Rigged (2 page)

S
IX
M
ONTHS
E
ARLIER
, S
EPTEMBER
3, 2002

D
avid Russo would always remember the moment when clarity first hit him, mainly because clarity had chosen such an unfortunate, clichéd instance to finally find its way into his life.

David had spent nearly half of his twenty-five years on earth running away from the clichés of his background. Barely one foot out of the thickest Italian ghettos of Brooklyn and Staten Island, he had clawed and kicked his way to become the first kid in the history of his family to attend an elite college. From Williams, he had managed to get a partial-ride scholarship to Oxford; then on to Harvard Business School, where he had graduated near the top of his class. And yet as much as he’d always had an idea of what he was running from, he’d never had any clear vision of where he was trying to go. That was, until thirty seconds ago, when his destiny finally smacked him full in the face—ironically enough, as he was reaching toward a tray of hand-rolled cannolis.

At least the cannolis were being carried past David’s table by a waiter in a tuxedo, each twist of sweet-cheese-filled pastry glistening in the soft light of the Waldorf-Astoria main ballroom’s massive crystal chandelier. But they were indeed cannolis, and
David was, at that moment, surrounded by more Italian Americans than he’d ever seen in one room in his entire life.

“Just one, David. Not the whole tray.”

David blinked at the sound of his girlfriend’s voice, realizing suddenly that he had frozen in place, halfway out of his chair, both hands above the waiter’s tray. He had no idea how long he had been standing like that; he had momentarily left his body as his attention was captured by something all the way on the other side of the massive, ornate banquet hall. He smiled sheepishly at the waiter, took one of the pastries, and lowered himself back into his chair as his gaze remained pinpointed on the far side of the hall. Even though the enormous room was filled with people, congregating in groups around the three dozen or so tables that pockmarked the lush carpeting, David had a clear line of sight all the way to the edge of the long wooden stage that framed the far side of the hall. There, seated at a table set off from the rest, surrounded on either side by the most recognizable faces of the Italian American community…

“That’s him,” David said simply. And suddenly everything seemed so clear to him. Why he was there—not just at the National Italian American Heritage Institute dinner, but there, in New York, after all those years of running away…

“That’s who?” Serena interrupted, and David finally broke his gaze and turned to look at her. Even confused, she was beautiful. Cascading brown curls framing her angled, vaguely exotic face. Dark, almond-shaped eyes that hinted at her South American heritage. A black, strapless dress that showed off her porcelain shoulders and the soft glade of skin beneath her long, flawless neck. David had no idea how he’d found a girl like her in Boston, during his final year at HBS, or how he’d convinced her to move to New York with him just five months after they’d met. But however it had worked out, he was glad she was with him at this moment, glad she had accompanied him to the dinner, which at first had seemed like such a chore.

“Anthony Giovanni,” David finally responded.

Serena reached for the brochure that had been placed next to the salad plate on the table in front of her. She skimmed past the long-winded title that filled most of the front page—“National Italian American Heritage Institute Dinner to Honor the Italian American Man of the Year”—and skipped straight to the bios. Of course Giovanni’s came first, as he was the focus of the evening. Italian American Man of the Year, the reason that the most expensive ballroom in New York had been rented and invites had gone out to every rich or important Italian American in the tristate area—which pretty much meant every powerful Italian American in the country.

David knew that somewhere near the bottom of that same brochure, his own bio was laid out—in small type, two or three sentences jammed right up against the binding, a pair of staples crucifying half the letters of his last name. Along with his bio was some small mention of the scholarship the Heritage Institute had given him to pay for HBS—the reason he had been forced to piece together a tuxedo, dredge up one of his crimson Harvard ties from the back of his closet, and take Serena shopping for the dress neither one of them could really afford. But now it all seemed worthwhile.

“Right, Anthony Giovanni,” Serena repeated, obviously not getting the bigger picture. “I guess he’s the one getting the award tonight. Do you know him?”

