Bond Girl (30 page)

The two beers left in the bucket were now floating in water, a sight no Wall Streeter likes to see. Reese ordered another dozen from the waitress and put them on his card. Marchetti offered to buy the round, but Reese pointed out that if things went the way he expected them to, we would be spending a lot of time in bars together after work and there would be plenty of opportunities for him to pick up a check. Which, in theory, was true. So we drank in honor of Chick and out of fear for ourselves.

T
wo days later, on Thursday, Darth called Marchetti into his office to review his account list, and then fired him, so he never did have a chance to pick up a check. Darth's office became a metaphoric gas chamber, and we spent every day in fear of being summoned to it. We were in the bar again that night, getting bombed in honor of Marchetti, and out of even greater fear for ourselves, and what it meant to work at Cromwell.

“You know what's really screwed up?” Patty put her hair in a ponytail and reached for her sunglasses on the table.

“There's only
one
thing?” I asked.

“Baby Gap.”

“Ahh, yes. What's her real name again?” Drew asked.

“Hannah,” I said.

“Whatever, who cares what her real name is,” Patty scoffed. “Why in God's name does she still have a seat when she does nothing all day? Marchetti produced how much last year for the desk?”

Reese answered immediately. “Forty million, give or take.
And
he ate the vending machine.”

“Forty million dollars. And he gets fired, but Life-Size Barbie gets to stay when she has no idea what she's doing? Do you know what she asked me the other day?”

“If the recession had resulted in the reduced price of cosmetic procedures?” Drew offered.

“If her size extrasmall shirt looked too baggy on her?” Reese chimed in.

“If she could have the afternoon off to get highlights?” I added.

“She asked me when she was going to be allowed to start trading stocks. Stocks!” Patty declared.

I snorted in disgust. “Did you explain to her that stocks and bonds are not the same thing? And that we don't do both?”

“I tried, but she was too busy shopping for velour sweat suits online.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Drew yelled. “She was
shopping
while people were getting fired?”

“Yes! That's why I want to know how she still has a job.”

“One word: morale,” Reese said. “It went to hell when the Dow broke eleven thousand. They can't fire her. She's the only thing getting half the floor into work in the morning. What else are people supposed to do all day to keep their minds off the fact that we're all broke and getting broker?”

Drew nodded. “Yup. You'll know things are really bad when they start firing the hot chicks.”

Nineteen

Payback's a Bitch

I
don't remember much of July. It was a blur of alcohol, antacids, flashing red lights, screaming, cursing, and sleep deprivation. And that was just the weekends. By midsummer we were all functioning on autopilot, our bodies lunging relentlessly forward long after our brains had been damaged from stress and shock. Having a front-row seat to watch the destruction of the American economy wasn't really what I thought I was signing up for back in 2006. Then again, I hadn't had a fucking clue
what
I was signing up for back in the day, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised.

My nonfinancial-sector friends were once again spending the weekends in the Hamptons, unconcerned with the fact that another Depression was looming. I wanted desperately to join them, to sit on a beach and read a novel purely for fun, or curl up with a stack of glossy magazines about fashion, beauty products, or the perils of online dating. But I was working too much on weekends to join them. Ironically, having my weekends free was one of the main reasons I had gone into sales to begin with, because in a normal economy, salespeople weren't needed to hold their clients' hands 24/7. So clearly my logic had been majorly flawed. Again.

It was really starting to bug me.

When I had started at Cromwell, Chick told me that there were a million other kids who wanted a job on Wall Street and failed to get one, so I should feel lucky. I didn't feel so lucky anymore, and these days I doubted the youth of America were lining up to work for the industry that was single-handedly responsible for crushing the American dream. Rick refused to trade with me, despite the fact that he kept me busy all day long modeling new trades, creating graphs and charts, and digging up historical pricing information from every database in the free world. When Chick had covered Rick and AKS, he brought in $30 million to $32 million annually. My production with him, so far, was way down. Actually, it was zero. My blood pressure, on the other hand, was way up. Which was also not good for me.

I was called in to “interview for your job” with Darth on a Friday during the first week of August. When I entered the room, he was sitting in Chick's chair at the head of the table; his Coke-bottle glasses were perched on the tip of his scaly nose as he skimmed a stack of papers in front of him. He pretended to read while I sat in the room in uncomfortable silence, staring at the horns on the top of his head.

Or something like that.

Finally, he spoke.

“How are you doing?” he asked, completely disinterested.

Fine, Darth. Except for the fact that you replaced my boss, fired my friend, and are now making me audition for a role I've killed myself for.
“I'm great, thanks.”

