Ghosts of Manhattan (28 page)

“Chappy said to take as much time as I need but I'm done. I told them I'm resigning. I can't go back.” He smiles. “The doctors said keeping on with a job like mine is a death sentence.”

“Yeah.”

“You and I knew that a long time ago.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

We're silent for a while, listening to the TV over my head. Jack is watching me, though. He continues, “I thought about getting out for years and never was able to bring myself to do it. In a way, I got off easy. My body put its foot down and it didn't kill me. It's amazing, but I feel happy. Even my ex-wife seems to like me now.”

“She's been to visit?”

“Round the clock. She'll be back in about an hour.” He puts his hands up to say, Can you believe it? “We've been pouring our hearts out, so to speak. It's been weird but interesting. Who knows?”

“Good for you, Jack.” He looks calm and happy. He seems different. Better. Even the way he talks is a little different, like he stopped trying to win over the whole world all the time.

He can still read people, though. “How are you doing?”

The true answer is probably not as well as Jack. “I'm going to leave soon too. I'm going to do it.”

“I recommend it. The water is fine.”

A nurse comes through the door and goes straight to Jack.
There's no pause for an invitation or even a hello. “I'm going to check your vitals, Mr. Wilson.”

“Hi, Krista. You know, the best a woman can look with clothes on is in a nurse outfit. I tell you what.”

Krista the nurse has a modicum of cuteness, nothing more. And that's beside the point. Or maybe it just adds a very little something to the main point. It's clear some things with Jack are going to take a while to change and I decide that's reassuring.

Neither Krista nor I acknowledges the remark and she goes on about her business. It's a private moment and a good excuse to go. “I'm glad you're okay. Take it easy on the nurses.” I stand and give him a handshake, picking up where we had left off the last one.

“I'll see you around, Nick.”

February 1, 2006

I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT MY BOURBON OATH AND MY
visit to Jack and I feel great this morning. The early trading has slowed down and I'm finishing up the
Wall Street Journal
at my desk when Freddie's number rings through to my cell phone.

“Hey, Freddie.”

“Hi, Nick. Are you at your desk?”

“Yup. How are you?”

“I've been better.”

I wait a moment for more information. “What's going on?”

“Nick, have you talked to your boss?”

“No. Why?”

“I'm sorry, Nick. I shouldn't have involved you at all.”

“Freddie, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I've just been escorted from the building. By armed security guards. I'm calling you from the sidewalk, sitting on a cardboard box that has all my personal effects.”

“They fired you. They actually fired you.” It isn't a question or even an incredulous declaration.

“My report. What else could it be?”

“Did they say anything?”

“They asked if anyone worked on the report with me. They asked about you.”

I don't say anything. My silence is a more effective prompt for information than smacking him across the back of the head.

“Obviously I told them you didn't have anything to do with it.”

I don't feel relief. I don't care enough to feel it. “I'm sorry, Freddie.”

“It's okay. This whole thing has stressed me out so much, I'm just glad it's over. It feels good to be outside the building.”

“Now you can go sell your story to the papers.”

“I don't think so. They made it clear that would be a very bad idea. There were two lawyers as part of my escort who made it clear about nine different ways that if I violate my confidentiality agreement, they'll make life very difficult for me.”

“Jesus, Freddie. I'm sorry. Have you talked to Rebecca?” I'm also curious for an update on her generally.

“Not in a while. Not about this. I think she backed away from the story.” He exhales right into the phone receiver and it sounds like a train in a tunnel. “It's like they're selling vacation property they know is sitting right over a fault line, and not only do they not disclose that to the buyers, they won't even acknowledge it themselves.” He pauses again. “Well, if something happens now, I'll have a clear conscience.”

I see my boss enter the trading floor and his eyes are searching and they land on me and he nods and starts in my direction. “Freddie, I have to go. Let's get together soon. I'm buying the pizza and Pepsi.”

