Free Food for Millionaires (11 page)

Ted did not pay any mind to Casey’s pout. He spotted Walter nearly half a city block from the elevator and instructed her to remain there. Casey held her back erect and her shoulders square like an athlete. This was no different from all the other times she’d pretended that she wasn’t a visitor but in fact an honored guest. “Baby, when you’re scared, walk round like you own the joint,” Jay had once advised her, sounding more Trenton than Princeton. What the hell was he doing in Texas? And she wanted to know if he was thinking of her at all. She felt foolish and angry. And alone.

Ted’s gait appeared confident and his carriage loose, but she could tell how he, too, hid his determination and anxiety about his future. She was more like Ted than Ella. He tried hard, and so did she; the difference between them was that he’d already figured out what he wanted in this life—money, status, and power—and she wasn’t so sure about the things she wanted, preferring pride, control, and influence. Yet what each sought was related, much like first cousins.

Ted patted Walter on the back, and Walter looked pleased to see him. When he smiled broadly, Walter’s small eyes looked shut. The two HBS alums chatted amiably, with Ted leaning his backside against an empty desk; then, a few minutes later, Walter told the men sitting on the sales desk that Ted had brought someone to interview for the assistant job. The way they talked seemed theatrical, almost funny, and Ted raised his head to look at her, his eyes still scrutinizing. He pointed to where he’d left her, and Casey smiled at them on cue. He made no other indication, so Casey didn’t move. Then Walter waved her over, and she read his lips: “Come by.” Grateful for his invitation, she went to the men, her head down, gaze averted. Then, like a blessing, she recalled Jay’s words about acting as if you owned the joint, so she straightened her neck and looked straight ahead, trying very hard to appear more entitled.

9
WORTH

K
EVIN JENNINGS, THE ANTSY HEAD OF THE ASIAN
equities sales desk, had a rectangular face and the height and build of a former college basketball player. The Irish Catholic boy from the Bronx went to Georgetown, married a blond marathon runner, and now had a house in New Canaan, Connecticut, and three towheaded kids.

He trained his bright green eyes on the computer monitor, refusing to say good-bye to Ted Kim as he left. As a rule, he hated investment bankers, and as far as he was concerned, Ted would always be Walter Chin’s foppy friend from HBS. This was Kevin’s public sentiment: Guys who went to business school were assholes, and guys who went to HBS, bigger assholes. Walter, an American-born Chinese salesman on Kevin’s desk, was a good guy—the exceptions to Kevin’s rule of B schools in general and of HBS in particular.

Casey was directed to the empty chair between Kevin Jennings and Walter Chin. Ted had made the introductions briefly and then run off, saying he had a meeting across town. The desk head, Kevin, had snubbed Ted throughout—Casey noticed this, and in a way, his dislike of Ted went in his favor, but then she grew worried that she might be tainted by the association. After Ted left, Walter shared that Ted had been the presiding winner at HBS—the one to watch in section E. Casey nodded politely at this bit of Ted’s biography, feeling at once annoyed and impressed. She was busy watching Kevin flick the cap of his blue Paper Mate pen. Pale freckled skin stretched across his long, bony fingers. The desk head continued to study his monitor, then abruptly started talking.

“When are you available?” he asked.

“Today, even,” she replied quickly. His impatience was palpable, so she adapted her speech to follow his. This was a tactic she employed with hostile customers at Sabine’s; in her experience, fawning or placating such people did not work. The only thing that made any kind of impression on people who were easily provoked was to persuade them of your efficiency and competence.

He picked up the fax copy of her résumé and whistled at her transcript. “Hmm,” he said dismissively. “A schoolgirl, I see.”

Kevin dropped her papers beside the stapler, then returned to the conclusion of the report he was reading off the screen. He disagreed with the research analyst’s buy recommendation for the Taiwanese chip maker. Then he picked up the résumé again and turned to take a better look.

She was far too dressed up to be a sales assistant. A daddy’s girl, no doubt. Princess wouldn’t take this job seriously. Personal calls, lots of sick days—he’d seen it all before. People viewed being an assistant as a bullshit job, and it certainly paid a bullshit salary if you didn’t count the O/T, but a clerical error could screw a lot of people and cost a fortune. In the past year, he’d fired three people in six months. His boss, the head of international equities sales, told him that it was starting to make Kevin look bad as a manager. “Buddy”—he’d been pulled aside after having fired the last one—“the next one has to work out. You know? Your guys need even support.”

