Time to cut back.
Charlie’s tangle of overhead would take weeks to unwind. Manny, the full-time driver, was almost family. How could Sam fire him? The home-delivery cleaners were mission critical. How could Un, Deux, and Trois survive without their fresh woollies? What about food? Every trendy kitchen in New York City had delivered takeout feasts to the Kelemens’ Greenwich Village apartment. Sam could no longer heat a can of Boston baked beans if somebody fired the burners for her.
I know. During my six months in the Kelemen household, she botched any dish that required a stove. It had seemed impossible to ruin bacon, eggs, and grits, Sam’s one concession to my Charleston roots. Somehow, some way, she torched anything and everything over flames. Even the dachshunds winced at her cooking.
Charlie Kelemen’s widow now faced a daunting challenge: survive on six hundred dollars until further notice. Her eyes filled, and she turned to hide the tears. “I’m scared, Grove.” Money fears were picking at her thoughts like a carrion bird.
Sam teetered on the verge of insolvency. Sure, the cash-flow crunch was temporary. When we liquidated the Kelemen Group and its portfolio of hedge funds, Charlie’s estate would yield plenty of money. Problem solved.
Not so fast. Redemption clauses would drag out the process. Hedgies often locked up investors for months, even years, before redeeming capital. The ungainly exit provisions were known as “Hotel California” clauses, a reference to the last line of the Eagles hit. It might take months, maybe more, to liquidate the portfolio, gather the incoming cash, and then distribute funds. Sam, like the rest of Charlie’s investors, would have to wait for her money.
What will she do in the meantime?
Sam could never ask her parents for a bridge loan. They were crusty New England clams. The ignominy, the contrition, would be too much. Helen Wells, Sam’s mother, would rant and rave as though her daughter’s profligate spending had single-handedly destroyed generations of Yankee-codger values. “Damn it, Samantha, what were you thinking?”
“Come on, Sam,” I said, wheeling my chair over, clasping both her hands with mine, forcing the Siberian-husky blues to make contact. “We’ll sort this out. I promise.”
“I don’t have the stomach to wind things down at the company.”
You have no choice.
“It would break Charlie’s heart,” I replied, trying to empathize. “He put everything into the business.”
Sam nodded.
“You both did,” I added quickly, acknowledging their team effort. Sam had always been at Charlie’s side. “Why don’t I try the auditors again? The annual reports will make things simple.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’ll list the hedge funds where the Kelemen Group invested. Once we know the funds, we can send in redemption notices. I’ll help you coordinate things.”
We sat awkwardly, uncertain what to say, Sam thanking me with her eyes. She finally broke the silence. “You’ve always been rock solid, Grove. Evelyn was so lucky to get you.”
Please don’t say that.
“Do you have your checkbook?” I asked.
“What?” She looked confused. “Are you billing me for your time?” she asked impishly as she rifled through her Hermès handbag.
“For laundry,” I teased. “Your tears soaked my shirt and took all the starch out.”
Sam’s eyes sparkled. In that brief moment she reverted to the confident woman who had rescued me from personal hell.
“Just give me a blank check.”
Sam handed me a check and mumbled darkly, “Nothing over six hundred dollars, please.”
“Save your money for lunch.”
“Lunch?” she asked, puzzled.
You can’t buy lunch for six hundred dollars.
I said nothing but wrote “Void” across the check.
“What are you doing, Grove?”
“I’m wiring you some money. You can pay me back once we unwind the Kelemen Group.” Sam started to resist, but I cut her off. Touching her full lips with my index finger, I warned, “Don’t say anything.”
“But—”
“Zip it.”
She squeezed my hand, kissed my cheek, and grabbed the conference room door. “Thank you,” she whispered, choking back the emotion. For the briefest moment, I thought Sam might kiss me on the lips. She pulled back, disappointing me to be honest, and added, “There’s one other thing. Do you mind calling Betty Masters?”
“No problem. Why?”
“She called yesterday and asked about the Kelemen Group. I’m really not sure what to tell her.”
