CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
On Monday futures indicated the market would nosedive at the open. Between hurried gulps of coffee and monster mouthfuls of bacon, egg, and heart-attack sandwiches, PCS advisers readied themselves for the coming onslaught. The talking heads from CNBC and Fox Business fed every investor’s fear. “Financial stocks have yet to see the worst,” one reporter panted into the camera. “The bears smell blood.”
Yeah, mine.
The market held no interest at the moment. Down 200 points today, it would probably soar 200 points tomorrow. “They’re circling the carcasses,” the reporter continued. I didn’t care what the bears ate so long as it wasn’t me.
It was my day to address problems. They started with Patty’s play for Jumping JJ. Somehow, someway, Lady Goldfish would get hers.
Fish rot from the head down.
There were also SKC’s lawyers to consider. I had sparred with the business prevention units before. I had no grand plan, but frankly, strategy was never my thing. I preferred to be in the shit fighting my way out. Action beat analysis paralysis every time.
The twins from Riverside Drive made me forget Patty’s maneuvers and
Charlie’s forgeries. They dominated all my thoughts. There was Key Lime swinging the chain. Hummer Guy flipping the bird. There was my spectacular pitch and Key Lime holding his throat, gasping for air. The two gorillas gave DNA a bad name. It was my day to deal with a new problem. What do I tell the police about yesterday’s bicycle incident?
Self-defense.
I had not called the police on purpose. What would they say? What would I say? “There’s something you should know, Fitzsimmons. I threw a frozen bottle at the twin with the chain. Hit him in the neck. The last thing I saw was blood and shit all over the place.” Talk about unintended outcomes. The police might arrest me for assault and battery.
A fly buzzed my face.
No wonder I feel like a stiff.
Only it wasn’t a blowfly, nothing from the Calliphoridae family that lays eggs on dead meat. Over the weekend a fresh hatch of fruit flies had established the most annoying air supremacy. Vast squadrons, flecked with ten thousand red eyeballs, patrolled our skies. They scouted for yogurt cups and dive-bombed garbage cans for discarded fruit. Intermittent “ughs” erupted around the floor when their legions flew up the occasional nostril or two. One fly refused to leave me alone.
Several cubicles over, Patty Gershon swore into her phone. She caught my eye and smirked, raised her arm, and tapped her Bulgari wristwatch in an exaggerated manner. Today I was to call JJ and initiate joint coverage.
No way.
“Hey, Boss,” Annie called, slipping inside my mind as only she could. She held a large, clear glass container. A paper cone rested on the lip of the container, pointy side down. There was something brown inside.
“What’s in the jar?” I asked.
“A banana slice. I think we should start a catch-and-release program,” she chirped, too much cheer, too early in the day. Her sparkling blue-green eyes betrayed something devious.
“What are you talking about?” I looked to Chloe for help, an explanation, anything. She quoted stock prices to Fletch, a client, and gave me a thumbs-up.
“The flies, Boss, the flies. I want to catch and release them,” Annie said.
“What for?”
“It’s what you do with trout, right?”
“Why bother?” We had better things to do than play games with fruit flies. I needed to ready myself for Gershon. No doubt our fight would start in front of Frank Kurtz and escalate from there. I held my tongue, my self-control stemming from Charleston manners, habitual obsession with Annie, or distractions from yesterday.
Key Lime. Hummer Guy.
“Radio Ray asked me out for drinks,” she explained. “Third time in two weeks, and I need to send him a signal.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Annie inched forward as though sharing a national secret. “Catch and release, Boss.”
“I don’t get it,” I vented with growing exasperation.
“Catch and release,” she repeated. “Catch and release.” She gestured with her hands and spoke with exaggerated enunciation. She drawled the way Americans drawl to foreigners, hoping loud and annoying prolongation will somehow translate English for those not fluent. She looked at me quixotically, stifling her tendency to raise her eyebrows when delivering punch lines.
