Today an enormous bandage covered one ear. Even under her mop of hair, layers of gauze bubbled out for the entire world to see. “What happened to your ear?”
“I had plastic surgery.” Zola smirked whenever she spoke. A wisecrack lurked round every sentence.
“Since when do ears need bodywork?”
“Stretched asshole,” she said, holding her hands six inches apart, palms facing each other, a nonverbal gesture indicating size.
“Nice mouth,” I snorted. Good thing I had not been drinking coffee. I would have kecked caffeine all over the place.
Zola’s eyes twinkled, delighted by my reaction. “Hey, my earrings stretched the lobe out of shape. The hole was gross.” Her expression was half smirk, half smile, and total killer.
Source material for obsession
.
“So what are we learning today?” Zola continued innocently.
“Asset protection,” I replied. “Prenups, offshore trusts, ways to avoid gold-digging litigation raptors. And with your mouth, Zola, you’d better pay close attention.”
“Don’t worry about me, Sensei. I can hide my money in Swiss bank accounts with the best of them.”
To this day I have no idea why Zola’s comment returned me to the horror of that night in the New England Aquarium. Perhaps it was her bandaged ear rather than the reference to the Swiss bank account. But in that moment, the world ground to a halt. I forgot Zola and the class of newbies waiting expectantly. On the brink of a personal epiphany, I even forgot Lady Goldfish and her unholy spawn. I thought only about Charlie Kelemen and his last few minutes alive.
The killer tortured him.
The gashes. The cuts on his arms and legs. The psychological terror of a makeshift anchor tied to his ankles. The killer abused Charlie, both mentally and physically, long before the sharks ground his viscera with their rows of serrated teeth. Charlie’s spectacular death, five hundred people watching
him shovel gak and guts back inside, had been a cover. The extravaganza overshadowed true intent.
The killer wanted information.
Maybe Charlie kept all their money in a Swiss bank account. Maybe he kept it closer to home. Whatever. Somebody filleted Charlie’s arms and legs on the edge of the Giant Ocean Tank, tortured him with pain greater than a thousand paper cuts. Why? To make him talk? To locate his money? Did the Kelemens possess a vast fortune far greater than I realized? The über-wealthy hired bodyguards all the time. Charlie didn’t. Maybe that was his first and last mistake.
When Charlie didn’t talk, the killer tossed him into the tank, frustrated in his attempts to find any money, frustrated just like me. Or maybe Charlie confessed everything. His assassin found the money, and now it was long gone. At least the killer couldn’t steal Sam’s money from the Kelemen Group. Court oversight would ensure an orderly return of all proceeds to investors.
Warnings from Halek, Kurtz, and Boston’s finest suddenly seemed less panicky. More reasonable. They were right.
The killer wants the same information I want.
“Hey, Sensei, you still with me?” Zola snapped me out of my reverie, as we both entered the classroom. There were twenty newbies—ready, waiting, starry-eyed, fearless. They smiled enthusiastically, anticipating both wisdom and war stories from a top producer. I blinked once, twice, searching for words, struggling to extract myself from the nightmare of the New England Aquarium.
“Listen up, numb nuts,” I directed, returning to the present. “Let’s get started on asset protection.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Hey, O’Rourke.”
Class had ended, and I was returning to my desk. Patty’s voice cut through the rowdy din of brokers as they counseled clients and tongue-lashed traders. Mondays were always busy. Close on my heels, Gershon pierced Scully’s deafening decibels and made me forget Casper’s pestering plinks. Those two words, “Hey, O’Rourke,” exposed my position deep behind the enemy lines of Estrogen Alley.
Stay cool. Don’t betray Halek. Not a word about Jack Oil.
I went the ambassadorial route as we continued to walk. “Nice haircut.” Goldfish or not, Patty deserved the compliment. Her short, stylish locks would trigger double takes among the chic set of Parisian nightclubs. My strategy was simple. Throw out an olive branch. Avoid confrontation. Call Jumping JJ the second she’s gone.
