Wall Street Noir

At the top of his game by Stephen Rhodes

40 Broad Street

On the day they conspire to put a bullet in my head, I experience an epiphany.

My epiphany is this: a fourteen-year career on Wall Street wears away at your soul, as assuredly as a stream against limestone. It pushes you to a place where you don’t fully recognize who you are, or how you got here. Everyone around you becomes a stranger, including — no, especially your own wife. Working sixteen-hour days in those glistening glass towers in Manhattan, engaging in mortal combat with some of the planet’s brightest and most power-obsessed bastards who have trained their full concentration on destroying you and stealing the business you’ve built up over the years — well, it hardens you. Wall Street eats its young, and today the beast has a particular appetite for a certain thirty-six-year-old maverick with seventy-eight people reporting to him (which would be me).

So today they plan to execute me. How do I know this? Well, last night at 9:30 p.m., an urgent BlackBerry message instructed me to report to Howard Ranieri’s office at 7:30 a.m. sharp for a mandatory meeting. That particular e-mail was no surprise; a head’s-up had come from a friend in HR that my employment would be terminated during this impromptu meeting.

My response: Bring it on, jerkweed. Bring it on.

Ranieri is now more than forty minutes late for his own meeting. Typical move for this passive-aggressive, hair-challenged, beer-gutted, no-talent clown. I should mention that Ranieri is my co-head in the Equity Structured Products group.

Outside Ranieri’s office, the phones on the trading floor twitter relentlessly. This morning, Goldman Sachs has issued a dire report on certain Latin American economies. As a result, the overseas financial markets are getting walloped.

The twentysomething stress addicts that populate the trading floor gaze into their Bloomberg screens seeking divine guidance. I hear the voices of my people reporting losses in the overseas markets like breathless wartime correspondents witnessing heavy casualties from the front lines. The Footsie is getting whacked, hammered, slammed, smashed, crushed, drilled, smoked, spanked, roasted, sewered, bashed. Beaten like a redheaded stepchild, clubbed like a baby seal. Boom boom, out go the lights.

Ranieri’s tardiness is driving me to distraction. It’s Friday, for chrissakes. I’ve got a dinner party at the Honeywells’ tonight. And I’ve got a wife who may have been cheating with a kickboxing instructor for God knows how long. Do I really need to have Ranieri playing with my head in the moments before he gleefully fires me?

Abruptly, Howie breezes through the door of his office. “Sparky, glad to see you’re here,” he burbles as if he’s five minutes late for a tennis game. “I’m really truly sorry about this, but—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Come again?”

I pronounce each syllable slowly. “I said, ‘No, you’re not.’ Meaning, no, you are not sorry. You are the polar opposite of sorry. You kept me waiting on purpose.”

“Touché, Sparky.” Ranieri’s laugh is a brutish grunt. “Maybe you’re kind of right about that.”

“Not a problem. I passed the time by reading all your e-mails.”

Ranieri inspects me to see whether I’m serious, but my poker face is inscrutable. Backatcha, jerkweed.

“Anyhoo,” Ranieri says with narrowed eyes, “let’s move on to the reason we’re here. You know Brian, I presume.”

I turn around and see Brian Horgan, a VP from HR, skulking in the doorway, craving invisibility. Brian is a good guy in my book; he was the one who gave me the head’s-up about this meeting. I take note of the thick Redweld tucked under his arm — my personnel file, no doubt.

“Um, good morning, Mark.” The poor bastard winces as he says this. It’s obvious this is anything but.

Of course I know Brian,” I say breezily. “We’ve worked together for what... six years?”

“Yeah, six years,” he confirms.

“Six long years recruiting the best structured products group on the Street, from the ground up.”

Ranieri steers the conversation away from my accomplishments. “Well then, I hope we can make this as pleasant as possible for everyone concerned. Given your contribution to the firm, we’ve moved heaven and earth to be generous.” Translation: You need to sign this piece of paper promising not to sue us, or you walk away with nothing for fourteen years of service

I wheel around to my friend from HR. “Your work is done here, Brian.”

“It is?” There is a look of palpable relief on Brian Horgan’s face.

“Go back to your office, check your e-mail for further instructions.”

Ranieri erupts. “Just what the hell are you trying to pull—”

“It’s not my doing. Sanderson has taken an interest in this—”

“Bullshit. He’s in Hong Kong.”

“Exactly. And Sanderson says stand down. Nothing is to happen until he returns to London on Monday.”

Ranieri scrutinizes me. “Does Becker know about this?”

“Why would that matter?”

Ranieri scowls venomously, then wheels his Herman Miller Aeron chair over to his flat-panel computer screen. His lips move as he reads the fresh e-mail from Sanderson. Then he slams his open palm on the surface of his desk. “Sonuvabitch!”

I turn to Horgan. “Like I was saying. Until this gets sorted out, you’re free to go.”

Ranieri grumbles with a dismissive wave. “Whatever.” With a surreptitious wink, Brian Horgan reassembles the file and departs.

My co-head makes a big show of closing the door and sealing us off from the rest of the trading floor. “Swift move, asshole. You knew I was leaving for Barcelona with my family tonight, didn’t you?”

“Guess you’ll just have to postpone your victory dance.”

“Maybe...” Ranieri regards me with a feral leer, “but you can postpone the inevitable only so long, Sparky.”

I lean back and give him a smile that’s... well, yes, call it self-satisfied. “Let’s recap, shall we? Four months ago, you pull some strings in London with Ian Becker — your Harvard roommate — to conjure up some do-nothing job that suggests to senior management that you’re not utterly useless. Lucky me: Since I happen to drive the lion’s share of revenue in the U.S., Becker drop-kicks you into my sandbox as a co-head. Says you’ve got a lot to learn and you’re ‘here to help.’ Instead, what happens? You steal my ideas, my team, my business, my revenues. You systematically bad-mouth me to Becker and the rest of senior management as ‘redundant’ and ‘not a team player.’ You and Becker wait for my mentor to be incommunicado somewhere so you can pull this lame-ass coup d’état.” I shake my head in disgust. “You’re not even worth keeping around to order lunch for my people.”

Ranieri leans back calmly. “On the one hand, screw you for messing up my vacation. At the same time, I commend you for pulling off that last-minute clemency from the powers that-be. Very creative.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “But guess what? Turns out your guy is getting a bullet to the head himself from senior management. So looks like we have a do-over first thing Monday morning.”

“We done here?”

“For now.”

“Good.” I bolt upright and regard my mortal enemy with utter contempt. “You’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to the desk and make some money. I’ll leave you to whatever it is you do all day.”

