Megan Abbott: Wall Street Noir

“Matter of fact, yes, you are. Even worse, you’re wasting my time.”

Becker sputters, furious at this insubordination, when a sharp rap sounds at the door. The cavalry has arrived, and right on time. All heads turn as David Rosenman, the firm’s Associate General Counsel, opens the door and leans in.

“Ian, I need to see you,” he says.

Ian Becker is annoyed by the disruption. “We should be done here in about fifteen minutes, David. Can we circle up at 8:15 a.m.?”

“It wasn’t a request, Ian,” Rosenman says sternly. “Step out of this meeting now.”

Becker is puzzled, but there’s no mistaking the seriousness in Rosenman’s voice. He mumbles something under his breath, rises from his chair, and disappears around a corner with Rosenman.

“What the hell was that about?” Ranieri says to no one in particular.

“Oh, that?” I say. I produce a cigar from my jacket pock t and light it. “That would be about the Eagles Mere III CDO. The ‘kitchen sink’ collateralized unit.”

Ranieri freezes, color draining from his face. The transformation is astounding: He ages ten years in an instant — exhausted, pallid, scared. He knows exactly what I’m talking about

I push on. “According to a routine compliance check on personal trading that was run over the weekend, both you and Becker have sizable positions of these Eagles Mere III units in your personal trading accounts. Sizable positions.”

“You fucking son of a bitch,” Ranieri whispers hoarsely.

“So I imagine right now Rosenman is asking Becker how it is that a security that cost him $50,000 a unit is throwing off $11,568 in interest — a month . That would be about $140,000 a year, risk free—”

“You’re going to regret this, asswipe.”

“What kind of security pays nearly three hundred percent interest a year with zero risk? I don’t know, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” I exhale a luxurious cloud of smoke. “But maybe — and this is just a theory, mind you — maybe it’s a dummy security concocted by you. And maybe — just maybe — it’s a little something you cooked up to divert hundreds of thousands of dollars a year from the firm’s institutional clients to you and your greedy-ass butt-buddy. Now, why would you do such a heinous thing? I don’t know — perhaps quid pro quo for Becker naming you to a certain co-head position in equity derivatives? It’s just a theory, of course.”

“This conversation is over .”

“You’re goddamned right it’s over!” I yell. “Sun Tzu is required reading at Hah-vahd b-school, isn’t it? You must know The Art of War by heart. A mortal enemy must be crushed completely. More is lost stopping halfway through than through total annihilation: the enemy will recover and will seek revenge. Crush him, both in body and spirit.”

Ranieri regards me with a superhuman loathing. He remains mute

“Hey, Brian?” I say, getting up to leave. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Brian Horgan is open-mouthed with awe as I shut the door.

Checkmate, motherfucker.

My head is spinning. Events have been set into motion that will be impossible to stop. There will be lawyers and compliance officers and regulators piling onto this situation in the hours, days, and weeks to come. Both Ranieri and Becker will pay an enormous personal price for fucking with my livelihood. There’s even a good shot that they will be thrown out of the industry. So be it. Kill or be killed — that’s Wall Street in its purest form, isn’t it?

As I cross the trading floor, I receive another standing ovation. Apparently, Terri Aronica has spread word of the Eagles Mere scandal among the trading floor personnel, and I am acknowledged as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. This time, though, I don’t bask in the adulation. There is little sense of accomplishment in my Machiavellian maneuver, because with this second bullet dodged comes a second epiphany: This is no victory.

I have crushed Ranieri, but his voice is playing in my head: You can postpone the inevitable only so long, Sparky. And I know he’s right. How many more Ranieris are even now lining up to take what I’ve built? How many of them are in this room, smiling and clapping for me? And if not one of them, then it will be Susan and her cadre of lawyers. How many more bullets can I dodge?

There are handshakes, back pats, light punches on the shoulder, as I make my way to my seat. The applause subsides and the normal trading room chatter rises. Random static from a speakerphone fills my ears and I think of the other night with Fiona. Even if I’d whisked her off that beach, she too would have turned on me eventually, gotten lawyers of her own, tried to pick my bones clean. Maybe it’s destiny or some law of nature: Once you’re at the top of your game, everyone becomes your enemy — rivals, friends, lawyers, lovers, superiors, subordinates. They plot and scheme and come after everything that matters to you, everything you love and care about.

Terri puts a steaming latte on my desk. Her freckled face beams and her eyes meet mine. It is an intimate moment: Together, we triumphed over the forces of evil against great odds. Yet at this moment, absolutely no one is beyond suspicion. Et tu, Terri? I force myself to smile back, even as Rich Honeywell’s mocking voice unexpectedly fills my head.

You get lost along the way, Barston?

1 North End Avenue

Every morning for the past nine months, David Sherwin had disembarked from the Hoboken ferry and joined the flow of people on the walkway to the New York Mercantile Exchange. Chewing on an antacid from the roll in his pocket, he would shuffle along with the crowd, his mind on his meager market positions.

But today, David didn’t reach for the tablets. Instead, he tilted back his head and inhaled the faint saltiness of the river, barely discernable under the stench of diesel fumes from the ferry. The flat gray strip of water stretched away to the horizon, where it merged into the overcast sky. For an instant David was back five years, to when he’d first met Malia and other things weren’t so important.

Heedless of the heavy mist, David walked with an almost forgotten energy — dodging concrete barricades and posts topped with security cameras, threading through knots of traders, clerks, and Exchange employees — toward the fifteen-story concrete and marble box that housed the world’s most important trading floors for metals and energy. Everyone he passed was talking about the same thing. “It’ll be there in two hours”... “The Hub was evacuated this morning”... “Already Category Four.” David walked faster.

He passed three homeless men crowded under a concessionaire’s canopy, driven there by an earlier downpour. Propped up against the storefront, one of them wore a discarded trader’s jacket, the splash of yellow garish against the otherwise unremitting gray. Although he usually didn’t give to street people, David stuffed a bill into the offered cardboard cup and wondered if the man was the jacket’s original owner.

I’ll stop at Cartier on the way home. Malia had always wanted one of those watches, the kind with the twelve little diamonds around the face. Maybe I can get to the Porsche dealership before it closes. David pictured a low-slung convertible — red, her favorite color.

“Up for this afternoon’s game, Dash?” The familiar voice jarred David from his daydreams. “They’re playing the Dodgers.” Mike Vigneri, a fellow trader in the natural-gas pit, came up beside him. When things were slow, Vigneri sometimes ducked out before the closing to catch an afternoon game at Shea.