter, but had moved up the company ladder at a much slower pace. Gerald was a good guy, but had a tendency to crack under the pressure. He had four children below the age of eight and a wife as unattractive as she was mean spirited. Sweat began gathering in opaque domes on his ample forehead, which, when observed in the fractional, frozen moment, appeared almost crystalline, like tiny, hemispherical pieces of quartz.
“I’m telling you, Mr. Davidson, this is not the right time to close your account with our company,” Gerald implored, his body gesturing in a twisted, almost tortured way. “What? The right time? Well, um, Mr. Davidson, there is no right time. No. What I mean is: if you look historically, the stock market always goes up over time. The worst time to get out of the market is right after a downturn like we’ve just experienced. Huh? The market crash of 1929 was a completely different event altogether sir. Well, for one thing, they didn’t have the mechanisms to shut down trading if things got out of…No, please Mr. Davidson, just listen…”
Gerald put down the phone dejectedly and ran his right hand through his dark, matted hair. He looked at Peter. “The guy just hung up. What do I do?”
“I guess you close his account,” Peter replied.
“How many times have I told you,” J.B. Richardson, the in-house manager, bellowed from across the room “that you never let a client dictate the terms of the conversation?”
Gerald stared at Peter, then at Richardson. Somehow he held onto the mistaken hope that he was not the intended recipient of this verbal salvo.
“I’m talking to you, Jankovic, you fucking dimwit!”
Gerald opened his mouth to respond, but nothing other than a few feeble stammers came out. Richardson crossed the floor like he was going to punch Gerald, his face red, his breathing heavy.
Peter whispered, “Psst, he was listening to your call” – a common occurrence at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir. Upper management believed in a Gestapoesque monitoring of company employees, a tactic used to instill fear, thereby contributing immensely toward quality control. At least, this was how the partners felt about the practice. Peter knew that they still listened in on his calls from time to time, despite his advanced position at the firm. There were numerous other indignities which he fortunately avoided, but clandestine surveillance was not one of them.
“Give me one reason, Jankovic, why I shouldn’t fire your stupid ass right here and now,” Richardson screamed, spit flying from his mouth, his nose three inches from Gerald’s, his index finger planted in the center of his employee’s chest.
“I…I…uh.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“I work hard, sir. I put in the hours…”
Richardson pulled back and took a few deep breaths. He appeared to calm down.
“Is that all you’ve got for me?”
“I’ll do better, sir. This is a bad day. I’ll improve.”
“You’re fired. Pack up your shit right now and leave this building. You’re worthless and you know it. We haven’t the time, space or oxygen for you here.”
Gerald stared into his boss’ eyes, dumbfounded.
“Did you hear me? Asshole! Pack your shit up. You no longer work here.”
“Sir, I have a family. Don’t do this to me. Not now.”
“You should have thought of them before you lost that client,” he retorted. And with that the tyrant turned his back and walked calmly to his office on the opposite side of the room and closed the door.
***
Peter felt sick and wanted to get high. He found Jimmy the security guard behind his desk on the ground floor, staring absentmindedly into space. It must be a painfully boring job, he thought to himself. But nothing could be as dehumanizing as the scene he had witnessed only minutes before. Jimmy greeted him in his usual spirited manner.
“What’s up Mr. C? How’s things in the world of high finance?”
“Worse than usual. The market is tanking. I was hoping we could take one of our little trips to the roof today.”
A grin came across the boyish face. “I was just thinking I could use a little toke,” he whispered. “Give me a minute and we’ll head up.”
The pair got out on the thirty-fifth floor and took the stairs the rest of the way. Upon emerging from the confines of the building, Peter was almost immediately filled with a feeling of relief. It was the perfect San Francisco day: crisp and clear, a few clouds moving lazily through the sky, the bay shimmering in the distance, dotted here and there with cargo vessels, tankers and sailboats out for a weekday pleasure cruise.
The investment consultant pulled out a pack of Marlboros and withdrew a thin joint from between two cigarettes. It lit easily and burned quickly, the marijuana being particularly dry. He passed it to Jimmy, who took a couple of light hits and passed it back. The joint didn’t last very long, only a few rips each, but it was more than enough for a midday session. Soon the two of them were quite stoned and staring silently into the distance.
The downtown looked alive, especially from such a detached height. Below tiny, well dressed men and women emerged from the magnificent buildings and hustled to and fro, escaping for that brief moment their servitude to the lords of the office. Above, on the façade of one building, a series of upright angels looked north over the city. On another, stone gargoyles squatted on their haunches, many of them apparently laughing at some unknown and eternal joke. Imitation gothic spires, a watered down approximation of the architecture of a more inspired time, rose almost majestically toward heaven on yet another. The sun reflected off a thousand windows, a kaleidoscope of light and color. For a hundred years it had been this way in basically this very spot. The fashions changed, a few new buildings went up, the people grew older, retired to their suburban homes, died and were replaced by a new generation. But ultimately nothing was altered. For Peter this thought was comforting.
“Hey, thanks for the weed,” Jimmy said quietly.
“Don’t mention it.”
“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Coming up here, just for a little while. I’d do it even if we didn’t smoke out.”
Upon hearing these words, Peter felt a rush of emotion. He looked his companion straight in the eye. “It’s the only thing I’ve done all day that has any meaning whatsoever.” He patted the security guard on the shoulder. “You’re the only person in this building I really respect.”