Bite me, jerkweed. And I’m out of there.

Moments later, I experience an emotional cocktail of mild embarrassment and genuine euphoria when the entire derivatives trading floor erupts in a standing ovation. On the Street, information is the ultimate commodity, and the news that I survived Ranieri’s savage assassination attempt causes spasms of joy among the all-star team I’ve assembled.

“Okay, okay, all right!” I shout over the sustained applause, whistles, and catcalls. “A for effort, but this show of loyalty won’t necessarily have a favorable impact on year-end bonuses.”

The cheering tapers off into an admixture of laughter and mock boos. I hear a muffled thud behind me as an apoplectic Ranieri kicks his office door shut. I love these people. Love them

“All right, people, show’s over. Let’s pump it up and make some money for the Brothers.”

As if a switch is turned on, the trading floor becomes electrified, crackling with high-voltage activity. The discordant brays of traders fill my ears:

“I’m choking on micro-gamma decay on my long-vol position, and unless they rally I’m gonna be achin’ like there’s no tomorrow—”

“Johnny Meyer, pick up the double-donuts!”

“I called Tommy at DB for a chinstrap in the double-Monday nasty; the bid’s gone to a bad neighborhood—”

“I took the bid up a noogie from 10.2 to 10.25 and oh-fived a sweet-one pick-off of the crowd. Am I a hammer or what?”

This is in my blood, the thrill and agony of trading derivative securities. There’s no Betty Ford clinic for this addiction, nor would I voluntarily twelve-step myself away from this high. Come Monday, if Ranieri succeeds in taking this world away from me, I will wish him a particularly painful strain of testicular cancer.

I slide into the Aeron chair at my trading turret. “Morning, Terri. Any news on your mom?”

“She’s getting much better, thanks for asking.” My assistant is Terri Aronica, a sweet-natured girl from Staten Island. Her freckled presence on the trading floor is akin to a gazelle amongst lions, so I’m highly protective of her. In return, her loyalty is beyond question. “She’s coming out of the hospital this weekend.”

“Good. That’s great to hear.” I try to sound casual. “Hey, listen, Compliance is all over me to do my semi-annual supervisory thing. Can you pull all the personal trading records of Howard Ranieri for the last two years? And tell the back office I need it over the weekend.”

“Sure thing.” When Terri says it’s a sure thing, I know she means it.

It is six hours later, and I’m mentally composing my resignation announcement. It’s customary on Wall Street to extend the courtesy of ghostwriting the memo announcing one’s involuntary departure, but I’m finding little joy in my imaginings.

Having escaped the offices of Fischer Brothers, I’m on the 4:36 p.m. Metro-North train out of Grand Central to Greenwich. I’m unaccustomed to the brightness that floods the filthy confines of the bar car; for over a decade, my profession has required me to keep coal miner’s hours. I’ve rarely left the office before nightfall. Still, I’m somewhat surprised that the bar car is so well-populated. Must be advertising types.

With their game faces off, the commuters look positively miserable. They are die-hard junior execs with their eyes still on the prize, feverishly making love to their BlackBerries and Dell Inspirons and Motorola RAZRs. I make my way up to the bar.

“Two Absoluts in a cup, straight, wedge of lime.”

Just as I get my cocktail, the train pitches suddenly to the left, and someone collides with me, nearly upending my double shot.

A striking blond girl in a pastel sundress murmurs an apology around a dazzling smile. “So sorry.”

I’m taken aback. This is a radiant burst of genuine friend-liness, and I have an instant attraction to this girl — and not all of it sexual. It’s more that she seems a beacon of positive energy on a suddenly very hostile planet. She makes me think of lemon meringue pie.

“It was my fault, actually,” I offer.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter much either way, does it?” The girl holds my eyes for a moment while I try to place the accent. Australian, I guess, with the vanishing r’s. I’m intrigued.

“My name’s Mark,” I say, surprised at my own cojones.

“Fiona.”

“Ah. Can I get you a drink, Fiona? A Coke?”

“I’d much prefer a Foster’s, actually. With a vodka chaser.” With that, Fiona flips open her cell phone to smile-and-dial.

When I return with the drinks, I tune in to bits of her conversation. It is peppered with an exotic slang, putting me in mind of A Clockwork Orange

“It’s choice... That’s spot-on... Did you dip-out for a moment? What a complete saddo she turned out to be... Ah, Viv, Ranieri can be such a drongo sometimes.”

Ranieri. Could it be?

And now I realize I’ve seen her somewhere before — on the trading floor, maybe...? Fiona accepts the shot and the beer and slugs down four quick throatfuls — we have a party girl here.

Kia ora, baby” she says. She snaps the cell phone shut and turns to me. “That was my mate Vivica. She’s my cozziebro. I trust her with my deepest secrets.” Fiona hoists her beer in a toast. “Thanks for your kindness. I’m not used to that, especially in New York.”

“It’s nothing really. Are you from Australia?”

“Australia? How insulting.”

“I didn’t mean any offense—”

“No worries. I’m from New Zealand originally. But for the last year, I’ve lived in Greenwich.”

“I live in Greenwich also.” I struggle to sound casual. “I couldn’t help hearing the name Ranieri. Would that happen to be Howard Ranieri?”

“Yes,” she says in amazement. “I live with Mr. Ranieri.”

“You what?”

She choke-laughs, and a geyser of imported beer spews forth, making her laugh even harder. “That came out completely wrong. His family, I should say, I live with his family. I’m an au pair. The Ranieris are my host family in America.”

Ranieri’s au pair! This makes perfect sense — the trophy nanny to go with the trophy wife. It was all Ranieri.

“And you just dropped his children off in the city.”

“Right,” she says.

“At Fischer Brothers. For the family vacation in Spain.”

“Which got canceled, thank you very much, and screws up all our plans. Wait a minute — how did you know that...?” Her voice trails off as she tries to decide whether I’m a clairvoyant or a stalker.

“So happens I work with Howard Ranieri.”

“Bloody hell!” With a mock-naughty face, she hides the beer behind her back and giggles. “Don’t tell him you bought me a beer. He’ll flip out.”

“Deal,” I say conspiratorially. “That is, if you tell me what you meant when you called Ranieri a drongo.”

Fiona draws in a sharp breath. “Ah, yes. A drongo. Well, the American equivalent, I guess, would be dickhead.”

I double over in laughter. Things are definitely looking up.

