While
Fletcher sat in the reception area, he read through the agreement and
familiarized himself with its terms. After a takeover bid had been agreed, a
partner’s compensation package was challenged, and it had taken some
considerable time before both partners had been able to agree on a final
figure.
At
1:15 P.m. Fletcher glanced up at the receptionist, who looked apologetic and
offered him a second coffee. Fletcher thanked her; after all it wasn’t her
fault that he was being kept waiting.
But
once he’d read through the document a second time, and had drunk three coffees,
he decided Mr. Higgs was either downright rude or plain inefficient.
Fletcher
checked his watch again. It was 1:35
P.m.
He sighed and
asked the receptionist if he could use the washroom. She hesitated for a
moment, before producing a key from inside her desk. “The executive washroom is
one floor up,” she told him. “It’s only meant for partners and their most
important clients, so if anyone asks, please tell them you’re a client.”
The
washroom was empty, and, not wishing to embarrass the receptionist, Fletcher
locked himself into the end cubicle. He was just zipping up his trousers, when
two people walked in, one of them sounding as if he had just arrived back from
a long lunch, where water had not been the only drink imbibed.
First
voice: “Well I’m glad that’s settled. There’s nothing I enjoy more than getting
the better of Alexander
Dupont
and Bell.”
Second
voice: “They’ve sent over some messenger boy with the agreement. I told Millie
to leave him in reception and let him sweat a little.”
Fletcher
removed a pen from an inside pocket and tugged gently on the toilet roll.
First
voice, laughing: “What did you finally settle for?”
Second
voice: “That’s the good news, $1,325,000, which is a lot more than we
anticipated.”
First
voice: “The client must be delighted.”
Second
voice: “That’s who I was having lunch with. He ordered a bottle of Chateau
Lafitte ‘52-16 all we’d told him to expect half a million, which he would have
been quite happy to settle for-for obvious reasons.”
First
voice, more laughter: “Are we working on a contingency fee?”
Second
voice: “We sure are. We pick up fifty percent of anything over half a million.”
First
voice: “So the firm has netted a cool $417,500. But what did you mean by “for
obvious reasons?”‘“
A
tap was turned on. “Our biggest problem was the client’s bank-the company’s
currently $720,000 overdrawn, and if we don’t cover the full sum by close of
business on Friday, they’re threatening nonpayment, which would have meant we
might not even have got
..”
-
the
tap was turned off-”dis. the original $500,000, and that after months of
bargaining.”
Second
voice: “Pity about one thing.”
First
voice: “What’s that?”
Second
voice: “That you can’t tell those snobs over at Alexander
Dupont
and Bell that they don’t know how to play poker.”
First
voice: “True, but I think I’ll have a little sport with
. .”-
a door opened-”dis. their messenger boy.”
The door closed.
Fletcher
rolled up the toilet paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He left the cubicle
and quickly washed his hands before slipping out and taking the fire escape
stairs to the floor below. Once back in reception, he handed over the executive
washroom key.
“Thank
you,” said the receptionist just as the phone rang. She smiled at Fletcher.
“That was good timing. If you’ll take the elevator to the eleventh floor, Mr.
Higgs is available to see you now.”
“Thank
you,” Fletcher said as he walked back out of the room, stepped into the
elevator and pressed the button marked “G.”
Matt
Cunliffe
was unraveling the toilet roll when the
phone rang.
“Mr.
Higgs is on line one,” said his secretary.
“Tell
him I’m not available.” Matt sat back in his chair and winked at Fletcher.
“He’s
asking when you will be available.”
“Not
before close of business on Friday.” fletcher couldn’t remember an occasion
when he’d disliked someone so much on first meeting him, and even the
circumstances didn’t help.
The
senior partner had asked Fletcher and Logan to join him for coffee in his
office-an unusual event in
itself
. When they arrived,
they were introduced to one of the new trainees.
“I
want you both to meet Ralph Elliot,” were Bill Alexander’s opening words.
Fletcher’s
first reaction was to wonder why he’d singled out Elliot from the two
successful applicants. He quickly found out.
“I
have decided this year to take on a trainee myself. I’m keen to keep in touch
with what the new
generation are
thinking, and as
Ralph’s grades at Stanford were exceptional, he seemed to be the obvious
choice.”
Fletcher
recalled Logan’s disbelief that Alexander’s nephew had even made the shortlist,
and they both came to the conclusion that Mr. Alexander must have overruled any
objections from the other partners.
“I
hope both of you will make Ralph feel welcome.”
“Of
course,” said Logan. “Why don’t you join us for lunch?”
“Yes,
I feel sure I could fit that in,” replied Elliot, as if granting them a favor.
Over
lunch, Elliot never missed an opportunity to remind them that he was the nephew
of the senior partner, with the unspoken implication that if either Fletcher or
Logan should cross him, he could slow their progress to a partnership. The
threat only served to strengthen the bond between the two men.
“He’s
now telling anyone who will listen that he’s going to be the first person to
make partner in
under
seven years,” Fletcher told
Logan over a drink a few days later.
“You
know he’s such a cunning bastard, it wouldn’t surprise me if he pulled it off,”
was Logan’s only response.
“How
do you think he became student president of UC-ONN if he treated everyone the
same way as he does us?”
“Perhaps
no one dared to oppose him.”
“Is
that how you managed it?” asked Logan.
“How
did you know that?” asked Fletcher, as the bartender collected their glasses.
“I
checked your CV the day I joined the firm.
