The Triple Goddess (9 page)

Occasionally brokers would give the Chimp their unplaceable contracts, the no-hopers that nonetheless had to be shown around the market for form’s sake to prove to the client or prospective client that they had been turned down by everyone; or, if a rate had been secured from some third-rate underwriter, that they were uncompletable. Frequently the brokers were astounded when the Chimp returned to the office with sellable rates and lines on their “dogs”. How the Chimp achieved the impossible was a mystery even to the underwriters whom he had somehow suckered or soft-soaped into subscribing to them; and as Chandler Brothers’ simian servitor was nattering his way back to the office in the company of some fellow worker he had latched onto along the way, these Chimp-Chumps, as such underwriters were called, having come to their senses, would be scrambling unsuccessfully to offload the thing in the reinsurance or secondary market at twice the premium.

The Chinless Wonder was another well-heeled ex-military man, late of the Grenadier Guards, a regiment for which he was genetically ill-suited because had no underside to his jaw over which to secure the strap of his bearskin. Several times the King had complained to Chinless’s Commanding Officer about it falling off on ceremonial occasions.

Chinless had been dismissed from the military for insubordination, after an incident involving his Regimental Sergeant-Major, Mr Battershell—a man with chins to spare who used to rub the fact in, literally, by obtruding them during inspection where Chinless’s own might have been, so that they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

“There’s a cunt at the end of this stick, Guardsman,” the pigeon-chested Sergeant-Major snarled one day after watching a square-bashing rehearsal for Trooping the Colour, as he poked Chinless, while he was standing in the At Ease position, in the chest with his pace-stick.

“Not at this end, sah!”, responded Chinless; and he went on to inform Mr Batters-Hell that, in support of his refutation, he understood that Mr Batters-Hell’s maternal ancestor was the woman who had put the
cunt
in Scunthorpe.

The Chinless Wonder, who was a tireless practical joker, had Chimp-speak down pat, and made many an underwriter jump by imitating his unmistakable sounds behind the box. In the mornings when the Chimp left the office, Chinless would give vent to the general relief by scampering across the desktops, dragging his knuckles and screaming until called from the Golden Mile to complain about the noise.

On one occasion the Chief Executive came round in person. Chinless got off the desk, saluted him, answered a ringing phone and handed it to his chief, informing him that his office was forwarding a call from his mistress. The young brokers occasionally saw the CEO, whose name was Ranulph, in the company of this woman, a sultry Argentinian temptress called Ramona who carried it all before her, at Annabel’s nightclub; after which they were confident that American Express could rely upon their outstanding expense account balances that month being paid in full.

The boss scowled at Chinless and grabbed the handset. ‘Hello, Honeybunch, how are you?’ he crooned into the mouthpiece—he was proud of his extramarital accomplishments, and did not care who knew about them, with one exception: his wife—‘Is Honeybunch looking forward to putting on her camiknickers tonight, the pair Daddy got her for her birthday, and spanking him for being so naughty? Guess what, Honeybunch: the Old Lady thinks that Daddy’s staying in town tonight for dinner with a client, instead of meeting Honeybunch at the flat at six and eating caviar out of her belly-button.’

At home in Hove and on the other end of the line, the Old Lady, otherwise known as the Chief Executive’s wife, or Arlene, was chagrined that she was the one to get all the proof she needed so easily of her husband’s latest infidelity, rather than the private investigator whom she had paid handsomely to do the job for her in addition to forking out for his wire-tapping service, which was extra.

Arlene had only telephoned Ranulph to tell him to order a case of good champagne—she knew nothing about wine except how to drink it—on his account at Berry Bros & Rudd for her to serve at her next ladies’ book club meeting—it was her turn to host.

Notwithstanding, thanks to Chinless’s penchant for mischief, the Ranulph and Ramona show was over...or perhaps not, though it was hardly likely that Argentina would stick around now that Arlene had everything she required to secure a substantial divorce settlement and marry a man who was wealthier and better-looking than Ranulph, and who did not fall asleep on the job; and if Honeybunch knew what was good for her, and Arlene suspected that she did, she would soon be on the
qui vive
for someone similar herself.