So, for the next forty minutes I’m treated to a private performance of Fiona Hensleigh’s one-woman off-Broadway show that might well be titled The Greenwich Nanny

She riffs animatedly about her adventures since being plucked from Christschurch, New Zealand and plunked down in Greenwich, Connecticut, U.S.A., the very vortex of history’s most excessive bull market. And she dissects the archetypes of the Connecticut Gold Coast in deliciously bitchy detail: the beauty-shop-addicted, Prada-obsessed prima donnas, whose sense of entitlement is without limitation; the insecure, cigar-smoking Master-of-the-Universe wannabes, whose self-worth is measured by the girth of their Range Rovers; and their worshipped, fretted-over, unlovely offspring, spoiled beyond belief and taught at the youngest age that viral disrespect for authority is a virtue.

As Fiona speaks, I’m picturing the Ranieri household, and it’s a fascinating insight into my rival’s secret world. Mrs. Ranieri, apparently, is something of a bitch on ice. And Ranieri himself is no candidate for sainthood, prone to moodiness and shouting matches with his better half. I bide my time, awaiting an angle, a vulnerability to use against my blood enemy. Fiona tantalizes me with the possibility that she has some juicy tidbits about Ranieri that she wants to share, but she doesn’t trust me enough to give up the goods. Smart girl.

Now, I cannot say this with absolute certainty (for I am admittedly out of practice in such things), but I think this Fiona Hensleigh finds me attractive. There is a certain tilt of her face, a certain way she lets the gleaming wisps of her blond hair tumble over her eye. Then, in an instant of startling clarity, I suddenly realize how the distance between our bodies has shrunk. A chill prickles my skin with each incidental contact between Unless this is purely my imagination — and I’m willing to concede it might be — there is an unmistakable electricity between me and Ranieri’s nanny.

Fiona is telling me how much she misses some dreadful-sounding Kiwi delicacies — Minties, Jaffas, Moro bars, Wattie’s tomato sauce, and Vegemite — when the Old Greenwich train station rolls into view.

“My station,” I say, and feel a genuine pang of regret that this encounter is coming to an end.

“Well, it was very nice talking with you, Mark.”

“Likewise, Fiona.” I offer my hand and the New Zealander’s equivalent of aloha. “Kia ora.”

She glances at my wedding band, then locks up my eyes with hers. “And what about tonight?”

Flustered, I manage: “Tonight? What about it?”

“We were planning to have a piss-up at Chez Ranieri, but now it looks like it’s moving to the beach. You ought to pop on by.”

“A piss-up?” I stand immobilized as other commuters pour around us to the platform. Pressed up against me, her breath is warm on my cheek, and sweet with the tang of lager. One Night Only — The Nanny’s Ball — Live at Greenwich Point Beach. The thought of me in the midst of a gaggle of out-of-control drunken au pairs? Tempting, but a tad self-destructive. “That’s not in the cards, Fiona. I’ve got a dinner party I’m obligated to attend.”

She rolls her eyes in a deliciously feminine way. “Oh, I’m that will be loads more fun than our ten-kegger.”

“Ten-kegger, huh?”

“Anyway, you change your mind, come by the beach?”

“Yeah. I’ll keep it in mind.” I walk off the train backwards, nearly stumbling into a heap on the platform. They say crack cocaine is instantly addictive. I totally get the concept.

Okay, I know this is sick, but I’m in tell-all mode, so here goes: My BlackBerry has been programmed to tally up the number of days Susan and I have gone without having sex.

It tells me we’re at seventy-eight days and counting.

Wait, there’s more: Just recently, I have discovered that my wife is also surreptitiously keeping track of this ignoble hitless streak. She pencils tick marks into the kitchen calendar, and by her count, we’ve been on the sex wagon for seventy-seven days straight.

I own up to it: The demise of our relationship is mostly my fault. My struggle with Ranieri over the last months has turned me into someone other than the person she wed in sickness and health so many years ago. And her infertility problems have weighed heavily on us for even longer. In our calibrated attempts to conceive, we’ve followed to the letter the clinical manner in which teams of doctors have instructed us to copulate, and have spent the last thirty-six months not so much making love, as conducting laboratory experiments.

It’s taken its toll.

To wit, I’m convinced that Susan no longer loves me. I suspect she is in love with at least one, if not two others in the Greenwich vicinity, and I often lay awake nights going over likely candidates. Is it Adam, the wacky New Age martial arts expert at her yoga center on the Post Road, the kid with bad teeth who teaches her Tae Bo and promises to launch her on a spiritual journey to discover her inner self? Is it Dr. Lauren, the collagen-lipped lesbian physician who wears no undergarments when she prescribes migraine treatments at Norwalk Hospital? It could be both, I suppose, or neither. Maybe we’ve just encountered one of those rough patches that couples therapists are always going on about. One of those things we’re supposed to traverse together, before the next phase of our lifelong partnership.

The appearance of Peter I. Tortola’s name in my check-book register suggests otherwise.

This Friday night, I find my wife in the small childless bedroom designated as the Quiet Room. My wife is strikingly pretty, even as the chiseled angles of her face are softening with time, but just now she’s an unsettling sight in the darkened room. Susan has an ice pack swirled over her forehead and eyes. On the bureau next to the trundle bed, a spent Epi-Pen and bottles of migraine medication are arranged in a neat row. Susan — God help her — is in full-blown aura mode with bursts of colors. With her head tilted back and her arms along the armrests of the recliner, she appears to be clamped in an electric chair.

“Susan, you all right?”

“Migraine,” she murmurs tonelessly.

“Need anything?”

“Solitude.”

Though she can’t see me, I nod in the darkness. I realize how my Friday night will play out, and it ain’t a pretty picture. But I can’t hold myself back.

“Susan?” My tone is the most delicate I can manage.

“Mm?”

“We need to talk about something — but only when you’re up for it.”

“What is it?”

“It can wait.”

“If it can wait, why bring it up? Just tell me, Mark.”

I sigh. “A canceled check came in from Citibank. Made out to Peter Tortola.”

Susan has no immediate response to this.

I push. “We need to talk about your intentions, Susan. I need to know what that check means.”

All is silence. I’m aware of my own labored breathing. Peter I. Tortola? He’s Greenwich’s most obnoxious pit bull, a vulture, a shark, the lowest of snakes — a high-powered divorce attorney who specializes in going after Wall Street husbands, with the tenacity and teeth of a moray eel. His quarter-page ad is a weekly fixture in the otherwise-good-news pages of the Greenwich Time community newspaper. IT HAPPENS TO THE BEST OF US: D-I–V-O-R-C-E.