Hiring was a royal pain in the ass, however. Last year when he was promoted to desk head, he’d had no idea how much administrative crap came with the position. Somehow, when he was just one of the brokers, he’d been oblivious to what Owen, the prior desk head, had been doing. They used to call Owen “PT” for part-time, because he was often working from home (his gorgeous wife could not drop a teabag in boiling water, not to mention watch over their twin boys). Owen was promoted when Kevin was promoted, and he was now living in Hong Kong with a large household staff for his family. Kevin had been a phenomenal broker—one of the best institutional salesmen in the country—but as the desk head, he’d been forced to give up his biggest accounts to his guys to attend an endless cycle of management meetings. As far as he could see, these meetings made no dough for the company. He’d gone from running his own profit center to becoming a giant cost center. Instead of making his clients happy, he was now having to focus on budgets, shadow books, and safeguarding his ass from the great whites in the upper management pool.

“So, what are you doing here, exactly?” His green eyes flashed without warmth. “You really want to be a sales assistant?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.” Casey raised her eyebrows and smiled halfway.

She’d taken a risk. Kevin was amused, but he didn’t show it. “Yeah, but a girl with your grades and degree can work anywhere. ”

“But I want to work here.”

He stared her down. Without saying a word, he was asking her why.

“I’m an econ major. This would be good experience for B school.” Casey found herself lying with greater ease ever since she’d been thrown out of her parents’ house—hardship being the mother of imagination.

“B school, huh?” Kevin frowned and glanced at his computer monitor again.

Seeing his disapproval, she replied, “Maybe.”

“You know what B stands for in B school?” he asked loudly, mainly for Walter’s benefit. Without giving her a chance to reply, he proclaimed, “Bullshit.”

“Terribly original,” said the man seated opposite Kevin. His hair was mahogany colored.

Hugh Underhill, the senior salesman on the desk, winked at Casey like an ally. She blinked in surprise. In a club or a restaurant, she might have stared right back at him. He looked familiar to her. Then she realized that his coloring and features were nearly the same as those of Jay’s brother, Ethan, but this man was far more handsome—irritatingly so. Casey routinely ignored men like this, feeling in a curious way that they should not be given too much attention for their beauty.

Walter smiled at Kevin. His eyes disappeared into his gentle moon face. “Maybe Kevin should eat something. He gets so crabby when he’s hungry. Did Mom pack your lunch today?”

Walter turned to Casey. “The quality and experience of your interview will improve markedly in a few minutes. I promise.”

Kevin smirked hearing this. Walter wasn’t wrong, and Kevin checked the conference room doors, which remained shut.

Again, Casey felt grateful to Walter. He seemed so gracious and thoughtful. Whatever she’d heard about B school or HBS or the hasty opinions she’d formed from knowing Ted were challenged by Walter, who seemed so considerate and modest in contrast. His humor had disarmed Kevin effectively. Casey was rarely if ever defended by anyone, and Walter’s care made a big impression on her.

Casey wished she could find him attractive, however. When she thought about love and sex, she wanted a kind of cartoonish yellow thunderbolt to strike her—
shazam!
—to tell her that he was the one. For good or for bad, that almost never happened. As odd as this was, most of the boys she’d dated or slept with had wanted her more than she had wanted them, and their desire alone had been enough to cover her lack. Enough desire could induce her to feel enchanted for a while. With Jay, there had been a singular kind of thrill, a kind of lightning knowing. There was no wedding ring on Walter’s ring finger (he was maybe thirty—old enough to be married) and no framed girlfriend’s picture on his desk. Ted had told her that Walter was Chinese, but Casey couldn’t always tell the difference between Chinese and Koreans just by looking. Walter was tall like Kevin—taller than Ted—and had a pudgy boyish face in a perpetually bemused state. His two-button suit in a rich gray wool was cut conservatively, and unlike the others nearby, he’d kept his jacket on. His shirt looked custom-made, each cuff buttoned thrice, a small notch found at the edge.

“You see, Casey”—Walter arched his right eyebrow for emphasis—“in a few minutes, there will be a stampede to that conference room”—he pointed to the room that Kevin had glanced at previously—“and Kevin Jennings, master of free lunches, will fill his plate, then be a tad kinder to humanity, including prospective assistants.” In stereo, Hugh and Walter made loud seagull sounds.
Caw-caw-caw
filled the air. Hugh pretended to flap his wings and narrowed his eyes searchingly, looking like a scavenger. Walter acted as if he were throwing bread crumbs at Hugh. They were working hard to make her laugh, and Casey tried not to crack up.

Kevin rolled his eyes at them and returned to his screen, at least until, as Walter had predicted, the walnut-paneled doors opened for the free food. The aromas of the Indian food issuing from the room were intoxicating. He tried to read the research report. The day before, he’d told a client that the chip maker was at best a neutral, and now the bonehead analyst had changed his mind, saying buy. If Kevin called the client back, he’d look like a moron. Besides, the analyst’s rationale was unpersuasive, and the friggin’ charts made no sense. Fuck, he thought.

Kevin grunted, and no one paid him any mind.