“What's going on with Rick Kieriakis?”

“You assigned him to me a few weeks ago at his request.” Never hurt to remind the boss that you were in high demand from some very important people.

“Right,” he said skeptically. “See, what's interesting to me, though, is that you haven't done any business with him since you started covering him.”

True, but he berates me on a regular basis. Does that win me any bonus points?

“The market's been difficult. I'm sure once things settle down he will start trading again.”

“That's all well and good, but the problem is, he's been trading a lot with a friend of mine who covers him at another shop. So why is it the market conditions make it difficult for
you
to trade with him, and yet he has no problem trading with other people?”

Somehow, trying to fill Darth in on the details surrounding the transfer of coverage from Chick to me didn't seem like a good idea. Darth wouldn't believe anything I told him; he'd just think it was a pathetic attempt by a female employee to explain away her incompetence. Whatever shred of pride I had left, I was keeping. At least while I was in this conference room.

“I don't have an answer for that.”

“Well, it's a problem. So I called Rick this morning to get his thoughts on how things were working out between you, and if you were giving him the level of service he expected.”

I could tell him right now Rick wasn't getting the level of “service” he expected; but if that's what he was looking for, he could find any number of girls in Times Square who would be more than happy to oblige him for a twenty-dollar bill or a MetroCard.

Darth opened a manila folder and consulted its contents. “He told me that you're doing okay, considering your inexperience, but that he isn't satisfied with the quality of attention you are giving him.”

Oh shit.

“I talk to him at least ten times a day.”

Darth closed the folder and spoke very slowly, as if normal pentameter would somehow confuse me. “I don't care how many times you call him. He's unhappy; that's all I care about. Things are tough here, Alex, and if you can't keep your clients happy, I don't see you being here much longer. How can I defend your presence when you have clients—important clients—who are unhappy with your work?”

He clasped his hands together on the table, interlocking his pale freckly fingers. Tufts of red hair grew out of his knuckles, the veins on the back of his hands made a blue roadmap across his skin. I imagined his childhood had been pretty miserable, and realized I was probably part of some
Revenge of the Nerds–
like plan he had for the group. Fantastic.

“I expect you to start making some headway with AKS soon,” he said. “I don't care what you have to do. He's too big a client to be inactive.” His voice was flat and vacant. Unlike Chick, who did everything with passion and emotion, this guy was a robot.

“Okay.”

“Go,” he said sternly as he pointed at the door.

I went back to the desk and took a few minutes to compose myself before placing the phone call. I put on my headset, cleared runway nine for landing, and hit the light for the seventh circle of hell.

“What the fuck do you want?” he answered.

The muscles in my calf began to shake. “Hey, Rick. I just had a meeting with Keith and I'd like to talk to you for just a minute if you can spare it.”

“Sixty seconds. Go.”

“Keith mentioned that you said you weren't happy with my coverage.”

“That shouldn't be news to you.”

“I don't know what else I can do, Rick. I'm trying the best I can to get you what you want, but if this is because you aren't happy with our personal relationship, then please, ask Keith to assign someone else. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my job over this. Please.”

“You aren't going to lose your job.”

“I'm not? You'll help me?”

“Absolutely fucking not. But I won't let Keith fire you. Then you could just disappear and what fun would that be for me? The only way you'll be rid of me, Alex, is if you quit. And considering you have a better shot of being hit by a bus than getting another job on Wall Street right now, I'd say that puts you in a bit of a bind, doesn't it?”

Click.

I dropped my headset on the floor and went to the empty ladies' room on the sixth floor, and for the next ten minutes, I sobbed uncontrollably.

I
spent Saturday cleaning my apartment and watching a
Law and Order
marathon on TV. I was so tired of being yelled at. All I wanted was to be left alone. On Sunday I picked up two bottles of red wine to help curb my depression at the expense of my waistline. I debated picking up a pack of smokes because I found lately that a single drag of a Parliament beat an hour of yoga any day, but I really wanted to quit, so I bypassed the bodega. Sundays sucked. The sun slowly began to set and shadows filled my apartment. I poured myself a glass of wine and lay down on the sofa. I hated that my job was driving me to drink. I hated lots of things.

My phone beeped.

SMS from Kieriakis, Rick:

It doesn't have to be like this. I can make things easier on you. You should reconsider.

Jesus Christ, even God rested on Sunday.

I spun my phone around and around in my hand, trying to decide if I should respond to Rick, and if so, what I should say. This wasn't the same job I had worked so hard for anymore. This job was turning me into someone I didn't even recognize. I wiped a tear from my eye before burrowing back under the blanket with another large glass of red.