“Susan, we can talk about this later if—”

“You heartless bastard!” Her voice soars to a blood-chilling volume, and I am transfixed by the fury. “You sadistic son of a bitch. Why would you torture me when I’m in this condition? What’s the matter with you? Get the hell away from me!”

I dutifully comply. There is little doubt, after this exchange, that we will be more than a little unfashionably late to the Honeywells’ dinner party.

Wealth whispers.

For generations past, this was an unspoken code in Greenwich, the humility of old money. After all, darling, living in this town, how shall we say? Res ipsa loquitur. But the relentless tsunami of urban barbarians descending upon the Connecticut Gold Coast with fat Wall Street bonuses has killed off any vestige of subtlety here. Now Greenwich is just another brand name to accumulate.

The McMansions roll past as Susan and I wind our way along treelined Round Hill Road. It’s nearly 8:30 and we have not said a word to each other since our chat in the Quiet Room. I now believe that our conversations are inexorably headed for the same fate as our sex life.

My Aston Martin approaches the Honeywells’ seven-bedroom mansion on Larkspur Lane. Rich Honeywell is yet another Greenwich hedge fund asshole, one of those Wall Street guys with marginal talent and a nine-figure chunk of someone else’s family money behind him. A once-in-a-life-time fluke — a federal deregulation of pension plans — has made him obscenely wealthy in his own right, and kept an endless convoy of Brinks trucks dumping mountains of money on the doorstep of his Steamboat Road office.

Rich’s house is an eat-your-heart-out monument to his new wealth, a dramatic custard-yellow contemporary with Hudson Valley stone veneer set on five acres of what was once a fertile onion farm. And it’s equipped with all the usual accoutrements: four-car garage, tennis court, THX-certified home theater, mahogany wine cellar, and an Olympic-sized pool. There are two backhoes in the front yard, suggesting further expansion is imminent.

The Honeywells’ Belgian-bricked drive is jammed with probably $3 million worth of luxury automobiles, and I wedge my convertible into a space between a Porsche Cayenne and a yellow Hummer with personalized plates: 183 IQ. I turn off the car, and the ensuing silence is deafening. I crave a talk before we go in, a clearing of the air. Perhaps it’s naïve, but I still hope that we can turn this around before we pass the point of no return and head down the path of mutually assured destruction. As a prelude, I clear my throat — and get no further.

“I want out, Mark. I’m done with this.” Susan delivers this statement in a flat, lifeless tone, as she might say, Looks like rain. She opens the vanity mirror to check her makeup. “I want sixty percent of everything, and the house as well. You keep the cars and the retirement accounts. I’d like to file the papers next week.”

She snaps the mirror closed and exits the convertible. And just like that, it’s official: My marriage has begun its slow-motion spiral to the first circle of hell.

We approach the front door wordlessly, trying to assemble a convincing facsimile of a happy and centered Greenwich couple. Rich Honeywell opens the door with a flourish. He’s dressed in a pair of black Ted Baker slacks, a charcoal Armani shirt, and Donald Pliner loafers.

“Hey, it’s the Barstons!” Honeywell says theatrically, as he hugs Susan (a bit too warmly for my comfort). “Word up, Barston? You get lost on the way or something?” This offhand dig is a passive-aggressive notice that we are the last to arrive, but it’s the unintended irony that makes me blink. Yeah, I got lost on the way, all right

“Jennifer’s been asking all night, ‘Where’re the Barstons, where’re the Barstons?’ She’ll be psyched you’re finally here.” Rich says this breezily as he shepherds us through the palatial, antiseptic interior of his McMansion-in-progress. Like the homes of most of our friends, the design has a predictable look and feel. The furnishings bear the fingerprints of a particular interior designer who specializes in a bland, WASPy décor that appeals to new money clients with absolutely no sense of style of their own. She’s booked up for six months in advance. “Jen, come say hello to the Barstons.”

Jennifer Honeywell curtails her lecture to the waiter on how to serve the platter of jumbo Gulf shrimp, and wheels around with exaggerated delight. “It’s the Barstons!” she squeals like a teenager, and I remember something I’d heard about her trying out a new antidepressant.

We apologize for being late, then I give Jennifer a kiss, Jennifer and Susan kiss, and Rich takes advantage of the pleasantries to try to score a kiss on the lips with Susan (which she successfully evades). I take note of Jennifer’s new body — it has been honed and shaped by spinning classes and Pilates into a rock-hard leanness that teeters on the verge of masculinity. The excessive athleticism has introduced an asexual coarseness to her face. Too bad; she used to be among the most attractive of my friends’ wives.

Rich makes a sweeping gesture toward the French doors. “The bartender’s got a bottle of Grey Goose with your name on it, kimosabe.”

“Let’s have at it,” I say.

Honeywell directs us to the open-air patio overlooking an exquisitely manicured backyard of Kentucky bluegrass — an emerald carpet gleaming under a full moon. Predictably, Susan and I peel off in different directions. It will be this way for the entire night, but I’m cool with that. The blast of communal energy from the party lifts my spirits.

At the bar, a pimply-faced Greenwich High School kid gives me a double shot of Grey Goose on the rocks. Duly fortified, I meld into a nearby amoeba of acquaintances. They interrupt their debate about Robert Trent Jones golf courses to slap my back, shake my hand, and high-five me.

“I was just saying,” Ford Spilsbury says, “that the Lido course on Long Beach is as close to eighteen-hole nirvana as you’re ever going to get. The sixteenth hole is the ultimate par five, and you have an eagle opportunity if you can survive the double-water carry.”

The five of them — Spilsbury, Foster, Brightman, O’Clair, and Cantwell — are clubhouse friends, and, like me, they are all Wall Street jerks: bankers and brokers and traders and lawyers. The Ivy League degrees on this patio cost millions in tuition dollars, but they were worth every penny. The diplomas our parents bought for us are a license to steal. Collectively, we siphon off a disproportionate chunk of the country’s GNP, and trundle it north to our trophy wives in Greenwich. We buy expensive cars and homes and boats and pools, and go on obscenely expensive vacations, all of which is meant to inform everyone just how much we’re taking out of the American economy for ourselves. Our nine-year-olds are infected with this zombie-like consumerism, and are as tragically conversant with the iconic symbolism of Tiffany and BMW and Prada as their parents. We confuse wealth with class; we think they are synonymous, when they most assuredly are not. Inevitably, we will pass the former on to our children, but not the latter.

