He’s big. He’s soft. I can take him.
“Sit down,” Frank ordered Baby Face, the walls reverberating around us. The Monthly Nut fussed with his double-blade guillotine, clipping nothing over and over again.
The fidgeting distracted me. “Stop playing with that damn thing, Frank. You’ll cut your damn finger off.” I peered at Baby Face and appraised his chin.
Shovel hook or haymaker?
Kurtz watched nervously, sensing an undercurrent of violence. “Grove, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“This is bullshit, Frank. It’s not right.”
The room grew silent, and Kurtz declared a temporary cease-fire. “We want you back after this blows over.”
“Then why is J. Edgar Hoover prowling outside?” I immediately regretted the jab. Gus, the guard, was just doing his job.
“Be nice,” Kurtz warned. “We need to discuss your clients.” Baby Face shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He recoiled at the word “your.”
“I’m all ears.” My words came out bitter and hostile. There was another emotion. It was pain. SKC had turned on me.
“I want Patty Gershon to handle your business while we sort things out.”
“Over my dead body,” I scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t see the problem,” Kurtz replied evenly.
“She eats her young. That’s the problem.”
“Grove, she’s experienced. She’s good at her job. She identified a twenty-million-dollar opportunity with Jack Oil. You didn’t.”
“She’ll swallow you whole and spit out your zipper,” I replied. “She’ll blow up my business.”
Magnetic principles never worked on Wall Street. Likes attracted. Opposites repelled. Brokers found clients with personalities similar to their own. A nice broker meant nice clients. A jerk meant jerkettes. Call it broker’s instinct. Call it what you want. I knew Patty would scare my guys away. She emitted too many predatory vibes.
“She’ll do just fine with at least one client,” Frank countered.
“Who?”
“JJ,” he replied. “She speaks Polish.”
“Go ahead, Frank. Put Patty in charge of my business.” I was bluffing. My heart was racing. Poker was never my strength. “Just remember what I told you come bonus time.”
“Then who do you have in mind?” he asked, dropping his guard, doubting his decision.
The bluff worked only because my revenues, a big slice of the department’s income, suddenly looked precarious. My “book” would atrophy with the wrong adviser. So would Frank’s bonus. He knew the game.
I shared Frank’s anxiety, but for different reasons. All brokers distrusted other Wall Street insiders. Money killed alliances in our industry. Colleagues took checks and morphed into competitors all the time. Given the choice, I’d rather lose a molar than trust someone with my clients.
“Annie and Chloe do an awesome job,” I offered after some hesitation. “My clients love them. They can handle it.”
“No,” he ruled without hesitation. His eyes bore into mine, his message clear:
Don’t negotiate.
His body language spoke more diplomatically. It offered hope. He uncrossed his arms, and the defensiveness faded away. He held his chin between thumb and forefinger, a gesture that said,
We can work this out
.
“I’d like to give Zola a shot,” I said. “We had lunch this week. Annie and Chloe like her, and I was thinking about asking her to join our team anyway.”
“She’s inexperienced,” Frank countered. “She hasn’t even passed the Series 7.”
Baby Face fat-butted into our debate. “Frank,” he said, “you don’t need to negotiate. Grover is taking a leave of absence.” It irked me when people used my full first name. It reminded me of the Mad Russian.
Kurtz glowered at the young lawyer and extended his right hand, palm side down. He lowered it six inches, a precise, deliberate motion. Loosely translated, the gesture said,
Go suck on a cork
.
“Zola’s taking the exam now,” I reported without looking at the lawyer. “She’ll pass. She can call my allies for help.”
“And who would they be?” Kurtz crossed his arms again, snapping the double-blade guillotine in one hand. The defensive posture was not a good sign.
“Cliff Halek.”
“Halek’s in another division. He doesn’t know our business. Besides, there’s no way I’m sending some newbie to a managing director for help. It sends a bad message to other parts of the firm, Grove.”
“Cliff will help Zola as a favor to me. I don’t care if he’s in Derivatives or not. He’s forgotten more about the capital markets than most PCS bone-heads will ever know. Plus he has a secret weapon.”