Jimmy stared back, saying nothing. He looked a little confused.
When he returned to his desk, Peter saw that the light on line four was flashing. A feeling of dread came over him, an ever-ready companion, especially at work. To his coworkers he was the golden boy, the guy who could talk his way through anything. And although in a way this was at least partially true, he didn’t really believe it. In his head there was a man nobody knew, an anxious little soul who only wanted to fly away. A deep breath and a private reminder to put on a good show preceded his answering the call.
“This is Castellano,” he said, wishing he was still floating in the clouds above the city.
“It’s about time you answered my call,” a voice on the other end barked.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“Son, you are speaking to Bill Goodpasture. And I’ve got one hell of a lotta money tied up with your firm.”
The man wasn’t lying. William Goodpasture was the fifth largest account holder at Dunlop, Doskocil and Weir, having under management over one hundred and thirty three million dollars in securities, earning for the firm every year, regardless of profit or loss, one million three hundred and thirty thousand dollars. He was the single biggest account holder not personally represented by one of the named partners, a sign of the confidence the company had in Peter’s abilities.
Goodpasture was born into money, his father having been a successful Texas oil man. But the old timer had taught him well: he was no fool with money. In twenty years he had turned a ten million dollar inheritance into over a one billion dollar real estate empire, stretching from the central Texas plains, north to Oklahoma, and west through New Mexico, Arizona and Southern California. And his personality was almost as big as his bankroll. Part sophisticate, part redneck Bubba, you could find him hunting elk and pounding Budweiser on one of his many spreads one day and drinking fifteen hundred dollar a bottle Bordeaux in an exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant the next. Adventurer, tycoon, blowhard, gentleman, hick: all these words appropriately described the man depending on the moment in time one encountered him. But in this instance he was simply pissed off.
“Son, my portfolio is down fourteen percent today. Do you know how much money that is?”
“Of course I do, Mr. Goodpasture. You are my most important client.”
“Really? Then why the hell was I put on hold for ten minutes?”
“To be perfectly honest sir, I was sitting on the can,” he lied.
“Boy, are you tellin’ me you were takin’ a shit?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Do you realize how much that shit cost me?”
“Several hundred thousand dollars, sir.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. Ain’t no time for shittin’ when it’s my money goin’ down the toilet.”
“I understand your frustration, sir, I truly do. But what’s done is done. How can I help you now?”
“Are you takin’ a tone with me, boy?”
“I’m trying to serve you, to resolve your problems with my company. If I’m brusque, it’s only because I want to find a solution immediately.”
Goodpasture sighed. “You’re a good kid, Peter. You’ve always been all right in my book. But this shit has to stop now. The market is goin’ to hell and I can’t take any more losses. I want you to liquidate my account as fast as possible and terminate my relationship with your firm. Times up.”
“With all due respect, sir, you’d have to be an idiot to get out now.”
With these words, the door to J.B. Richardson’s office flew open and he came running across the room toward Peter’s desk, a look of utter disbelief on his face. He had been listening in. He gestured for Peter to end the conversation by using the familiar slash across the throat motion. Peter extended his middle finger as way of reply, only further enraging the man who was technically – but not in any significant sense – his direct superior. But one thing was now for sure: the result of this conversation would determine Peter’s future at the firm. Strangely, this prospect held no anxiety for him. Actually, it gave him a sense of absolute relief and freedom of action.
“Who the hell are you to be tellin’ me what I should be doin’ with my money?” Goodpasture asked. “I’ve made more in the last five years than you’re gonna see if you lived two lifetimes.”
“I’m not disputing that, sir. But I know more about the market than you do, despite your infinitely greater wealth. I’m an expert in this field like you’re an expert in yours. And I am telling you that this market has bottomed out. Only fools drop out at the bottom: men dominated by fear. And we both know that you are not one of those men. That’s why you’re going to remain with my company. Because we’re winners; I’m a winner, and you know it. Honestly, I think you should drop another fifty million into your account immediately. You’ll make a killing.”
Laughter erupted from the other end of the phone. “You’re crazier than I thought you were. But you got balls, son; I’ve got to give you that. Today is Tuesday: you got till market close Friday to turn this thing around. It’s probably gonna cost me an extra ten million, but what the hell. I need another tax write off anyway.”
Peter hung up the phone and reclined in his chair. He didn’t say a word.
“Well,” Richardson asked, his eyes bugging out of their sockets.
“Well what?” Peter replied obnoxiously.
“Don’t fuck with me. Not now. You may be number one around here but I still have a say in…”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Peter said with a wave of his hand. “Assuming things improve this week. And even if they don’t, I’ll find a way to keep him around.”
“Jesus Christ,” J.B. said, his torso slumping with relief inside the armor of his heavily starched shirt. “If we had lost that account it would have been curtains for both of us. I can’t believe you called him an idiot. But you really pulled it off, man: I’ve got to give it to you. Way to go.”
“Whatever,” Peter replied, disgusted. “If he’d left us you would have run off to the partners and demanded my ass. You’re no friend of mine. And don’t think I’m not perfectly aware of that fact.”
“Hey, let’s not make this a thing. You know as well as I do that this business is all about results. Money talks and bullshit walks, right?”
“Then why don’t you start walking,” Peter retorted. “I’ve got work to do.”