In this particular fishbowl, we wrap ourselves in an aura of effortlessness. We are expert at concealing the fears that haunt us at 3:00 in the morning: the TMJ-inducing toll our careers take on our stomachs and our mental health; the slow decay of our marriages; the warning signs that our children might not end up at an Ivy League university; the velocity at which our spending is outpacing our income. We hide behind the breezy accomplishment of breaking eighty on the course at the Stanwich Club, pretending everything is right in the world when we’ve come to know that the pursuit of this life is a cancer to the soul. I gaze up at the moon in the star-studded sky and heave a sigh. Maybe my spirits aren’t so lifted after all.

I’m mildly surprised to find my glass is empty. I break away from the group for a refill. As I’m waiting at the bar, a call lights up my cell phone. I flip it open. “This is Barston.”

On the other end an uncertain pause, then a soft fumble of the handset. A hand slips over the mouthpiece. Heated whispers, shushing, and the musical laughter of drunken young girls — a live feed directly from Fiona’s piss-up at Greenwich Point Beach.

I say nothing, just listen. More giggles and whispers, all unintelligible. Her nanny friends put her up to this, I realize, and it is juvenile, immature — a slumber party prank, for chrissakes — and then, the act of chickening out; the curt click of the line going dead. I’m staring at my phone, waiting for... I don’t know what.

I’m jolted from my reverie by the underage barkeep holding out my replenished drink. I take a greedy slurp, my temples throbbing with the pulse of curiosity over this au pair Lollapalooza taking place just a few miles away.

The night wears on, booze is consumed in disturbingly large quantities, and the conversation becomes edgy. The subject matter is friendship, fidelity, and minding your own damn business. Would you tell a friend if you knew his wife was cheating? Foster says, “No fucking way, it’s not my business.” Cantwell says, “Of it’s your business. It’s your buddy.”

Foster: “I can’t be the one to tell him something like that. It’s too... heavy, man. I’d be ruining his life.”

Rob Brightman chimes in: “So you’d keep it to yourself? How would you sleep at night?”

O’Clair says: “I get Foster’s point. Why is it his responsibility to break the news that the wife is banging the tennis instructor?”

I jump in. “He’s your best friend, Chris, that’s why. You couldn’t look him in the eye at a party like this if you knew his wife was being unfaithful. You’re duty-bound to tell him, and let him take the appropriate course of action. Case closed.”

The passion with which I deliver this point brings the debate to an abrupt end.

Brightman breaks the uncomfortable silence: “So any of you assholes have something to tell me?” The group explodes in laughter. Everyone, that is, but Ford Spilsbury, who has kept conspicuously out of the conversation.

Forty-five minutes later, when a preoccupied Spilsbury quietly approaches me during the Chicken Kiev dinner and asks to speak to me alone, I feel my stomach knot. I somehow know what’s coming.

“I heard what you said on the patio,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “About friends.”

I nod.

Spilsbury almost whispers it. “I think I’m the kind of guy who would tell a friend about that.”

“You have something to tell me, Ford?” I reply, my voice warbling. But I already know he does.

Friday evening has segued somehow into Saturday morning. Newly armed with the knowledge that my wife has been having an affair for the last six months with her college friend’s husband, I plunge through the darkness of the Backcountry, heading to the other side of the looking glass. I recognize this quest can only end badly — scandal, ruination, utter self-destruction — but it no longer matters. I’m powerless to stop the forces that have overtaken me.

A fantasy torments me: I arrive at the beach and she spies me... She pulls away from her friends and comes so close that I can feel her breath on my cheek. “I knew you’d come.” She locks up my eyes in hers as she says this, a note of triumph in her voice. She is such eye candy, I can barely contain myself. We are intoxicated — ot just by alcohol, but by the electric danger of being so close. I spirit her away to a secluded beach at the ass-end of Sound Beach Avenue. With the languid hiss of low tide in our ears, the au pair steps forward. She kisses my neck, puts her hot hands up my shirt. I grab her apple-bottom ass and pull her toward me. She responds with a tongue-loaded kiss. I can taste the salt on her skin and smell the soap in her hair.

This is going to happen, I convince myself. This is redemption. This is revenge. This is justice.

I punch the accelerator and push on toward Greenwich Point Beach.

I arrive within minutes, and the scene is surreal. Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba” throbs in the background, and yet the Nanny’s Ball has come to an undignified end. Five Greenwich police cars have pinned down at least a hundred stoned kids, all tongue-studded, belly-ringed, lip-pierced, and tattooed. Blinding blue-and-red strobes light the beach in psychedelic hues, and the squawk of the radio dispatcher says backup is on the way. The acrid smell of pot is heavy in the salt air. Six half-naked, soaking-wet party animals are led by in cuffs. I’m numbed by the commotion, but amidst the crowd, I see the object of my desire. Fiona Ranieri’s au pair is in the epicenter of this frenetic scene, crying her eyes out. She looks scared and vulnerable and... oh, so incredibly young

I swing the Aston Martin into a dark corner of the parking lot and kill the headlights. I don’t take my eyes off Fiona’s face as I begin to formulate a daring rescue mission. How far away is she? Thirty yards? Forty? I could edge up on the far side of the crowd, grab her by the arm... then a short sprint back to my car, and we’re home free. I can almost hear the sweet relief in her voice. “I knew you’d come.”

I open my car door and step out. And nearly fall.

Just then I realize how intoxicated I am. My head is swimming in Grey Goose, my legs are jelly, and I’m now bathed in a panic-induced sweat. I climb back in my seat and grip the wheel. Static blasts from a nearby police radio, and I jump. I can’t make out the words, but when I squeeze my eyes shut, they become clearer. The words are my own:

Where you going with this, Barston? You put yourself in the middle of this — to what end? So you can wind up in the police blotter for DUI and God knows what else? And for what — some chick who chatted you up in the bar car for less than an hour? This is your grand plan to get back at Ranieri — fucking his nanny?

Another squawk of static and I realize it’s coming from the radio of a Greenwich cop glaring my way. As he strides toward my car, I fumble the door closed. The cops is shouting something, but somehow I get the vehicle in gear and kick up a cloud of sand, which I pray obscures my license plate.

Miles from the beach, I pull over. I’m sweat-soaked and shaking, and I rest my head on the steering wheel and gasp for breath. And suddenly I’m pounding the dash in fury and self-loathing.

What were you thinking, you pathetic, sorry-ass sonuvabitch?

It’s nearly dawn when I get home and stumble to the front door. On the third attempt, I jam the key into the lock. At first I don’t see the white envelope propped up against the door, and I kick it across the foyer. I stagger toward the stairs and almost leave it there on the Kashan rug, but something catches my eye and pierces the alcoholic fog around my brain: the Fischer Brothers logo.