“And that would be?” Kurtz leaned forward to ask the question.
“He can smell bullshit a mile away.”
“I don’t know,” he resisted feebly, and gnawed on his unlit cigar.
“Look at the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Let’s assume Patty doesn’t horrify my clients. I’m not ceding the point. But I’ll humor you for the moment.” I paused to underscore my next comment. “If Patty Gershon ever controls any of my revenues, there’ll be no
living with that woman. Every time you two disagree, she’ll go over your head.”
“Let me worry about that,” he scolded sharply.
I took the shot and delivered my knockout punch. “She generates revenues, and you don’t. She’ll get her way, Frank.”
Kurtz said nothing for a long moment. He glanced at SKC’s lawyer. Baby Face shrugged.
I piled on. “Let’s see, Frank. By my calculations JJ is worth five hundred and twenty-two million dollars this morning. At a half percent, that’s two-point-sixty-one million every year in fees. And that’s just JJ, Frank. I have other clients. Do you really want to ask Gershon’s permission every time you need to take a piss?”
The scare worked. Frank surrendered with one word: “Uncle.” I had him pinned.
My victory was short-lived. Baby Face ordered, “Grover, you need to leave the premises.”
I scowled my best go-play-in-traffic face at him. The glare felt good. It changed nothing. And I knew it. “Frank, may I get something from my desk?” The request almost sounded contrite.
“Sorry, Grove. We’ll send what you need.”
“Damn it, Frank. I’ve been here eight years and you’re treating me like John Fucking Gotti. I need to get something. And it’s not some damn trade secret, either.”
“Okay, okay,” he acquiesced.
“Thank you.”
In better times Frank and I would have shaken hands. Not today. We both held back, our tension filling the room like smog. I had become a pariah to Frank. My touch was toxic, poison that jeopardized his bonus and his career. He no longer regarded me as a top producer. Right then and there, I realized that there was yet another axiom in my industry.
Six: There is no tenure for top producers. We can fall from our pedestals any time, hard, without warning.
Frank rose and ushered me to his office door. He moved slowly, keeping a safe distance between us. His body language said,
I’m taking a seven-hour shower thirty seconds after you leave
. Kurtz, ever the professional, expressed concern nonetheless: “Grove, I hope this thing is temporary.”
“Frank, you don’t think I’ll be back. Do you?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
Baby Face looked doubtful.
“Let’s go,” I said to the guard outside Frank’s office. Behind my back Frank’s photo lineup of financial rogues mocked me. Or perhaps they were welcoming me to the club. John Paul appeared ready to grant absolution.
Everyone stared as Gus escorted me to my desk. The brokers, sales assistants, and operations people scrutinized me from all angles. Their mouths, all half ajar, beckoned the fruit flies like Venus flytraps. I felt humiliated and ashamed. It was a perp walk in progress, and there I was scuffling off to jail in handcuffs and leg irons. No wonder suspected felons hid from the cameras on the evening news. It would have been comforting to pull a jacket over my face. My head tingled, a sure sign I was going flush. That was the problem with fair coloring. I never could hide my emotions.
My colleagues saw something other than a criminal. They hailed me like a conquering hero—Julius Caesar of PCS. One broker exclaimed, “Not you, Grove!”
Another said, “It’s not Friday. Did you screw up your calendar?”
Scully, the world’s loudest stockbroker, said, “Put in a good word for me.” I had no idea what he meant.
The pregnant women around Estrogen Alley parted like the Red Sea opening for Moses. But it was Lady Goldfish who surfaced, not Charlton Heston. She looked me square between the eyes and asked, “Where are you going, Grove?”
The lights finally went on. The office thought I had taken a check to join the competition. Scully had asked me to put in a good word, hoping for a big check, too. It was almost funny.
But it wasn’t. “I guess this settles the JJ matter,” Patty added. She was already fighting to keep JJ’s business when I moved to another firm.
“Knock yourself out, Patty.” In that cheerless moment my swagger would have impressed Winston Churchill.