Joe Sansone has a bald head and the rest of his body seems to match the bald roundness the way a dog will sometimes match
its owner. He has bright blue eyes that are the only attractive feature in an otherwise mass of unattractiveness that reminds me of Howard Stern even though he looks nothing like Howard Stern except for the eyes.

“Hiya, Nick.”

“Joe.” He's got an oversized smile, that phony son of a bitch. He's going to try for a friendly execution.

“You have a minute to talk right now?”

“Sure.”

“Let's go downstairs around the corner, get an iced tea. It's almost noon. Maybe something stronger.” Impossibly, the smile gets bigger and more fake.

“What's wrong with right here?”

“I have a few private things I need to discuss with you. It'll be better there. Come on, I'm buying.”

I look over his shoulder to check for the thick-necked security guards. There are none. “Fine.”

We take the elevator downstairs and walk all the way to the Bull & Bear at the Waldorf. A little too fancy for an execution. We sit at the bar and get two beers. A few other people have come for an early lunch but the restaurant is quiet. Nothing is said between us. When we've each had some of our beer, I decide I won't be the first to say anything. I can sit in silence longer than he can.

“Nick, I'll just come right out and say it.” He's still forcing his smile and I want to knock it off his face. I wonder if I look as angry as I feel. “You're doing a great job and I want to keep you. I want to make sure the firm keeps you.”

I'm washed over with confusion. “What do you mean, Joe?”

“I got approval from upstairs. I'm prepared to offer you a two-year deal at three point five million per year. Guaranteed. Seven
million bucks to commit to twenty-four months.” He slaps me on the arm.

I try not to look so shocked. I put my face in my beer for as long a sip as I can do. It occurs to me that the timing of this and Freddie's firing is suspicious. “Thanks, Joe. You really went to bat for me, huh?”

“Hey, I'm always supporting you, Nick.” He's so fluid with his false pleasantness. “So what do you say? I can show you where to sign this afternoon.” Still a salesman trying to close a deal.

“It's a two-year commit. I can't sign without running it by the wife.”

“Give her a call. I can step outside if you want a moment.”

“She's traveling with her parents for a few days.” Now I'm the one fluid with falseness. “Can it wait a few days?”

He shrugs.

“It's a great offer, Joe. Thank you. I just need a few days.”

“No problem. A few days.”

We finish our beers and get another round, and Joe seems to have something else on his mind that he's trying to get to. “You a golfer, Nick?”

“Time to time. I like it but I'm not a fanatic.”

“Me too. I'll tell you, Dale Brown is a fanatic. He's out on the course whenever he can be. A few times a week probably.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely a nut. You ever golf with him?”

Joe looks over with a casualness that doesn't ring true. This feels like the area he's tried to get to and the source of all his falseness. “Once, about five years ago.”

“Five years? Not since then?” He seems disappointed with my answer and tries to think of something else to cover his reaction. “We need to get you back out there.”

“Sure.”

“Dale's a good guy.” His awkward probing for some link between Dale and me tells me the offer of a guaranteed contract didn't originate with Joe. He's as confused by it as I was a minute ago, and he wants to know where it came from.

“Great guy.”

“Yeah, great guy.” Joe hates not knowing the political map of the organization. There's something driving decisions from the top about his team and he doesn't know what it is. I'm enjoying his frustration. I feel empowered to start calling the shots.

“Well, Joe. Thanks for the talk and the offer. I need to get back upstairs to follow up on a few things.” He has a flash of annoyance that he missed the opportunity to end the meeting himself.

“Thanks, Nick. A few days.”

I do have some follow-up to do and I wonder if a few days is enough. I could put up with a lot of crap for seven million bucks. Maybe that's enough then finally to leave things behind.

February 2, 2006

SOME KID WHO LOOKS LIKE HE WORKS IN THE BACK OFFICE
walks up to my desk. “Are you Nick Farmer?” he asks in a tone of apology.