Who knew? perhaps Arlene and Ramona could be of mutual assistance again.

Without waiting for Ranulph’s wrath to descend upon him, Chinless, hooting with hilarity, fell onto all fours, tossed a banana skin over his shoulder, and raced out of the office clawing at his armpits.

Oink Chandler was a popular individual who was important enough to warrant a glass cubicle of his own outside the brokers’ bullpen, and he was Arbella’s boss. As a black-sheep descendant of the founding family, Oink had gambled and drunk most of his inheritance away, and was working hard at getting rid of the remainder after business hours. He slept, it appeared, in the same brown wrinkled and malodorous suit and shirt as he wore to work. His piggy eyes and features were bloodshot and flushed with indulgence.

Despite his rotundity and shambling walk, Oink was capable of putting on a surprising burst of speed, especially after work when an open pub door swam into his ken. During the day, however, Oink was conscientious about his responsibilities and abstained from betting, except for a call or two to his bookie, and alcohol, even at lunch. He hardly ever went up to the Room because as an Assistant Director he was in immediate charge of all the brokers, and had to be available in the office to give them instructions or advice if they needed them or called in from Lloyd’s with a question.

In the afternoons, as soon as his American and Canadian East Coast clients were at their desks and calling him or vice-versa, Oink would be slumped at his desk jawing with them on the phone with as much mutual exchange of banter as there was of business, a Number Six cigarette wagging in the corner of his mouth, and taking notes of their instructions.

When Oink did go up to the Room he was able to reduce the most impossible ass of an underwriter to tears of laughter with his jokes, and the performance of such stunts as micturating into a waste-paper basket from a dozen feet away in return for a rate reduction. But as much as his clients adored Oink’s irreverent manner, and as much as they had a taste for expensive restaurants like The Ivy, Le Gavroche, and Le Caprice, they drew the line at eating with him.

It was an abhorrent spectacle, and those who witnessed it were never quite the same afterwards, and had difficulty in speaking about the experience. Drinking with Oink was a different matter, if one could hold one’s booze. Five minutes after knocking off at night, Oink came into his own and was to be found standing on one leg at The Ship in Hart Street, buying rounds and pounding down large scotches, preparatory to departing en route to the next watering hole of the evening.

Despite which, he was always first into the office every morning, after a long commute from near the coast, and ready to remonstrate with anyone who was late.

Oink, of course, was hardly alone in the industry in having a taste for drink in quantity at lunchtime, and in return for meting out considerate treatment to brokers, underwriters expected to be well entertained by them, if not as royally as their clients were. The mariners, in particular, were heavily into port, which made sense since they never went to sea, and would spend entire afternoons with their mess-mates polishing off bottle after bottle in the safe haven of the Marine Club.

Underwriters often reasoned that they were doing their Names a favour by taking long lunches with their own kind in their favourite dives, because during their absence they could not be press-ganged by the brokers back to their boxes and bullied into putting loss-making business on the books.

One senior brokerage executive, a legend in his own lunchtime, upon attending his compulsory annual physical examination was deposed by his doctor on the amount of alcohol that he consumed.

The man reflected. ‘I don’t keep count of the number of drinks or units, whatever they are, if that’s what you mean, or the quantity. Maths was never my strong subject. But I’d say my intake is pretty average on any given day.’

‘Be more specific.’

‘Difficult. The size of the glasses varies, and I’m sure a lot of places dilute their spirits or chintz on the measure. In addition to saving time that’s why one orders doubles.’

The doctor rattled a pencil between his teeth. ‘Run me through one of these average days.’

‘Well, around mid morning I’ll pop up to Lloyd’s and see who’s there. If there’s nobody much about I’ll drop into the Club for a sharpener. Bloody Mary, perhaps two—large ones—extra Worcester. You can keep the Tabasco and lemon.’

‘Thanks. You can leave out the twiddly bits.’

‘Then it’s back to Lloyd’s I s’pose round eleven-thirty. At a quarter to one, so as to beat the rush I’ll meet an underwriter at the rostrum and go back to the Club for lunch.’