Suddenly, I understood and managed a chuckle. Annie planned to relocate the fruit fly epidemic upstairs to Radio Ray’s floor. It was brilliant, but not enough to chase my funk. “Too funny,” I observed in a flat tone lacking conviction.
Annie rubbed the crease over her upper lip and looked at me, puzzled. The gesture surprised me. Evelyn had had the same nervous habit. Annie’s smile disappeared, headed west like the sun. Her face clouded with concern. “You okay, Boss?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“What’s bothering you?”
Chloe, talking on the phone, snapped her fingers and interrupted before I could reply. She pointed to a news flash scrolling across the television monitor overhead. It read: “Brisbane to buy Jack Oil for $140 per share, a premium of 68 percent.”
No wonder JJ went dark. He was protecting inside information and avoiding any leaks.
“Yes,” I cheered. At $140 per share, JJ’s 2.3 million shares were worth
$322 million in aggregate. Added to the other $200 million I managed for him, JJ was now worth $522 million.
Career client.
Patty Gershon stared at me while talking on the phone. Her eyes narrowed into slits. Her lipstick shone redder than usual, the blood color of fresh slaughter. She had seen the news, too.
How will she spin this with Frank and the bankers?
The answer arrived sooner than expected. My phone rang. The LCD screen, like a miniature movie marquee, announced Frank Kurtz was on the line. Without a moment’s hesitation, I switched to my friendliest make-happy voice: “Frank, I just saw the news.”
“Grove, I need you in my office.” He hung up. That was it. He never said, “Please.” He never said, “Good-bye.” There was no hint of civility, just a few dictatorial words followed by a dial tone. He could have said “Screw you” with more warmth.
“Here we go,” I muttered into the dial tone.
Gershon got to Kurtz.
“Guys,” I said to Annie and Chloe, “the fruit flies need to wait.”
Walking past Estrogen Alley, I avoided Patty. No such luck. She ended her conversation and returned the receiver to its cradle. I could hear her footsteps, sense the venom of her gait, and feel eyes knifing me in the back on the way to Frank’s office.
Showtime.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Gus, the PCS rent-a-cop, was speaking with Frank’s assistant outside the office door. He saw me but averted his eyes. It didn’t take a bloodhound to smell trouble. Security people seldom patrolled during the day, except of course on Friday afternoons when people resigned.
Kurtz sat with his arms folded, his agitation unmistakable. He eyeballed my entry. Had he smiled, his face would have shattered and crashed to the floor in weighty chunks. He fiddled with a Cohiba and reached for his double-blade guillotine.
Too small for a neck.
A pudgy man sat in a guest chair to the right of Frank’s desk. He had a baby face, wavy hair a touch long for the workforce, and brown eyes. I judged him to be fresh out of graduate school. Poisonous vibes wafted all through the room.
Who died and threw this party?
Gershon barged in through the door behind me. Her perfume billowed after her. The scent was probably Chanel but reminded me of burp smells from fish-oil tablets. Patty started to speak. Frank cut her off. “You ever hear of knocking?”
“You saw the news, Frank. Somebody competent would have chased the deal between Brisbane and Jack.”
“Patty,” he stated with authority.
“O’Rourke was asleep at the switch,” she continued, undeterred by Frank’s effort to wrest control. “ ‘Wait till Monday,’ ” she whined sarcastically, mimicking me. “This guy just cost Banking twenty million dollars in fees, Frank. Sutherling is ripshit. Me too.”
“We have something to discuss that doesn’t concern you, Patty.”
Not a good thing.
The words sounded ominous. I almost wished Gershon would stand her ground so we could argue over Jumping JJ. Instead, she blinked and said, “I see.” Looking over her shoulder, she announced, “To be continued, O’Rourke.”
It was no time for pleasantries, but I extended my hand to the pudgy visitor and introduced myself. “Grove O’Rourke.”
“John Diaz,” he mumbled, and added something about working with our internal legal department. I was half listening and decided he looked more like a “Baby Face” than a “John Diaz” anyway.
“What’s going on, Frank?”