“She was an investor?”
“Seems that way. We entertained so many people, I could never tell who was what. She sounded anxious.”
“Leave it with me.”
Sam and I walked through the reception gallery to the elevators, saying nothing. Silence between two people ordinarily distressed me. I always felt a need to fill the void. Not now. We held hands, and it felt right. We had weathered so much together.
Finally, I spoke. “We’ll get your money out of the Kelemen Group, Sam. We’ll find missing investment accounts, no matter where they’re hidden. And I’ll be there every step. You can bank on it.” As Sam disappeared onto the elevator, all dressed in black, Charlie Kelemen’s killer was the last person on my mind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What the fuck was I thinking?
“You can bank on it.” I actually said that. Where would I find the time to unearth hidden bank accounts, liquidate the Kelemen Group, and discover what Betty Masters wanted? Where would I start? I had a day job. I had a business to run.
I’m no Dick Tracy.
Charlie never revealed much about his wealth. He just spent it like a rummy. He never disclosed much about the Kelemen Group. He just bragged about investment returns. Like most money managers, Charlie guarded the secrets of his success. Even with friends.
I had overpromised Sam and knew better. Nobody on Wall Street guarantees results. We equivocate. That’s what we do. That’s why we print ten pages of disclaimers in every research report.
Back in the boardroom PCS rocked with adrenaline. The buzz of activity reminded me that top producers focus. We can’t turn our backs on the markets or our competitors for a moment. Oil prices had fallen $6 in the last forty-five minutes. Nigeria, according to the rumors, was breaking ranks with OPEC. Someone, maybe Zabelskas from Goldman Sachs, had reported the country
would increase production 25 percent. The DOW was soaring, up 223 points.
It wasn’t advice I heard on the way to my desk. It was the cha-ching of stockbrokers punching their cash registers and ringing up commissions. Our guys always buy on the way up.
The loudest broker, Scully of megaphone mouth, boomed into his receiver with palpable glee, “We’re making money, buddy.”
He bugged the ever-living shit out of me, never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in his crisp white shirts, just way too loud. He had built his clientele through “assmosis,” the time-honored practice of absorbing sales leads by sucking up to management. There was no love lost between Scully and me. We were all competitors inside PCS.
Patty Gershon waved away two women loitering in Estrogen Alley. They fidgeted something fierce, apparently anxious to share the latest gossip. Patty ignored them and berated a client instead: “You’ll buy next time I tell you to buy. Right, Henry?”
At my team’s trio of workstations, the telephone consoles blinked brighter than Vegas lights on New Year’s Eve. Incoming calls. Several lines holding. Traders reporting executions. Dozens of Post-it notes mottled my computer terminal, a Rorschach collage of urgent communiqués and flashing stock tickers. Ordinarily, this was my kind of day, chaos my thing.
Halek’s name appeared on my phone’s LCD. “Let’s discuss Jack Oil,” he said.
Cliff was a born moneymaker. He always called with good ideas, and we had spoken many times about Jumping JJ. Two-point-three million shares of an $83 stock commanded attention everywhere. But that “burping” phone had distracted JJ, and I knew it would be a waste of time to discuss a trade. “Not today, Cliff.”
“Vols are pumped,” he reported, pushing to continue the discussion.
I understood immediately. “Vols” referred to volatility, one of the variables used to price zero-cost collars. Net, net, Cliff was saying, “Market conditions are perfect for JJ to hedge his shares and eliminate the risk of his stock crashing.”
“JJ won’t focus,” I replied. “He’s up to his ears in personnel problems.”
“Understood,” Halek conceded.
“Glad you called anyway,” I said. “Sam Kelemen just left my office. She’s in trouble.”
“How so?”
“Charlie put all their money into the Kelemen Group,” I started. “Sam has no liquidity. She’s down to her last six hundred dollars.”
“Life insurance?” he pressed hesitantly, not believing his ears. “No bonds or cash somewhere on the side?”
“Nothing,” I confirmed. “She even asked if I had opened an account for Charlie.”