Don’t
tell me you didn’t read mine?”
“Of
course I did,” admitted Fletcher, raising his glass, “I even know that you were
the Princeton chess champion.” Both men laughed.
“I
must run, or I’ll miss my train,” said Fletcher, “and Annie might begin to
wonder if there’s another woman in my life.”
“I
envy you that,” said Logan quietly.
“What
do you mean?”
“The strength of your marriage.
It wouldn’t cross Annie’s mind for a second that you could even look at another
woman.”
“I’m
very fortunate,” said Fletcher. “Maybe you’ll be just as lucky one day. Meg on
the reception desk can’t take her eyes off you.”
“Which
one is Meg?” asked Logan as Fletcher left him to pick up his coat.
Fletcher
had only walked a few yards down Fifth Avenue, when he spotted Ralph Elliot
approaching. Fletcher slipped into a doorway, and waited for him to pass.
Stepping back out into a raw cold wind that required ear muffs even if you were
only walking a single block, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his scarf,
but it wasn’t there. He cursed. He must have left it in the bar. He would have
to collect it tomorrow, but then he cursed again when he remembered Annie had
given it to him for Christmas. He turned’ around and began to retrace his
steps.
Back
in the bar, he asked the girl at the coat check if she’d seen a red woolen
scarf.
“Yes,”
she replied, “it must have fallen out of your sleeve when you put your coat on.
I found it on the floor.”
“Thank
you,” said Fletcher as he turned to leave, not expecting to see Logan still
standing at the bar. He froze when he saw the man he was talking to.
Nat
was fast asleep.
La
devaluation
frangaise
comthree
simple words sent the tapes from a gentle murmur into a chattering panic. The
phone by Nat’s bed was ringing thirty seconds later, and he immediately gave
Adrian the order, “Get out of francs as fast as you can.” He listened and then
replied, “Dollars.”
Nat
couldn’t remember a day in the last ten years when he hadn’t shaved. He didn’t
shave.
Su
Ling was awake by the time he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. “Is
there a problem?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“The
French have devalued by seven percent.”
“Is
that good or bad?” she asked.
“Depends
how many francs we’re holding.
I’ll
be able to make an assessment just as soon as I can get to a screen.”
“You’ll
have one by the side of your bed in a few years’ time, so you wouldn’t even
need to go into your office,” said Su Ling, letting her head fall back on the
pillow when she saw 5:09 flick up on the bedside clock.
Nat
picked up the phone; Adrian was still on the other end of the line. “It’s
proving difficult to get out of francs; there are very few buyers other than
the French government and they won’t be able to go on propping up the currency
for much longer.”
“Keep
selling. Pick up yen, deutschmarks or Swiss francs, but nothing else. I’ll be with
you in fifteen minutes. Is Steven there?”
“No,
he’s on his way. It took me some time to find out whose bed he was in.”
Nat
didn’t laugh as he replaced the receiver.
He
leaned over and kissed his wife before running to the door.
“You’re
not wearing a tie,” said Su Ling.
“By
tonight I might not be wearing a shirt,” Nat replied.
When
they had moved from Boston to Manhattan, Su Ling had found an apartment only a
cab ride away from Wall Street. As each bonus came in, she’d been able to
furnish and decorate the four rooms, so that Nat soon felt able to bring his
colleagues and even some clients back for dinner.
Seven
paintings-few that laymen would have recognized-now adorned the walls.
Su
Ling fell back into a half sleep as her husband left. Nat broke with his usual
routine as he leaped down the stairs in twos and threes, not bothering to wait
for the elevator. On a normal day, he would have risen at six, and phoned the
office from his study to ask for an update.
He
rarely had to make any major decisions over the phone, as most of their
positions were locked in for several months. He would then shower, shave and be
dressed by six thirty. He would read the Wall Street Journal while Su Ling
prepared breakfast, and leave the apartment around seven, having looked in on
Luke.
Rain
or shine, he would walk the five blocks to work, picking up a copy of the New
“York Times from a box on the corner of William and John.
He
immediately turned to the financial section and if the headline grabbed his
attention, he would read it on the move, and still be at his desk by seven
twenty. The New York Times wouldn’t be informing its readers of the French
devaluation until tomorrow morning, by which time, for most bankers, it would
be history.
When
Nat reached the street, he hailed the first available cab, and removed a
ten-dollar bill for a five-block journey, and said, “I need to be there
yesterday.” The driver immediately changed lanes, and they pulled up outside
his office four minutes later. Nat ran into the building and headed for the
first open elevator. It was packed with traders, all talking at the tops of
their voices. Nat learned nothing new, except that the simple announcement had
been made by the French Ministry of Finance at ten o’clock, central European
time. He cursed as the elevator stopped eight times on its slow progress to the
eleventh floor.
Steven
and Adrian were already at their desks in the trading room.
“Tell
me the latest,” he shouted as he threw off his coat.
“Everyone’s
taking a bath,” said Steven. “The French have officially devalued by seven
percent, but the markets are discounting it as too little too late.”
Nat
checked his screen.
“And the other currencies?”
“The
pound, lira and peseta are also going south.
The
dollar is
climbing,
the yen and the Swiss franc are
holding steady, while the deutschmark is bobbing.”
Nat
continued to stare at his screen, watching the figures flick up and down every
few seconds. “Try and buy some yen,” he said as he watched the pound drop
another point.
Steven
picked up a phone linked directly to the trading desk. Nat stared in his
direction. They were losing valuable seconds as they waited for a trader.