“Did you hear about Frank?” she asked.
“No, what happened?” I asked, instantly alarmed by the tone of her voice.
“Kurtz is fine. The client has a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hunting accident. Frank shotgunned a guy’s hand over the weekend. Another Dick Cheney.”
“That’s awful.”
“You got that right, O’Rourke. I bet the client pulls his account.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Whatever. Have you given any more thought to Jumping JJ?”
“Not much,” I lied. Truth be told, I wouldn’t share a heart attack with Patty Gershon, let alone a client.
“Hey, Boss,” Annie interrupted, “Mandy Maris is on your first line.”
My world erupted. Had I been in Italy, that nation would have forgotten Mount Vesuvius. Snatching the receiver from its cradle, forgetting Gershon and my team, I exploded, “What is it you don’t understand about no? If I were drawing my last breath on earth, I wouldn’t talk to the press.”
Maybe it was the trick of a veteran reporter. Maybe it was simple anger. Maris counterattacked. She never cowered. She disemboweled my oversized ego, a flaw shared by every top producer. “Alex Romanov is helping my story every way he can. That’s why he runs a hedge fund and you’re just an employee who can’t fart without company approval.”
“Good. Talk to Romanov.” With that I slammed down the phone.
“Who was that?” Gershon asked, wide-eyed from the mini-explosion she had just witnessed. Annie and Chloe both blinked with surprise.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t have the time.”
“We should talk,” Gershon cooed, touching my shoulder, trying to ease the tension.
“Patty, JJ’s account is open. There’s no way I’m splitting economics.” My words surged, direct and to the point.
“Your relationship may not be as deep as you think.”
“What makes you say that? You just met JJ at a party.”
“We spent forty-five minutes together,” Patty countered. “You’d be surprised what a girl can learn.”
“Such as?”
“He has two-point-three million shares of Jack Oil you haven’t hedged.”
“That’s public record, Patty. I’m not impressed.”
“You can’t borrow enough shares to collar JJ’s stock,” she persisted. “It’s too tight.”
Only if you’re competing for borrow, Gershon.
“Plus,” she added before I could speak, “he won’t go for it.”
I flipped. “How do you know what JJ thinks? Have you been calling my client?”
“Of course not,” she soothed. “Let’s just say, I’ve done my homework.”
Talk about condescending.
“I want to bounce an idea off you,” she added.
“Okay, Patty,” I said, doing my best to project bored resignation. In reality, she had piqued my curiosity. “What’s on your mind?”
“Not here,” she replied coyly. “Not where everybody can hear. I’m running to my daughter’s recital in a few. I’ll swing by your desk tomorrow, and we’ll grab a conference room.” I recognized the sales tools of a top producer: mystery, suspense, and the hint of good things to follow.
Am I being played?
“Great,” I said, no conviction in my voice. For a moment we lingered, then parted abruptly.
“Keep an open mind, O’Rourke,” Patty coaxed, positive thinking through and through.
“Annie, any calls this morning?”
“Sorry about Mandy Maris,” she replied, not answering the question. The force of my eruption had apparently surprised her, too.
“It’s not you,” I said. “I have this thing about the press.”
“Betty Masters called,” she reported, relieved, now addressing matters at hand.
“Oh?”
“She needed our fax number.”
“What for?” I asked, suddenly optimistic.
“She said something about audited financial statements for the Kelemen Group. Apparently, you wanted them. She has them.”
“Out-fucking-standing. By any chance, did Crain and Cravath call?”
“Who?” Annie asked.
“I’ll take that as a no. They prepared the financial statements Betty is sending.”
“There’s one other thing,” Annie said.
“Give me a few minutes. I need to call JJ right quick.”
An unfamiliar voice answered at Jack Oil. “Mr. Jaworski’s office.”
“It’s Grove. You must be JJ’s new assistant. Is he there?”
“May I tell him what this is in reference to?”