David stared at her. She didn’t understand. He turned back toward Giovanni. Now David had to crane his neck to catch a glimpse of the man, as he had almost vanished in a swirl of fawning sycophants. David recognized many of the faces bobbing in and out of his line of sight: Rudy Giuliani, of course. The police commissioner as well. A few heads of banks, a few CEOs—all fawning over Giovanni like he was royalty. And in truth, the man cut a royal figure. Midfifties, more than six feet tall, slick dark hair just barely graying at the edges, chiseled features—hell, he looked like a movie star. And he moved through the crowd around him like a rock star—shaking hands, kissing
cheeks, sending ripples of admiration outward in concentric wavelets all the way across the hall.

“I don’t
know
him,” David said. “I want to
be
him.”

David had never been more certain of anything in his life. In twenty years, he wanted to be sitting at that head table, right up against the stage. He wanted to be the man at the center of those waves. He had no idea how he was going to get there—but now at least he had a real flesh-and-blood goal. Before, he had read about Giovanni, even written a paper about him back at Oxford. But now, seeing the man real and alive for the first time, David was having an epiphany.

An epiphany with a side of cannoli, that is.
He took a bite of the pastry, making sure the mascarpone didn’t run down the lapels of his tux or ruin his tie. Though Serena wouldn’t have minded if the entire pastry had ended up on the crimson strip of material; she had only tolerated it because he had bribed her with the dress she was wearing.

“So go over and talk to him,” Serena said.

David rolled his eyes at her, exasperated. Seeing the man in the flesh was one thing. You didn’t just go up and
talk
to Anthony Giovanni. The guy had more money than God. He was one of the richest Italian Americans in the country. He had made a fortune on Wall Street, then gone on to create a real estate empire. He owned restaurants, golf courses, movie theaters, whole fucking neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Staten Island. Currently, he was chairman of something called the New York Mercantile Exchange, some sort of stock market for energy futures that David had read about in business school. David wasn’t exactly sure what the Mercantile Exchange was all about, but if Anthony Giovanni was involved, it had to be something important.

“Yeah, right.” David glanced across the table at the other four couples relegated to the Siberia-like seating as far away from the stage as was geographically possible. Rented tuxes, a fair amount of hair spray, economical shoes and purses that reminded David of his aunts and cousins in Staten Island. It seemed like the
Waldorf-Astoria ballroom had boroughs just like the city outside.

“Seriously, David. I’m sure he’d be happy to offer you some advice. Just start off by asking him what he thought of your speech.”

David shook his head grimly. He had given a short speech to a small crowd gathered in one of the tearooms of the hotel during the cocktail hour, well before the real dinner had begun, and he certainly would have noticed if Anthony Giovanni had been in the audience. As far as he could tell, Giovanni had only just arrived, considering the swarm of well-wishers that had swamped him over the past few minutes. The truth was, David was actually kind of glad Giovanni hadn’t been there at the cocktail party to hear David’s take on what it was like being a kid from his background at Oxford and HBS. David had read Giovanni’s bio many times before; Giovanni had gone to the Citadel, spent time in the Navy, then returned to New York to build an empire with his bare hands. David had rowed crew, agonized through a couple of Boston winters, and in a few days was about to begin a crappy first-year analyst job at Merrill Lynch. David doubted the man would have seen much potential in him—at least not the sort of potential that turned on guys like Giovanni.

“Why don’t I just go up on stage, grab the mike, and do a little karaoke to get his attention? Maybe a little Sinatra to get this started right.”

Serena did what she usually did when he started acting like a jackass. She ignored him, instead turning toward one of the other women seated at the table to compliment her on her earrings. The conversation was over it seemed, and David was happy, for the moment, to just watch his idol from afar while finishing his cannoli and, for that matter, going to work on his oversize goblet of red wine.

At least the food was nothing to complain about. A mishmash of Italian delicacies served in no particular order—salads were still on the table, and David was already threatening the buttons of his tux jacket. He’d gone through a selection of focaccias, bruschettas, and
prosciutto-wrapped asparagus; two different types of lasagna served as an appetizer; a carbonara that his mother would have flipped for; even a risotto with a fancy name he couldn’t pronounce. And they hadn’t even gotten to the main course yet. There was something about Italian food that seemed to make you hungrier the more of it you ate; it was no wonder most of David’s uncles were clinically obese, and he was thankful that Serena’s family staple of beans and rice had kept him from ballooning up in the three months since they’d been back in New York.

