Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

Stein got down to business by picking up the report he’d brought with him. He waved the document in the air and made his scrambled, inflamed speech about agar. The fleeting impulse to gallantry was now dead. He’d remembered what he did not understand. He continued:

“Agar’s on first and agar’s on second. No, agar’s on first, smack’s on second, crack’s on third. It reads like I don’t know what.” No one appeared to disagree. “Let me ask you this, Dr. Roy. What’s this stuff about ‘Consequential Developments’? I don’t know what the hell it means but I don’t like the sound of it. Where do you get that from anyway? How do you know what will happen?”

His bratty-student voice rose even higher. “Isn’t that a medical conclusion? You’re a Ph. D., right? Rockefeller Institute?” He held up the cover of the report and pointed to her name.

“That is correct. I am Ganga Roy, Ph. D.”

“Well, damnit, that’s what I mean!” Stein exploded. “What we’ve got here is just some technical bullshit. Thank you Dr. Roy for your technical report. But all this crap about consequences-am I confused or what? Isn’t that a medical thing? A medical kind of judgment? Don’t we need a medical expert to make a call like that?” He stared at the Indian woman, eyes expectant, all but asking, “Aren’t we one man short here?”

She could not have imagined a more delicious turn to the conversation.

“Oh, I certainly agree. I certainly do.” She flicked an eye toward her new friend Tom, to see whether he was in touch with the joy of the moment. He gave no sign of it. “And most certainly you have the medical opinion upon which you rightly insist. I am also Ganga Roy, MD. I am also a medical doctor, you see. Much like agar-agar, Mr. Stein, you may wish to regard me as doctor-doctor. And, if I may add, with some modesty, I consult for many firms as well as your own, precisely because I am qualified to provide the very thing that you have aptly identified, which is to say, an expert opinion.”

Which was, after all, why Tom Maloney had called her yesterday requesting a “detailed and complete” briefing on the subject of potential problems associated with E. coli contamination in ground beef. Dr. Roy, a fellow at the Rockefeller Institute and professor of medicine at Albert Einstein College of Medicine, consulted with many firms. She billed on a “per day” basis: fifteen hundred dollars for research and reports (plus a thousand more should she appear at a meeting, like this one, to explain her work); five thousand a day for depositions or court appearances. Last year this arrangement brought her eighty thousand in extra income, which included nine thousand in research fees from Stein, Gelb, Hector several of whose functionaries had, in recent months, asked her to investigate the practices of companies in which Stein, Gelb had taken an interest. She reported that the objects of their interest did or did not pollute, were or were not at risk for regulatory sanction. Something like that, she presumed, drove Tom Maloney’s agenda now.

Until yesterday she hadn’t heard of Tom Maloney. During their initial chat, he insisted with unexpected force, though never impolitely, that she present the following day. She told him her schedule would not permit. He doubled her rate to offset the inconvenience. She resisted. He persisted. She gave in before he got to the point of indicating the dollar value of those who sought her counsel. She would have guessed that the woman got a million or two; the black man something more than that; the others even more. Her guesses would have been far short of reality. Further, he did not mention the name of the specific firm in which they had taken an interest. He did emphasize that her audience would be unacquainted with the subject matter. This input was unnecessary. Dr. Roy understood that Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills Securities did not, themselves, process meat.

She followed her rebuke to Nathan with a slight, charming smile. That crossed his wires sufficiently to quiet him for a moment. Tom saw his opportunity and slid a hand onto Stein’s shoulder.

“Just part of the job,” he thought, “but not just part of the job.” Keeping Nathan Stein on an even keel in times of crisis had become Tom Maloney’s most important task. It hadn’t always been so. Twenty years ago, Tom recalled, Nathan had been just as hard-ass about things, equally as aggressive, maybe more so, and probably meaner than he was now. But it played better in his late twenties than in middle age. Ambition is a garment best worn by the young. Tom knew that just as well as he knew who Nathan Stein was the first time he met him.

Tom was standing at the crowded bar waiting for the bartender to make his drinks. His friends were seated across the busy, noisy barroom. Lancers was the name of the place. It had changed names a half dozen times since then, but in those early, heady days it was the Wall Street equivalent of a cop bar. But Lancers, instead of serving as a home away from home for the city’s armed and dangerous blue-collar workers, was filled with stock traders and brokers unwinding as they came off the floor, trying to do two things at the same time-overhear any nugget of news they might make money with, and looking to get laid. Naturally there were the secretaries seeking to better themselves, carefully deciding who to fuck and who not to. The raptors, of course, were there too. Raptors was the name given to people like Nathan Stein. They already had the power and they still had their youth. Some of them made it on their own. Many had more than a little help here and there. A few, like Nathan, were lucky enough to be born into it. Their name was on the door. “Grandson of Ben.” Everybody knew him as that.

Nathan could have done as some did: played golf and fucked every woman he could. And there was no shortage of them to be found at Stein, Gelb and every other firm in the neighborhood. He might have paid little or no attention to the real business of business. Tom often wondered how some men could squander opportunity in such a manner. “Good Christ,” he thought. Had he been fortunate enough to be a son-of or grandson-of, he would surely have done what Nathan Stein did. He would have grabbed that golden ring in his cradle and… just give me the chance! Tom wished. He didn’t know him personally, but he admired Nathan Stein. What he didn’t know was that Nathan Stein admired him.

Nathan didn’t have big dreams. He had big plans. He knew, and so did Tom Maloney, the difference between the two. Anyone could dream. Only the powerful could make plans. And Nathan had every reason to believe he would bring his to fruition right on schedule. After all, his name was on the door. He viewed Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills Securities as the major leagues, the NFL, and he saw the rest of the financial world as his farm system, his own private version of college football. He scouted, spotted talent, watched it develop and mature, then drafted accordingly. Although Maloney didn’t know it, Nathan had his eyes on Tom for a while. Maloney was a definite first-round draft choice.

“Maloney,” said Nathan Stein, maneuvering his way next to the big Irishman. He stuck out his hand. “Nathan Stein.”

Tom said, “Good to meet you. I’m Tom Maloney.”

“I know who you are and you’ve no idea how good it is… for you.”

“Beg your pardon?” The bar was very noisy and the two had to shout at each other only inches apart to be heard. “What?”

“Come see me tomorrow, early as possible,” said Stein, handing Tom his card. “You’re coming to work for me.”

“I am?”

“Give them your notice, Tom. We’ll work it out in the morning.” Then Nathan Stein looked into Tom Maloney’s eyes in the way only the wealthy can when they see someone who is not, someone who has just hit the jackpot. “You’re a rich man now, Tom.”