“I don’t buy it,” Halek observed cynically. “Any bonehead keeps cash on the side.”
“She’s terrified, Cliff.”
“The whole Kelemen thing’s pretty fucking weird if you ask me.”
“You got that right,” I agreed. “Ever since the funeral, I’ve been wondering who tossed Charlie in the tank. Now Sam and the money. It’s a shit show.”
Cliff paused, and for a moment I thought we had been disconnected. During our rapid-fire banter he seldom held his tongue. He finally said, “Hey, Grove,” and waited for my undivided attention.
“Yeah.”
“Charlie’s not your concern.”
“That’s cold.”
“Just practical,” he countered. “Charlie’s dead. You can’t do anything about that. Sam Kelemen has the problem. Is there any chance she wants to run the Kelemen Group?”
“Didn’t ask,” I replied, kicking myself for the oversight. “But I doubt she has the stomach.”
“Then focus where you can make a difference and help her wind down the company. Leave the detective shit to the cops.”
Detective shit,
I mused.
“That aquarium stuff is bad biz,” he warned, “maybe dangerous.” Halek hopped before I could respond. “Gotta go,” he announced, leaving me with a dial tone and discomfiting wisdom.
There was no time to dwell on his words. My phone was ringing nonstop. Von Maur, our securities lawyer, asked for an update on Jumping JJ.
“Forget it,” I advised. “He’s not trading today.”
Fletcher, a client who had just sold his auto parts business for $50 million, was on my second line. “Can I afford a ten-thousand-dollar case of wine?” Money was so new to him.
“Only if we share a bottle, Fletch.”
Annie, Chloe, and I fielded other calls by the dozen. We made more of our own, and I addressed the usual questions that accompanied strong trading sessions.
“Should I buy?”
Me: “I wouldn’t. That stock is trading at twenty times earnings but growing ten percent annually. Overpriced in my book.”
“Should I sell?”
Me: “Let’s move fifteen thousand shares today. That leaves us with thirty thousand. We’ll still be thrilled if it continues to run.”
“What’s this stock trading at?”
“How about that one?” And so on. The level of activity was unusual, and I found myself buried deep inside the securities business.
Wall Street generally yawns on Fridays during the summer. Clients disappear. The most powerful money managers board helicopters in the morning and retreat to the Hamptons, where the square footage of their palatial estates grows faster than the portfolios they manage.
For almost everyone else, lunch serves as the starting gun to bolt and beat the weekend traffic. Traders and brokers, the rank and file of the capital markets, abandon their Aeron chairs and proprietary trading screens for weekends at the Jersey Shore or other retreats. It’s a wonder their pell-mell breaks for the elevators don’t produce more casualties.
Upon occasion, resignations break up the Friday ennui. Brokers resign on the last day of the week. Competing firms offer fat checks for advisers to leave and take clients with them. The payments can be huge, as much as two times total fees and commissions over the last twelve months.
“Remember all the good things I said about my old firm? All the stuff about great money managers and outstanding trade executions? I was wrong. The old firm sucks. Can’t compete with the new shop. Trust me.”
It’s a tough sales pitch.
So what. For the right amount of money, some brokers will say anything.
Those knuckleheads trace their genealogical roots back to the world’s oldest profession. They’re “in the life,” as streetwalkers say. Those brokers give guys like me a bad name.
Parade-like pageantry, however modest, accompanies every resignation. Security guards, wearing metal name tags fixed to their uniforms, escort departing brokers to the front door. The brokers wave to their friends, who are now competitors. Like conquering heroes, the defectors gloat over the seven-figure paychecks waiting across the street.
The currently loyal salespeople stop what they are doing and gawk, wide-eyed, silent, and hungry for more money, more assets, and more recognition. They wonder if their bosses will favor them with a few juicy accounts to defend.
True to form, the early frenzy of that Friday dissipated. A spokesman for Nigeria denied any rift with OPEC or increase in his country’s production. Oil prices recovered. The market sold off 60 points from the early highs. PCS advisers began to leave.