Still, he was already searching for the cannoli guy when his attempt at continued gluttony was interrupted by a thick hand on his shoulder. David looked up from his chair, only to see the light from the chandelier nearly blocked out by a massive, thick-necked man in an ill-fitting gray suit. The guy had a crew cut and a nose like a pug, and when he leaned close to David’s ear, David had the sudden urge to hide under the table. Then to David’s utter shock, the thick-necked guy uttered eight incredible words:

“Mr. Giovanni would like to speak with you.”

David’s jaw went slack as he stared at the behemoth. He didn’t respond until Serena kicked him under the table. She’d obviously overheard.

“Are you sure?” David asked, feeling stupid the minute the question left his lips.

The man added a little pressure to the grip he had on David’s shoulder.

“Listen, kid, I don’t have all day. Are you coming or not?”

It was like something right out of a
Godfather
movie, but David didn’t care, he was out of his chair so fast he nearly overturned the table in the process. Serena squeezed his hand as he left the safety of the Staten Island table, following the big man on a winding path through the center of the great hall. Well, the giant didn’t wind exactly, he waded right through the crowd, people scrambling to get out of his way. But David had to do his best serpentine just to keep up; by the time they reached the special table by the stage, David was nearly out of breath.

Christ,
he thought to himself as the giant waved him through the group of mostly men who were still surrounding Giovanni’s perch,
these are the most powerful gavones in the country
. Before David could dwell on the thought, he found himself face to face with Giovanni himself. Or more accurately, chest to face, as Giovanni was peering up at him from the comfort of his chair, a half-grin on his lips. David glanced around at the bank presidents, politicos, and CEOs who were watching with a mixture of amusement and irritation in their eyes, and then shrugged.
Fuck it, I’m here, I’m making the most of it.

David tried to calm his racing heart as he held out his hand. Giovanni looked at the proffered appendage trembling in the air between them, then finally gave it a cursory shake, his grin deepening.

“I caught the tail end of your little speech earlier tonight from out in the hallway. You’ve got an interesting story, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Giovanni,” David blurted, his face flushed. He couldn’t believe he was standing there, talking to one of the most powerful men in the country. He didn’t want to fuck up the opportunity with too many words, but at the same time he could feel a million responses rising in his chest. He had never been that good at controlling what came out of his mouth in times of high pressure. But for the moment, he managed to keep it simple. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Giovanni cocked his head to the side.

“Oxford. Harvard. Couldn’t have gotten any farther away from Brooklyn if you’d hopped a boat to China.”

David wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to laugh, or whether Giovanni was being serious. David could see that most of the other guests at Giovanni’s table were now listening to their conversation. David swallowed back a sudden burst of fear, doing his best not to topple over.

“Boston’s not that far,” he blurted. “There’s a bus from the Port Authority every two hours.”

“Hah,” Giovanni grunted. The smile didn’t change, so David
had no read on what Giovanni thought of his answer. “So what are you doing now?”

David was almost embarrassed to answer truthfully.

“I start with Merrill Lynch on Monday.”

“Merrill Lynch? Why the fuck do you want to work there?”

The truth was, Merrill hadn’t exactly been David’s first choice. Unfortunately, he had graduated from business school in one of the worst years in MBA history. Where two years ago, kids were getting ten or eleven offers months before graduation, David’s classmates were lucky to find one or two by the end of the school year. Although 9/11 was already a year old, the tragedy had killed the financial job market; there were signs that things were on the mend, but in the meantime, David had been forced to take the best job he was offered. Now he was looking forward to pushing paper around, compiling statistics, and cold-calling clients for a year or two as he tried to get his foot in the door somewhere else. But at least Merrill paid well. It wasn’t the optimal situation, but it was a start.