The Prince of Risk

76

Marv Shank announced the news of Reventlow’s investment in Comstock on the trading floor. As one, every man and woman present rose and cheered.

“The boss did it,” he said, shaking with pride. “He saved our asses.”

Shank walked the length of the desk, shaking hands and exchanging high fives. After a few minutes he retreated to his office and called Astor. There was no answer. He texted, “U da man! Troops over the moon. Comstock lives to fight another day!”

He kept the phone in his hand, waiting for a reply. Astor was always quick to respond to good news. There was no answer, but he had little time to think about it. His phone began ringing, and it didn’t stop for an hour. First there were the lending institutions, which wanted to thank Astor but settled for Shank in his place.

“Never doubted you for a second,” said Brad Zarek from Standard Financial. “Now that we’re all square, the credit committee would like to increase your line of credit. Bobby mentioned another hundred million the other day. It’s yours for the asking. And at Libor plus a quarter. Of course we’ll beat any competitive bid.”

Shank was tempted to hang up. For once he erred on the side of diplomacy, thanking Zarek as nicely as he knew how, which basically meant he didn’t tell him to go screw himself.

Following the banks came the journalists. There were calls from the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, even Der Spiegel. The only thing better than a big shot getting his ass handed to him was a miracle recovery.

By six the office was pretty much deserted. The last-minute miracle had sent even the die-hard grinds to the local watering holes to toast Bobby Astor. Shank walked to Astor’s office and peered inside. He checked his phone again, even though he knew that Bobby hadn’t replied to his call or his text. Shank decided he must be tied up at the FBI. He called Sully, but Sully didn’t answer either.

A quiver of unease passed through his body. He felt certain something was wrong.

“Marv, good night. Turn off the lights on your way out.” It was Mandy Price, the chief financial officer. He saw that she was wearing her running clothes, probably off for a quick 10-miler to celebrate. Maniac.

Shank smiled and waved. “Good night. We live to fight another day!”

He stood like that for another minute, gazing around the empty office. He made a slow tour from front to back, taking his time, reminiscing about deals done, about trading strategies that had worked and those that hadn’t, about the pile of money he’d made. He ended where he had started, standing in the middle of the trading floor. He didn’t think he’d ever seen it so quiet.

He looked at his watch and wondered what to do.

He had nowhere to go.