“Sit down,” he ordered. Kurtz stopped and waited. The Monthly Nut, usually quick to back down, expected me to comply. His authority had never been more absolute. “Here’s how it is, Grove. The Legal Department wants you to take a leave of absence until we sort things out. We all agree it’s for the best.”
How is ripping out my gallbladder a good thing?
“That’s crazy.” I couldn’t believe my ears. This meeting—Kurtz, Baby Face, me—had nothing to do with JJ and the deal between Brisbane and Jack Oil.
“That reference letter is the problem,” he continued. “Everybody has questions about your relationship with Charles Kelemen.”
“Are you firing me?” I asked, still not believing my ears.
Kurtz leaned back in his chair, calm, resolute, increasing the distance between us. “We all hope you will be cleared, Grove. We want you back.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” I snapped. “Are you firing me?”
“We need to do what’s right for the firm.”
“Give me a break,” I barked. “I gave you Charlie’s letter. Why would I expose my involvement in a Ponzi scheme? It makes no sense.”
“What Ponzi scheme?” he asked.
“That’s why Charlie forged the letter.”
“What do you know?”
I told Frank and the lawyer about Charlie’s 1040, Susan Thorpe’s letter, and the $53,000 in gross income for the Kelemens. I poured my guts out, confident the truth would vindicate me.
It didn’t. Frank considered the story for a moment and asked, “Were you involved?” His alarm was growing.
“Fuck you, Frank. You’ve known me eight years. You know better.”
“We can’t put the firm at risk,” Kurtz replied. “Besides, it’s just a leave of absence.”
“This isn’t right, Frank. ‘Leave of absence’ is what management says when they don’t know how to fix a problem. You and I both know it.”
“We gave your reference letter to the police,” Baby Face said. “They can check if the signatures match,” he offered helpfully, trying to defuse my mounting anger.
“Thanks for your fine work,” I replied, all sarcasm and Southern molasses.
“Look, I’m trying to protect you,” Baby Face replied defensively. “We haven’t decided whether to report this incident on your U4.”
Is that a threat?
He was referring to the form that brokerages filed with regulatory organizations like the SEC. Compliance departments logged customer complaints through U4 forms. The “dings” followed advisers everywhere. There was even a public Web site where prospects could perform background checks. My U4 was clean, a matter of pride. But it was becoming less important by the second.
“What does he mean, Frank?”
“You know the drill,” Kurtz replied. “We report damages greater than five thousand dollars. That’s a rounding error on what the Priouleau family stands to lose.”
“They’re not even clients, Frank.”
“We’re not sure it makes a difference,” Baby Face stated. His voice sounded clinical, matter-of-fact.
“You won’t find the answer in your comic books,” I snapped, seeing red, not thinking. So much for avoiding conflict. The lawyer shut up and seethed.
“That’s not helpful,” Kurtz warned.
“It’s not meant to be helpful,” I rejoined, my anger swelling. “We all know where this is going. You’re laying a paper trail.” The two men straightened in their chairs, bolt erect. “You’re trumping up U4 charges to cover your ass and lay the groundwork to fire me.”
“It’s not like that,” Frank objected.
“The hell it’s not. What are you doing about my clients until I sort this out?”
That’s when Baby Face made the one observation guaranteed to turn every top producer postal: “They’re SKC’s clients.” In that moment he morphed from in-house attorney to human hemorrhoid, a walking, talking flare-up.
I wanted to punch his face. They were my clients. I made the cold calls. I suffered through the rejections. Not the firm. No one ever hung up on a slick television ad from SKC.
“Who forgot to flush you, Rook?” I asked, and turned to Frank.
The young lawyer lost his cool. He stood, fists clenched. His size surprised me. He kept rising and rising. It seemed he would never stop. In his chair he had simply looked pudgy, baby fat everywhere. Now he looked immense, about six-four and 250 pounds. “I’ve had enough of you,” he thundered, a crusader with hurt feelings fresh out of law school.