I have to sit to retrieve the envelope, but I manage. Crosslegged on the floor, I thumb-wrestle it open and look inside. And I know instantly.

It’s nothing short of a miracle: the last-ditch Hail Mary pass thrown desperately with seconds to go, the game-winning homer in the bottom of the ninth, the sudden-death eagle on the eighteenth hole at the Masters — impossible victory from certain defeat. It is the life preserver that will save me from going under for the last time, that will save me from myself.

“Terri,” I whisper reverentially, the papers trembling in my hands. I say my loyal assistant’s name over and over.

I enter Ranieri’s glassed-in corner office on Monday morning, and I am ready to bite the ass off a bear. For his part, my enemy is bouncing a blue rubber stress ball off the windowed wall. He receives me exuberantly.

“Happy Monday, Sparky. How was the weekend?” He resumes throwing the ball against the glass.

“Must you do that?” I ask pointedly.

“You mean this?” He sidearms the ball again and smirks. “Why? Does it bother you?” I decline to engage in this lame banter, and silence prevails.

Moments later, Brian Horgan arrives with my thick personnel file. Sauntering in right behind him is Senior Managing Director Ian Becker. Becker is Ranieri’s ultimate boss, and mine too — here to see that I’m officially terminated, and that the empire I’ve created is handed over seamlessly to his Harvard roommate.

“Guess this is show time,” Ranieri says. We lock eyes for a moment and he quickly looks away, shoving the door closed. He ceremoniously circles back to his chair, slouching into an elaborately casual posture. “Let’s pick up where we left off on Friday. Ian, you care to kick things off?”

Becker clears his throat and speaks in an authoritative British baritone. “Let me start by saying we commend you for the contribution you’ve made to this firm. You’ve gotten us off to a respectable start, a decent standing in the league tables. But, candidly, you’ve developed something of a reputation for not being a team player, especially when it comes to matters involving your co-head. So, it’s the consensus of senior management that we need to have a single focal point for the future of the business. Regrettably, that means that one of the two co-heads needs to move on. It’s nothing personal, Mark, but—”

“Not true, Ian. It absolutely is personal.”

“If that’s how you feel about it, then fine.”

“That’s exactly how I feel about it. As for my people, let the record show that they consider Ranieri to be a rodent-faced, backstabbing, Mickey Mouse amateur who will crash this business into the ground within a year. By which time they’ll be poached away by our competitors.”

Ranieri’s eyebrows climb his forehead in offense, but he holds his tongue in check.

Becker’s face softens in saccharine compassion. “Be that as it may, Mark, you should know that there will be a formal announcement about a restructuring shortly, possibly as early as Wednesday. I’m working to find a proper place for someone with your skill set, but we’ve got headcount pressures from upstairs. If these efforts fail, well, we’re committed to ensure proper protocol is followed with regard to your termination. We’ve all pushed hard to be fair — no, to go way beyond being merely fair — and we’re—”

I yawn theatrically.

Becker draws back in outrage. “Am I boring you?”

“Matter of fact, yes, you are. Even worse, you’re wasting my time.”

Becker sputters, furious at this insubordination, when a sharp rap sounds at the door. The cavalry has arrived, and right on time. All heads turn as David Rosenman, the firm’s Associate General Counsel, opens the door and leans in.

“Ian, I need to see you,” he says.

Ian Becker is annoyed by the disruption. “We should be done here in about fifteen minutes, David. Can we circle up at 8:15 a.m.?”

“It wasn’t a request, Ian,” Rosenman says sternly. “Step out of this meeting now.”

Becker is puzzled, but there’s no mistaking the seriousness in Rosenman’s voice. He mumbles something under his breath, rises from his chair, and disappears around a corner with Rosenman.

“What the hell was that about?” Ranieri says to no one in particular.

“Oh, that?” I say. I produce a cigar from my jacket pock t and light it. “That would be about the Eagles Mere III CDO. The ‘kitchen sink’ collateralized unit.”

Ranieri freezes, color draining from his face. The transformation is astounding: He ages ten years in an instant — exhausted, pallid, scared. He knows exactly what I’m talking about

I push on. “According to a routine compliance check on personal trading that was run over the weekend, both you and Becker have sizable positions of these Eagles Mere III units in your personal trading accounts. Sizable positions.”

“You fucking son of a bitch,” Ranieri whispers hoarsely.

“So I imagine right now Rosenman is asking Becker how it is that a security that cost him $50,000 a unit is throwing off $11,568 in interest — a month. That would be about $140,000 a year, risk free—”

“You’re going to regret this, asswipe.”

“What kind of security pays nearly three hundred percent interest a year with zero risk? I don’t know, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” I exhale a luxurious cloud of smoke. “But maybe — and this is just a theory, mind you — maybe it’s a dummy security concocted by you. And maybe — just maybe — it’s a little something you cooked up to divert hundreds of thousands of dollars a year from the firm’s institutional clients to you and your greedy-ass butt-buddy. Now, why would you do such a heinous thing? I don’t know — perhaps quid pro quo for Becker naming you to a certain co-head position in equity derivatives? It’s just a theory, of course.”

“This conversation is over.”

“You’re goddamned right it’s over!” I yell. “Sun Tzu is required reading at Hah-vahd b-school, isn’t it? You must know The Art of War by heart. A mortal enemy must be crushed completely. More is lost stopping halfway through than through total annihilation: the enemy will recover and will seek revenge. Crush him, both in body and spirit.”

Ranieri regards me with a superhuman loathing. He remains mute

“Hey, Brian?” I say, getting up to leave. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

Brian Horgan is open-mouthed with awe as I shut the door.

Checkmate, motherfucker.

My head is spinning. Events have been set into motion that will be impossible to stop. There will be lawyers and compliance officers and regulators piling onto this situation in the hours, days, and weeks to come. Both Ranieri and Becker will pay an enormous personal price for fucking with my livelihood. There’s even a good shot that they will be thrown out of the industry. So be it. Kill or be killed — that’s Wall Street in its purest form, isn’t it?

As I cross the trading floor, I receive another standing ovation. Apparently, Terri Aronica has spread word of the Eagles Mere scandal among the trading floor personnel, and I am acknowledged as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. This time, though, I don’t bask in the adulation. There is little sense of accomplishment in my Machiavellian maneuver, because with this second bullet dodged comes a second epiphany: This is no victory.

I have crushed Ranieri, but his voice is playing in my head: You can postpone the inevitable only so long, Sparky. And I know he’s right. How many more Ranieris are even now lining up to take what I’ve built? How many of them are in this room, smiling and clapping for me? And if not one of them, then it will be Susan and her cadre of lawyers. How many more bullets can I dodge?