Chloe focused on me as I approached our work area. She whispered hoarsely into her receiver, “I have to go.”
Annie jumped up from her chair and confronted me with the quickness
of a linebacker. “Where are we going?” she demanded anxiously, her allegiance clear.
Chloe huddled from the other side.
“There’s no check,” I whispered, my voice low so it would not carry. “You may hear some awful stuff about me, but none of it’s true. We’ll be fine.” The words stuck in my throat. I had no idea what would happen.
Annie said nothing at first. She was trying to make sense of what was happening. Finally, she whispered, “Call us from the outside.”
“And tell us what to do,” Chloe finished.
“I need you to take care of things here.”
Gus touched me on the elbow. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Rourke. It’s time to leave.”
I made the receiver sign with my thumb extended, pinky held out, and three middle fingers closed. “I’ll call you. Zola will be joining you. Make sure to help her.”
That was it. I grabbed my briefcase and the picture of Evelyn and Finn from my desk and followed the guard. On the way to the elevator, the brokers in my office stood. Some clapped. Some patted me on the back. I felt their envy, their hunger for a big payday. Scully boomed, “Attaboy, Grove.” Damn, he was loud.
We passed Casper, oblivious as he clipped through the commotion.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
I snatched those damn nail clippers from his hand and hurled them into a wastebasket. The cheers, the clapping, once dull, erupted into Malthusian ovations.
To this day I have no idea what possessed me next. Maybe it was denial, my refusal to believe the turn of events. Maybe it was delusion. Kurtz’s sentence would never become public, right? The whooping and hollering bellowed across the PCS boardroom. I turned, raised both arms to the floor of cheering stockbrokers, and pretended to be Lance Armstrong, a victor on the Tour de France podium. I was perpetuating the myth of a fat check. I was embracing the enthusiasm of every Judas Iscariot out there.
They’ll chase my clients the moment I’m gone.
That’s when the joke ended and my world exploded. The ovation stopped abruptly. The jaws on every face dropped. The expressions changed from praise to something new. I saw revulsion and disgust. I saw loathing on every face, save one.
Patty Gershon beamed from ear to ear. She smirked at something behind me. From her grin I knew one thing from for sure. It was trouble, and I feared the worst.
My fifteen minutes of shame are here.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Detective Michael Fitzsimmons hoisted his badge for Gus. But every stockbroker on the floor saw it. “Boston Police,” Fitzsimmons boomed at decibels worthy of Scully.
Mummert eyed the rent-a-cop uniform and added, “We’ll take over from here. We need O’Rourke.” There was a short brunette behind them, also in plainclothes. She didn’t look familiar. I assumed NYPD.
First Crunch. Now them. Our reception security is for shit.
In the spellbound silence of the room, I heard Gershon gloating. Rewording Miranda for Estrogen Alley, she trumpeted, “You have the right to turn over all your clients to me.” Someone giggled a nervous rattle but only for a second. PCS advisers were riveted to
Eyewitness News
unfolding before their eyes.
“Now’s not a good time, fellows.”
“What makes you think you have a choice?” Fitzsimmons bellowed. He rolled his head round his shoulders. His neck popped like sizzling bacon.
My Charleston savoir faire had long since vanished. I came out swinging and promptly got decked. “Glad to see you guys brought backup.” I nodded toward the woman in plainclothes.
“She’s not with us,” Fitzsimmons announced.
“We thought she worked here,” Mummert clarified. That’s when my face hit the canvas. I knew who she was.
“Mandy Maris,” the brunette woman said. “I’m with the
New York Post
, and I have an appointment with Grove O’Rourke.”
The letter, the twins, and the fight for Jumping JJ—she slipped my mind.
“You need to reschedule,” Fitzsimmons growled.
“I’ve been waiting a week for this story,” Maris argued. “What’s your interest in O’Rourke anyway?”
“You’re interfering,” he retorted.
At that moment Kurtz and Baby Face emerged from the office of good and evil. “What’s this all about?” Kurtz demanded.