‘Bread and water?’

‘Surely you jest. I like to eat, but the food is optional. We’ll have a couple of G&Ts to limber up...’

‘Singles or doubles?’

‘I think we covered that. Anyway, they only serve them one way at the Marine Club,’—the doctor made a note—‘on the rocks with a dash of Angostura bitters...sorry, doc. There’ll be a brace of bottles of white with the fish, a nice Sancerre, perhaps, followed by the same of Bordeaux with the meat. I don’t eat dessert because I like to stay in shape, but I’ll partake of a bottle of Sauternes or Beaumes de Venise with the others. Just a glass for me.’

‘Abstemious of you.’

‘Calories are calories, doc. The rest is standard, goes without saying.’

‘Let’s pretend it isn’t and doesn’t.’

‘You know…’

‘Say I don’t.’

‘…port with the Stilton, and kümmel with the coffee, leave out the flaming bit, it burns off the alcohol, and flick the coffee bean at whoever’s at the next table...ah, more than you wanted to know. Then, seeing as I’m a busy man with a division to run, I’ll go back to Lloyd’s. By late afternoon when the market closes my throat’ll be dry from talking, so I’ll stop by the Club for a drop of what it takes to lubricate the larynx for the phone calls I have to make when I get back to the office.’

‘This Marine Club of yours, the manager must appreciate your custom.’

‘We’re friends, sure, and he pushes the boat out for us. As well as the calls there are cables to dictate to my secretary and letters to sign. Then it’s home—I’m close-ish weekdays, Chelsea—for a bath before dinner. There are always clients in town and I’m out most nights, often with my other half. She’ll bring me a tumbler of single Islay malt, Laphroiag’s my favourite, while I’m in the tub...three fingers to help me unwind. To paraphrase Joshua McGee, Laphroiag’s a fist-fighter that comes out swinging; phenolic notes in the nose and palate; medicinal—you should appreciate that, doc—seaweedy, a ton of iodine—I am a marine broker, after all—with sweet notes, kelp, peat, and driftwood. An acquired taste, one might say, but acquired it I have.

‘Then it’s off to the theatre, preferably something I can sleep through. The wife wakes me up for the interval drinks. There’ll be a late dinner afterwards. Martini, very dry, no olive, it displaces the gin. Wine, of course, white, red. Brandy and a cigar to finish. No dancing or nightclubs for me, I like to hit the sack early, so the Trouble and I cab it home. And so to bed. After a nightcap, of course.’

The doctor felt punch-drunk. ‘Mr Mackenzie, let me tell you something. My partner and I recently had a party at our house. Although it was only in the course of the evening, don’t hold that against me, I can safely say that less alcohol was consumed than you are accustomed personally—you, Mr Mackenzie, all on your own—to put away on what you are pleased to call an average day. I don’t dare ask about the weekends when you’re relaxing.

‘If I were to attend one of your celebrations I’d have to check into Britain’s answer to the Betty Ford Center just from the effects of your breath. God, I can feel cirrhosis attacking my liver just from being in the same room as you.’

Mackenzie looked blank. ‘Are we done here? I’m meeting an old friend at the Club for lunch, and FYI I have no intention of confining myself to orange juice. You’re a doctor, haven’t you read that new study about what OJ does to you? If you’re one of those who swears by vitamin C and pounds down ascorbic acid tablets in great quantity, you’d better watch out, old chap.

‘Tell you what, join us for lunch if you like. Do you good.’

Chapter Seven

At the opposite end of the scale of appetite for risk to Mr William Goldsack was another marine underwriter, Mr Carew.

Carew had been at Lloyd’s for as long as anyone could remember. There was no record that anyone had been able to find as to when his syndicate was formed. Generations of brokers had tried to find evidence that Carew had ever subscribed to a single contract, by descending into the vaults under their office buildings where the old expired slips were stored in fireproof metal boxes.

Many a lunch-hour was spent by glory-seeking young brokers going through tin after tin in search of one of his lines that might provide some clue as to what sort of business might tempt him, as an unusual pattern of dry fly might lure a wily trout onto a fishing hook.