There are handshakes, back pats, light punches on the shoulder, as I make my way to my seat. The applause subsides and the normal trading room chatter rises. Random static from a speakerphone fills my ears and I think of the other night with Fiona. Even if I’d whisked her off that beach, she too would have turned on me eventually, gotten lawyers of her own, tried to pick my bones clean. Maybe it’s destiny or some law of nature: Once you’re at the top of your game, everyone becomes your enemy — rivals, friends, lawyers, lovers, superiors, subordinates. They plot and scheme and come after everything that matters to you, everything you love and care about.

Terri puts a steaming latte on my desk. Her freckled face beams and her eyes meet mine. It is an intimate moment: Together, we triumphed over the forces of evil against great odds. Yet at this moment, absolutely no one is beyond suspicion. Et tu, Terri? I force myself to smile back, even as Rich Honeywell’s mocking voice unexpectedly fills my head.

You get lost along the way, Barston?

A trader’s lot by Twist Phelan

1 North End Avenue

Every morning for the past nine months, David Sherwin had disembarked from the Hoboken ferry and joined the flow of people on the walkway to the New York Mercantile Exchange. Chewing on an antacid from the roll in his pocket, he would shuffle along with the crowd, his mind on his meager market positions.

But today, David didn’t reach for the tablets. Instead, he tilted back his head and inhaled the faint saltiness of the river, barely discernable under the stench of diesel fumes from the ferry. The flat gray strip of water stretched away to the horizon, where it merged into the overcast sky. For an instant David was back five years, to when he’d first met Malia and other things weren’t so important.

Heedless of the heavy mist, David walked with an almost forgotten energy — dodging concrete barricades and posts topped with security cameras, threading through knots of traders, clerks, and Exchange employees — toward the fifteen-story concrete and marble box that housed the world’s most important trading floors for metals and energy. Everyone he passed was talking about the same thing. “It’ll be there in two hours”... “The Hub was evacuated this morning”... “Already Category Four.” David walked faster.

He passed three homeless men crowded under a concessionaire’s canopy, driven there by an earlier downpour. Propped up against the storefront, one of them wore a discarded trader’s jacket, the splash of yellow garish against the otherwise unremitting gray. Although he usually didn’t give to street people, David stuffed a bill into the offered cardboard cup and wondered if the man was the jacket’s original owner.

I’ll stop at Cartier on the way home. Malia had always wanted one of those watches, the kind with the twelve little diamonds around the face. Maybe I can get to the Porsche dealership before it closes. David pictured a low-slung convertible — red, her favorite color.

“Up for this afternoon’s game, Dash?” The familiar voice jarred David from his daydreams. “They’re playing the Dodgers.” Mike Vigneri, a fellow trader in the natural-gas pit, came up beside him. When things were slow, Vigneri sometimes ducked out before the closing to catch an afternoon game at Shea.

“Sure, if it’s quiet,” David said, knowing no trader would be leaving the Floor early today. Vigneri grinned at the joke.

David pushed through the revolving doors of the main entrance and strode across the marble lobby. He inserted his ID card into the turnstile slot and walked through the metal detector.

The Exchange was located less than two blocks from where the towers had stood, and security had been substantially increased since the attacks. In addition to the metal detector in the lobby, surveillance equipment had been installed on the Floor and around the building perimeter, public tours had been discontinued, and cops in flak jackets accompanied by bomb-sniffing dogs patrolled the premises. On elevated terror-alert days, a Coast Guard gunboat armed with missiles sat offshore in the murky Hudson.

“This hurricane is sending gas to the fucking moon!” Vigneri said as they changed into their trader jackets in the locker room. He rubbed his thick hands together. “Gonna be some serious money made today.”

“Yeah,” David said. If Vigneri only knew. He stuffed his pit cards and trade pad into a pocket of his bright blue jack t Except for the color, it looked like a med student’s lab coat. He clipped a yellow badge to his collar, just above his photo ID. The bright plastic pin was engraved with four letters derived from the initials of his name: DASH Traders called each other by their badge symbols and used them when writing up trades.

The badge meant David had a seat on the Exchange. Not an actual place to sit — on the Floor, only the clerks did that — but rather the right to buy and sell commodity futures on the trading floor. Exchange seats sold for two million dollars, or were leased for upwards of twenty thousand a month. The seat David traded on was owned by his wife.

At least it had been until two days ago.

David popped an antacid and closed his locker. “I’ll see you up there,” he said.

Although he usually took the elevator, today David bounded up the stairs, reaching the Floor five minutes before the opening bell. Crude oil, heating oil, gasoline, natural gas, propane, coal — the Exchange set the prices for the fuels that ran the world’s economies. Out of breath from the unaccustomed sprint, David pushed his way to his usual place in the natural-gas pit.

While other exchanges were going all-electronic, and overnight energy trading could be done by computer, during business hours the New York Mercantile Exchange still transacted business as it had for over a hundred years — buyers and sellers announcing bids and offers at the top of their voices.

As a rule, only a handful of natural-gas traders were usually in the ring this early. But today the pit was packed, the mélange of garish polyester jackets turning the space into a kaleidoscope. Traders who normally worked crude oil or gasoline pushed in next to the natural-gas regulars to get in on the action.

The room had a musty, damp-clothes smell, despite the cold drafts pouring from vents in the ceiling. As the electronic clock moved toward 10 o’clock, David could feel a surge of anticipation roll through the pit, more intense than usual.

His eyes went to the flat-screen television suspended overhead. The station was tuned to the Weather Channel instead of the customary Fox CNBC. The news crawl across the bottom of the screen read, Category 5—175 m.p.h. winds. David stared at the computer graphic, a swirl of neon red against a blue background. After Malia had gone to sleep, he had spent most of last night at his computer tracking the swirl as it moved across the Gulf. The tension in his shoulders eased as he saw the storm was still on course.

The seconds on the digital clock slowly ticked by. 9:58:17 9:58:42... David balled his hands into fists and jammed them into his pockets so no one would see them trembling. 9:59:36... 9:59:53... 10:00:00 The opening bell rang, and two hundred voices and two hundred arms were raised.

“Hundred Deece at eleven even, hundred Deece at even!”... “Take ’em all!”... “Fifty Deece at thirty!”... “Buy ’em!”... “Fifty Deece at eleven fifty!” Traders screamed, waved their arms, bounced up and down — anything to get noticed and make the trade.