“I am.”

“Some guy outside asked me to bring you this.” He hands me a sealed envelope that has “Nick Farmer” handwritten on the outside in block letters.

“Okay, thanks.” I take it and release the kid by now ignoring him. I open the envelope and there's a single page with a typed message:

Meet me at the deli on the corner of 56th and 2nd ASAP. I'll be waiting inside.

F. C.

Freddie has lost his damn mind. I put the page back in the envelope and fold it up. I'll throw it away in a trash can outside the building, just in case there's a legitimate reason for this idiocy.

It takes me about ten minutes to get to the deli, which is a typical-looking New York convenience store. It isn't the kind of New York–style deli that people who are not from New York think they should visit for real New York food. It looks like a tiny 7-Eleven that hasn't been washed in years. I make a loop around the single island of shelving in the small store and see Freddie isn't there. As I go to leave, Freddie appears in my path, blocking the door on his way in.

“Hey, Nick. Sorry, I wanted to see you go in first.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Let's move in to the back of the store.”

I let Freddie pull my sleeve. This is too weird to argue about yet.

“Bear Stearns has had me under surveillance.”

“You're nuts. Don't be a moron.”

He pulls out a tiny piece of black plastic.

“What's that?”

“A bug. A listening device that I found in my apartment after they fired me.”

“That's crazy. They would never try to pull something like that.”

“Sure they would. They just hire a private investigator to do it for less than five grand. The PI gets money from a third party and he wouldn't even know he's working for Bear.”

“You better be careful what you say then.”

“It's late for that. There's more.” Freddie looks sick.

“What?”

“They sent me a photograph.”

“Of what, Freddie? Don't make me draw this out piece by piece.”

“It's a compromising photo of me.”

“Sex?”

“Just before, but I'm meant to assume they have photos of that too.”

“Okay, so what? You should be pounding the table. You're not married, so good for you.”

He looks away from me and at a row of cereals on the shelf. “With a man.”

I let this piece together through my history of knowing Freddie. Poor guy is in hell. “So what, anyway? Screw them.”

“I can't have that find its way to my mom and dad. I just can't even imagine that.”

We're quiet for a while. “I'm really sorry, Freddie.”

He picks up with what seems to be the main point of coming to see me. “Did you read my full report to Dale?”

This should come as no surprise. “No.”

“I want you to understand exactly what happened. What the report means. They think you understand it anyway, so you should.”

“Are you putting me in danger?”

“I think you're okay. At this point, having the information would protect you. Several people are already saying what I've been saying. Some hedge fund guys, even a senior trader at Deutsche Bank is saying anyone holding these positions is screwed. The only thing Bear cares about now is that nobody can point to a person inside Bear who was saying early on that Bear had the facts and knowingly pushed around toxic securities. That way they can just claim stupid instead of evil. I think either one is criminal, but they'd still prefer stupid.”

I'm pissed I'm getting deeper in this with Freddie, but there's nothing else to do. “Fine, go ahead.”

“Here's the sequence. The government passes legislation that facilitates and encourages every American to own a home. This
may be the only well-intentioned piece of it. Well-intentioned but stupid because that set the table. Everything else is greed. Lenders start lending because that's how lenders make fees and profits. They lend recklessly and irresponsibly. There's a whole category of loan called a no-doc loan, meaning the borrowers didn't show any documentation at all about how creditworthy they are. The lender just wrote the loan and charged a fee. So now you have a bunch of bad loans out there. Really bad.”

“Okay.”

“Then guys like the ones you work for get involved. They take all these loans and bundle them into a security and claim the diversity of a thousand loans or so makes the overall security of a higher quality. Nobody actually looks at the individual loans within the security, but if you do, you see the security is going to be a mess. Normal default rates are two to three percent. If ten percent of the loans were to default, the security would blow up. If anyone actually does the analysis, they'll see these are geared for forty percent default rates.”