It was the only coping mechanism I had left.

I
stepped off the elevator, my head still foggy and throbbing, leaving the guys to talk about fairways and lacrosse games, and repeated my personal pep talk for the second time since waking up.
You can do it, Alex. You can handle it. You will not let him break you.

I logged in to my computer with my new password, killmenow. One word.

“Do I look as bad as I think I do?” I asked Drew.

He sighed. “I'm afraid so, my friend. You look . . . well, actually, you look like you're still drunk, if you want the honest truth.”

I was afraid of that.

My phone rang, and if the firm didn't pay me to pick it up, I wouldn't have. I knew whoever was on the other end was only going to make me miserable. That's all anyone did lately. “Good morning, Cromwell Pierce.”

“Alex Garrett, please.”

I tried to summon enough saliva to speak, but my mouth was so dry it was like a cat died on my tongue. Nothing good was going to come from this conversation. “Oh, good morning, Keith. It's me.”

“Can you please come meet me in my office?”

It's not your office. It's Chick's office, you asshole.
I hung up the phone and turned to Drew. “I was just summoned to Darth's lair,” I said with a sigh.

“I'm sure you're fine,” he said.

“See, that's where you're wrong, Drew,” I moaned, the stress weighing on me like a wet wool coat. “I haven't been fine in a very long time.”

I slowly made my way through the hordes of screaming traders and salespeople and remembered my first day on this floor, when I had first glimpsed one of Wall Street's biggest powerhouses. I was both overwhelmed and disappointed. It was the first of many things at Cromwell that didn't end up being the way I imagined them to be.

I knocked softly on the door before I entered the office for the second time in three days.

“Take a seat, Alex.”

Darth's piercing blue eyes and freckle-covered skin reminded me of a kid who lived down the block from me when I was little. He had a stutter and perpetual allergies. My friends and I used to torment him at recess for no other reason, really, than we could. My mother warned me to treat others the same way I wanted to be treated or it would come back to haunt me.

Payback's a bitch.

“Alex, there are two reasons for this meeting. The first thing I want to talk to you about is the annual Bond Market Association conference in Scottsdale. I assume you're familiar with it?”

“Sure, Chick used to go. It's a weeklong event where speakers from different shops give presentations. Great for networking, from what I understand.”

“Precisely. I can't go this year because I have to be in London on business. Someone from Cromwell needs to attend as a lot of our clients will be there. I was going to send Reese in my place, but Rick called this morning and asked if I could send you instead.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“In Scottsdale? With Rick? For a week.”

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

“You seem just as shocked as I was when he asked. It's not standard practice to send anyone but managers to this event, but then again, I've never had a high-profile client make a personal request for a salesperson. Rick gets what Rick wants, so pack your bags.”

My chest heaved as I struggled to breathe. There was no way in hell I was going to this conference. I could just picture five days of Rick chasing me from cactus to canyon like Wile E. Coyote after the Road Runner. Forced to stay in the same hotel. Forced to spend twelve hours a day together. Forced to wear shorts and sleeveless tops in the desert heat. No way.

“Keith, I think it would be better if Reese went.”

“Rick wants you.”

This wasn't just an awkward night out at a Midtown restaurant or drinks in a hotel bar. This was a business trip that Rick no doubt intended to turn into a romantic getaway. I no longer had a choice.

“I didn't want to say anything Keith, but when Rick says he ‘wants' me, I think he means it in the . . . umm . . .
biblical
sense.”

Darth snorted with laughter. “Are you insane, Alex?”

“No.”

“Rick's married. He's wealthy, powerful, and well known along the entire Street, and you're seriously going to tell me that he's interested in
you
? No offense, Alex, but if he wanted to cheat, he could do much better.”

“None taken.”
You colossal asshole.
“However, I think he has taken an unhealthy interest in me for the last year. I've been struggling to handle this on my own. I wouldn't have brought it to your attention, but there's no way I can go to Arizona with him.”

“I'm sure you misunderstood, but why don't you give me some examples and we will see if there's any merit to your complaint.”

“He sent me flowers at my apartment after I was promoted.”

“He and Chick were good friends. He was trying to be nice to his new analyst. You should've written him a thank-you note instead of using it against him a year later.”

“He texts me all the time. He constantly asks me to meet him for drinks after work.”

“You're in
sales,
Alex. You're supposed to be meeting clients for drinks after work multiple times a week. Are all your clients hitting on you? Or is it just Rick?”