This Casey Han girl didn’t look as though she were going to work out. Was she working Ted? Kevin wondered. Possible. Whatever. He wanted to get rid of her so he could get the idiot analyst on the horn before lunch, but the guys were going to kill him if the parade of temp assistants didn’t end soon. On a hunch, the girl appeared unsuited for Wall Street. The traders called him Kevlar Kevin because his instinctive calls were eerily bulletproof. However, the girl’s résumé was unimpeachable. On paper, she was a WOW—walks on water—candidate. But he didn’t like the way Hugh Underhill was looking at her. To his knowledge, Hugh had not yet bonked a sales assistant, but this one was cuter than the ones who’d been on the desk previously. If Hugh wanted a girl, he bagged her. That’s all Kevin needed now, a flaky daddy’s girl screwing his best broker. And if WOW ended up sinking, he’d have to fire her; as it was, they were also calling him Murphy Brown—the TV character who couldn’t keep a secretary.

“B school, B school,” Kevin muttered to himself, looking for a way out. “So why not be an analyst like your buddy Ted Kim? Get into the investment banking program or some”—he stopped himself from saying “shit”—“thing like that.” When he mentioned the banking program, the brokers made faces as though something smelled bad.

“I don’t want to make books,” she said, borrowing a phrase she’d heard Jay’s friends say in their complaints about the investment banking program. Hoping to sound like a sales and trading kind of person, Casey said, “I want more action.”

The men who sat alongside each other laughed heartily. Casey didn’t get it. Then Hugh, the one who had not yet been introduced, said, “And what kind of action are you looking for, exactly?” Then Casey closed her eyes, turning scarlet.

“So, Ted’s friend wants more action,” Kevin said to Walter, raising his eyebrows.

Hugh glanced at Casey, tickled by this. He stuck out his hand to introduce himself.

Casey murmured, “How do you do,” unable to look him in the eye.

“Very well, thank you,” Hugh answered, smiling broadly.

Walter jumped in. “Now you’ve got our dog all hot and bothered.”

Hugh said, “Please ignore the boys. They don’t get to see, much less talk to, attractive women often. You can see why.”

Casey smiled, sensing that this man was a pathological seducer. And he was only flirting with her. He wasn’t serious. She knew his kind. Hugh was a hound because he could be. In terms of looks and charm, he was in the majors, and, well, she played in the minors—a fact she’d accepted a long time ago. Men like him sought the Ellas of the world. Casey hadn’t grieved too much for this missed opportunity, since Hughs weren’t her type anyway, and she hoped this wasn’t just sour grapes talking.

Casey heard the footsteps first. The conference room doors had opened. A cavalcade of brokers and traders streamed by to get their complimentary grub. Walter got up, hitching his pants; he’d recently lost twenty pounds but hadn’t had a chance to replace any of his suit trousers. When Walter stood up, Hugh made the seagull sound again, then got up himself. All three sales guys—Kevin, Walter, and Hugh—were extremely tall, six three or four. Walter said, “Follow me.”

Heaping trays of Indian food were laid out on the long table. A large, happy crowd gathered in clusters, piling food onto their white Chinet plates. Men made jokes about one another’s love handles and spare tires—things women would never say to one another despite thinking them. Walter handed her a thick paper plate before taking his own. “Get what you like, but we gotta head back soon. Okay?” He spoke to her affectionately, as if she were a little kid.

The food made her mouth water. All around, people spooned food onto their plates, grabbing pieces of warm naan bread. There were pans of bread everywhere. The trays emptied gradually. The group dispersed.

Kevin and Hugh had already returned to the desk. Casey had managed to grab a cocktail-size Samosa and a scoop of
biriyani
but had hesitated to fill her plate during an interview. Walter’s plate was crammed with a taste of everything.

“Gosh. Girls eat so little,” Walter said with wonder in his voice.

“It happened so fast,” she remarked, her free hand resting at her side.

Walter swept his right arm to the ceiling, gesturing like a ringleader, and said, “It’s free food for millionaires.”

She wrinkled her brow, amused by his dramatic movement.

“In the International Equities Department—that is, Asia, Europe, and Japan sales—the group you’re interviewing for—”

Casey nodded okay.

“—whichever desk that sells a deal buys lunch for everyone in the department. We finished a deal last week—a big power plant outside of Bombay. So today we bought Indian. Get it? If Japan sales finishes a deal, then we get sushi.”

“Gotcha,” she said.

“The funny thing is that if you were a millionaire like some of these managing directors shaking down seven figures a year, you’d have known to push your way ahead and fill up your plate. Rich people can’t get enough of free stuff.” Walter shrugged. There was no reproach in his tone; in fact, there was a wistful admiration in his voice, as if he were beginning to understand how the world worked.

“So, this is the game, Casey. You have to take what’s offered.” He spoke like a mentor.

“If you say so,” Casey replied. But she didn’t know how she felt about money or free things. Her father always said there was no such thing as a free lunch.