The Frankenstein Candidate (42 page)

Roscoe Maynard had not met Frank Stein since that fateful day in Manhattan when Stein refused to take the eighty-five million campaign contribution.

Roscoe was sixty-four and very satisfied with himself as he pushed back an unruly lock of hair that strayed on to his forehead, as he was wont to do. Not a speck of color had stayed, but his hairline had never receded; the thick, lustrous growth had earned him the nickname the Silver Fox, and he had lived up to it. Born into money, tall, handsome, and intelligent, he had had a great life. He had been, and still was, on top of the world. The executive chairman of the Featherstone Fiduciary Alliance, he had taken over at the helm when the company, FFA to some, was formed by a series of mergers among teetering life insurance, banking services, and money management companies in 2014. He had rationalized operations, reduced costs and risks, and invested overseas in natural resources. Under his leadership, FFA had thrived to become one of those rare beasts—a financial conglomerate that was extremely successful without assistance from the Federal Reserve, Wall Street, or the government. Six years at the top in Wall Street had put him in the billionaire club. He had married thrice, the third time in his fifties to an attractive thirty-one-year-old Hollywood actress. Now the Silver Fox was slowly getting ready to announce his retirement.

He had three grandchildren from his first marriage. He was looking forward to spending more time with them and with his golf buddies. Only one thing was troubling him. A great depression was about to set in, according to his company economists. Perhaps he needed to exit quickly. His age could make a sudden announcement seem natural, and he could still leave with his legacy intact, perhaps in a few weeks. He still loved coming to work and getting all the attention. He loved Manhattan. He loved his office. He loved the Big Apple. On the other hand, tomorrow could be perfect for a surprise announcement. Tuesday, September 15. He had circled the date on his calendar. It was the day FFA’s overseas managing directors were in town, and he wanted to ask Laura Moneghetti, currently heading up the company’s European operations, to return to the United States and take over from him. Roscoe Maynard started preparing a private letter to send to his board, explaining his decision and recommending Laura.

He was on his fifth draft when his secretary announced that two federal securities agents needed to see him. They rarely came unannounced, preferring to send notices in the mail—it must be urgent, he thought. Even rarer for them was to be insistent, chopping at the door like hungry woodpeckers. The last thing he needed was a scandal, but neither could he afford to be seen to be stalling. A pity the law had been amended to allow securities regulators to conduct themselves this way. Under the new legislation, notice periods were set aside when the matter was
deemed
to be of sufficient national importance and urgency. Deemed by whom? Of course, deemed by the SEC staffers themselves.

The two SEC agents were both female, both young, and both dressed in grey pinstripe suits. They looked very different from each other, yet he thought of them as two bodies with one mind—perhaps it was because they seemed accustomed to finishing each other’s sentences. They had obviously taken pains to take the feminine out of their being: their clothes, their mannerisms, even their voices.
Why did they need to ape men?
He looked at the wall clock. It was six p.m.

It was a Janet and a Jean, and the last names he could not even remember although the words did escape their lips and they left their business cards with him. One was a securities lawyer. When Roscoe looked at the clock again, it was seven p.m., the two women were leaving and he felt a vice-like tightness in his abdomen. His secretary came in to say she was leaving and thought he was sick—he looked white as a ghost. She offered to call a doctor—he declined. She left, leaving behind another message about his wife having booked a seven thirty dinner at Giardino D’Oro, a classic haunt for the elite of Manhattan.

It had just been a series of trades. Roscoe had hardly put a foot wrong. He had dealings with all the major Street firms and a stellar forty-year career. Now the SEC wanted to investigate a wide range of his professional transactions. What had the world come to? They had even hinted that he would be let off if he could help them catch a bigger fish—as if he was guilty. And what bigger fish was there? He was the biggest, the best, and the cleanest the Street had ever seen. He called Jack. When in trouble, he always called Jack. A childhood friend of Roscoe’s, Jack Robson was the company’s chief counsel. Jack always had time for Roscoe, twenty-four/seven.

Roscoe poured himself a shot of bourbon. It was going to be a long night. He tore up the resignation letter. It would be a bad time to go. He had to see this through, otherwise guilt would be assumed. Then again, there was the prospect of an economic depression. He had to go clean. He had to have an untainted legacy. Nothing else mattered. Jack Robson called back. He listened carefully. Then he wanted all the details sent to him. They agreed to meet early, at six-thirty in Roscoe’s office the next day, well before anyone else was in the office. Roscoe left the office, appetite extinguished. He called his wife to cancel the dinner. The super PAC money that he had helped put together with Chip Ramsey was now over two hundred million dollars and presently it was backing Sidney Ganon, who threatened to nationalize the whole lot of them. It was one way to get your ailing corporation rescued.
Perhaps the Republicans were trying to get even,
he thought to himself.