Every stockbroker has heard that line before. It’s the age-old screen for phone solicitations, annoying when you’re building a book, a breeze when you’re a top producer. “He knows me,” I replied. “And you will, too.”
“Grove,” JJ boomed into the receiver thirty seconds later, “how’s my stock?”
“Up a half on above-average volume. That’s one reason I’m calling. When can we continue our discussion about collaring?”
“Next week,” he replied. “I’m buried. And honestly, I’m lukewarm on the concept. I don’t like anyone shorting my stock. Even if it’s to hedge me.”
“Who told you about shorting?” I asked. “We hadn’t gotten that far in our discussion.”
“I met one of your colleagues at a party about ten days ago.”
“Patty Gershon?”
“That’s her,” he replied. “She’s explained the whole kit and shebang.” JJ, ever the Eastern European emigrant, still butchered our idioms from time to time. “She’s smart, Grove.”
She eats her young, JJ.
“There are plenty of smart people at SKC,” I said, “and Patty’s right. Collars require us to short. But I’d like to discuss the technique at your office with your general counsel present.”
“Call me next Monday,” he replied. “We’ll put something on the calendar.” Then he added, “You said ‘one reason.’ What’s the other reason you called?”
“It can wait,” I replied. JJ had already addressed my other reason for calling—Patty Gershon. She crossed the line. She advised my client. She interfered and undermined me in the process. Had she been a guy, I would have kicked whatever the liposuction had missed.
Patty’s chair in Estrogen Alley was empty. Already gone, I noted. One more call to make.
“Crain and Cravath,” the receptionist answered on the second ring.
“Grove O’Rourke here. Who handles the Kelemen Group?”
“I need to check. May I get your number, Mr. O’Rourke? We’ll call back.”
The joys of dealing with small audit firms.
“Please do. We’ve left at least two messages already.” Sam on Thursday. Me on Friday.
Hanging up the phone, I called over to Annie, “Didn’t mean to cut you off.”
“Sam Kelemen phoned. She has big news.”
“What? Tell me.” My mood immediately brightened.
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Did you tell her I’d call back?”
“No.” Annie grinned fiendishly. Her eyes danced with mischief. She spoke no further.
“That’s it? No?” Annie pushed my buttons with the best.
“Not exactly. I took a few liberties with your schedule.”
“Such as?”
“You’re having dinner with Sam at Live Bait. Tonight at six-thirty. I told Sam to meet you there. And I promised you won’t be late.”
“I see.” Even though our team used a group calendar on Outlook, I arranged all my own appointments. But Annie’s decision pleased me. In a voice balanced unsteadily between feigned exasperation and delight, I asked, “Is there anything else I should know about my schedule?”
“Yes.” She grinned. Her eyes sparkled. Annie knew more about flirting than Bobby Fisher knew about chess.
“And that would be what?” I asked with my hand on my hip in mock exasperation.
“You’re taking Chloe and me out for drinks before.”
“What about her kids?” Chloe was a single mom. The child-care question came to mind first.
“Don’t worry. Chloe’s parents have them tonight.”
“Well, aren’t you two enterprising. May I inquire what the occasion is?”
“Well, Boss, it’s like this. I promised Sam you’d be on time. Check. We’ll get you there. Then there’s this other matter.”
“And that would be?”
“We the jury find you guilty of working the team too hard.”
“Little lady,” I replied in my best impersonation of John Wayne, “out here, due process is a credit card.” The Duke had nothing on me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Live Bait would not have been my first choice for dinner. But Annie had insisted.
“Lighten up, Boss. It’s a girl thing.”
The ramshackle restaurant reminded me too much of Charleston. Of my legacy growing up with SOBs. Of the cliquish Southern bluebloods who delighted in shabby-chic watering holes. I never quite grasped their affection for Big John’s on East Bay Street. Appointed with items rejected by eBay, the bar was little more than an outhouse with a liquor license. And here in New York City, a similar dump was thriving near the corner of Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue.