Across the street, another banker, Chip Ramsey, who too had not met Frank Stein since that fateful day, was having a big day. Chip was fifty-eight years old, a workaholic, and a lean, haggard-looking skin cancer survivor. The Lean Mean Machine, they called him. He, too, was one of the kings of Wall Street. He was, quite literally, on top of the world. He had a fifteen-hundred-square-foot office on the sixty-fifth floor of a newly built skyscraper on the corner of Wall Street and Water Street with expansive views over the East River and well beyond.

It had been a terrible few weeks for him. He was the president of East Coast Atlantic Banking Corporation, and his company had recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. He had tried to avoid it throughout the year. East Coast’s workforce of thirty thousand had shrunk by more than half in the previous six months, with most of the cuts coming within the United States.

It was Chip’s last day in the office. It was probably the last day of his thirty-seven-year career in the field. So married had he been to his job that he had been twice divorced, and he hardly remembered even the ages of the four children his two marriages had given him. The feeling was mutual. Both his ex-wives detested him and had milked him for all he would give, plus much more. The children hardly ever saw him. He had no friends, no hobbies. But the quintessential deal-maker that he was, he always came out on top. But not this time, at least not reputation wise. He had still come out well financially. Well, more than just well. He had signed on to a new six-year term just twelve months back. The lost opportunity for bonuses and stock options in his employment contract meant that he was entitled to a payout of $75 million, all in cash. The board pleaded with him to not take it, or to at least reduce it to a third of what it was. But Chip wanted it all. He had everything that a man could possess. A private jet, three mansions, including one in Majorca, six Bentleys, and unprecedented wealth despite what the ex-wives had taken from him.

But Chip remembered how some of his predecessors had managed their legacies. They had started foundations that gave to the poor in Africa or invested in green energy and medical research. He could visualize it all. The Ramsey Foundation for…let’s see, malaria eradication…no, the Gates foundation was already doing that…how about cancer research, no…education, yes, that’s it. America needed education. He would set up a fund to help kids through college. Among other things, the Ramsey Foundation would also help poor Nigerians buy goats and all that sort of stuff.

Yes, it was Chip’s last day in commerce, but he was going to leave a great legacy, a lasting one. He stared at the crisp check they had given him…$75 million. He wondered why they had said no to an electronic transfer. But he liked the check. Ironically, he wouldn’t accept a check drawn on East Coast, for whom he worked for fifteen years of his life, but they already knew that.

There was the perfunctory matter of his grand send-off next week, but in effect, tomorrow was going to be Chip Ramsey’s first day in the world of philanthropy.

It was ten-thirty at night as he stepped into the elevator. He didn’t take his private elevator, which he had taken for the last seven years. He stepped into the one for all employees. Of course, on the sixty-fifth floor he was alone. As he was going down, he thought the floors must be deserted. A year ago, the elevator would have been stopping all the way down, even at this hour. People used to work hard at East Coast Atlantic. A young man got in at the thirty-third. He was in his late twenties, with auburn hair, a slim build, and tall. He recognized Chip Ramsey.

“It’s my last day too, Mr. Ramsey.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he found himself saying.

The young man turned his face away.

“We tried,” Chip said. “We tried everything.”

The young man shook his head. The elevator stopped and the doors opened at the foyer. Chip saw one of the security guards smile at him.

“Not everything,” the young man said. “Some of us won’t get jobs for years. The seventy-five million could have helped to reduce our pain.”

The young man stepped out first, not offering to step aside for the senior man. He went his own way without waiting for a response from Chip, as though any rational response was impossible.

Chip stepped out into the cool autumn breeze. He knew how it must look. He did feel sorry for the guy with the auburn hair, but none of the seventy-five million was for himself—philanthropy was a higher calling.

Chip hadn’t called his driver yet. Chip thought he would take a brief walk down Water Street, down past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He often did that. His old man had died in Vietnam. He had been only nine then. He had come a long way since. He wanted to say, “You would be proud of me, Dad” as he walked past the Memorial.

He never got there. Someone else recognized him. It was a man, scraggly and disheveled, wearing a beanie and an old mackintosh. Strange, Chip thought, why the mackintosh—there was little chance of rain and no drizzle. Then the man reached into his raincoat.

Only very briefly did Chip see the gun. It was the last thing he would see. The silencer was on, and hardly anyone heard the gunshot. The scraggly, ragged man showed no emotion.

“Take your seventy-five million to hell, Mr. Ramsey,” he said, “while we on Main Street take our hell on earth.”

Chip never heard that remark; he’d been shot in the chest and quickly became unconscious. He wasn’t going to last more than a minute. The shaggy figure in the raincoat and gloves flipped him over to hide the oozing blood. He then threw his raincoat over the side, where he thought a cesspool of red immorality had already gathered. Then he hurried away, carefully concealing his gun.

The first day of the new world of philanthropy never arrived. The ex-wives and the children would fight over the dollars, and there would not even be one goat for one Nigerian at the end of it.