Yesterday, natural gas had closed at ten dollars per contract. Overnight on the electronic market, the price had shot up a dollar. Now, seconds after the opening, it had jumped another fifty cents.

David saw a pair of glasses knocked from a trader’s face by an errant elbow. Their owner was unfazed. “Two hundred Novy at twenty!” he shouted, his hands moving as if he were throwing down gang signs. Novy and Deece were slang for delivery months November and December.

Instead of joining in the frenzy around him, David simply watched the quote board, where orange, green, and red numbers flickered against a black background. Natural-gas contracts were priced in dollars and cents, and normally moved up or down in one-cent increments. Today the price was increasing twenty, thirty cents at a time.

A hurricane was heading for the Henry Hub, the gas-processing plant in Louisiana where over a dozen of the country’s major natural-gas pipelines converged. The Hub had been shut down the night before as a precautionary measure, squeezing supply and driving up the price. If the pipelines were damaged by the storm, natural-gas delivery would be held up for weeks, possibly months, resulting in default on billions of dollars’ worth of delivery contracts.

According to the National Hurricane Center’s computer model, the hurricane would collide with the Hub in less than two hours. As the red swirl moved across the TV screen, the pit became a seller’s market, the price of natural gas soaring as the big producers bought back their outstanding contracts and the speculators who had sold short scrambled to cover their positions. The only question was, How far up will it go?

The rubber floor and acoustical padding on the walls did little to blunt the clamor. The din of the Exchange washed over David. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the sound of wealth being created. Mine and Malia’s

Beside him Vigneri completed a sale. Trading jacket straining at the seams, he scribbled down details on price, quantity, and delivery month, and the badge symbol of the trader who had bought from him on a pit card before frisbeeing it toward a man sitting behind a low counter at the center of the pit. Wearing a baseball hat and plastic goggles as protection from the flying pieces of cardboard, the pit card clocker frantically collected and time-stamped the cards. They were then rushed to the data entry room for transmission onto the wire services and entry into the Exchange’s permanent records.

We could go to Europe. Malia had studied French in college. David imagined the two of them sitting in a Paris café. Sunlight sparkled off the diamond trim on Malia’s new watch, and she was laughing like she used to.

Vigneri nudged him. “What’s up, Dash? Don’t you want in on this?”

“I’m already long.” David paused. “A hundred contracts.”

Vigneri’s jaw dropped. “Well, fuck me.”

Maybe I’ll fly Malia to Paris, give her the watch there. She couldn’t be mad at him then. He imagined her pink and glowing among the rumpled bedclothes in a romantic hotel. Perhaps they could finally start their family.

Malia’s father had been a natural-gas trader, too, doing well enough to retire to Bermuda after Malia left for college. He had kept his seat on the Exchange, though, leasing it out to various traders over the years. When he died last year, Malia had inherited it. Her father’s second wife had gotten the house and bank accounts in Bermuda.

After her father’s death, Malia had planned to continue leasing out the seat. But David knew the extra few thousand a week after taxes wouldn’t be enough, not if they were to have children. He wanted kids, but Malia claimed she wasn’t ready. Their discussions had become arguments, worsening each month. Malia’s parents, though distant, had provided her with a comfortable childhood — piano and riding lessons, nice house, trips abroad, private school. David figured his wife’s reluctance stemmed from not wanting less for their own kids. But that took wealth — real wealth — the kind her father had made. The old guy had never said a word, but David was sure that Malia’s dad thought his daughter had married beneath her.

“This is our chance, Malia,” he had said. After a few weeks she had given in, and David quit his job at a brokerage firm and became a trader in the natural-gas pit. That had been nine months ago.

But things didn’t work out as David had planned. Floor trading for his own account was worlds away from sitting at a desk taking telephone orders from clients. Although he had mastered the skills of buying and selling on the Floor, David wasn’t a “natural.” He didn’t have a feel for the market, and couldn’t anticipate its ebbs and flows. Before long, he had burned through their nest egg. With barely any capital left, David had been reduced to trading one and two contracts at a time, eking out less than his former salary.

But David was convinced more volume could improve his returns. “To make money, you have to spend money,” he had told Malia. But they had no access to additional funds — unless Malia borrowed against the value of her seat. A million and a half dollars of trading capital, the clearing firm rep had told him. But Malia wouldn’t hear of it.

“It’s all we have for our retirement,” she had said when David raised the subject. Despite his entreaties, this time she stood firm, and David had resigned himself to an existence as a one-lotter. Until the phone call from his brother last week.

In love with the ocean, Thomas Sherwin had dropped out of college with the aim of spending his life on the deck of a ship. He currently ran a fairly successful fishing charter business out of a small port town in Louisiana.

“Got the boats out of the Gulf yesterday,” Tom had told David. “All the signs point to a big one coming our way — warm water, cold mass descending, no wind shear. Even the old timers are leaving. Looks like it’s going to hit around where those pipelines are.”

Tom knew weather, especially hurricanes. His livelihood depended on it. When he said a tropical storm was headed through the ocean toward the Henry Hub, David believed him.

After hanging up the phone, David had been overcome with a peculiar sensation. A hunch, a gut reaction. The other traders talked about them all the time, but David had never really understood before now. It was an awareness of having arrived at an unmarked intersection in life, the sense that if he didn’t act, he would forever suffer the misery of what could have been.

Getting the money turned out to be easier than he had thought. David merely slipped the signature page of the loan documents into the stack of tax returns waiting for Malia’s signature. As usual, she scribbled her name without reading anything. His clearing firm accepted it without question.

The Exchange required all members’ trades to be backed by a clearing firm. To secure the guarantee, members pledged collateral — usually cash, sometimes a letter of credit or the deed to an Exchange seat.

David liked his clearing firm rep. Earl Kinder was a tall, middle-aged man with the dry understanding of someone who had heard too many lies and witnessed too many traders undone by the pits. Though a bit too cautious for David’s taste, he was one of the few who did business with one-lotters.

Kinder’s fingers had hesitated over the keyboard. “There’s no shame in being a one-lotter, Dash.”

A photograph sat on the clearing house rep’s desk. It showed a round-cheeked woman and two boys with Kinder’s red hair, standing among piles of leaves in front of a modest white house. David had studied it for a moment.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Kinder had started typing, pushing back from the computer less than a minute later.

“There’s your one-point-five, Dash. You know the drill. If you fall below your margin, start liquidating, or I’ll do it for you. Lose it all, and I have to pull your badge and sell the seat.”

David briefly clenched his jaw. A million and a half dollars was in his trading account, secured by Malia’s seat. At last I’m holding size. It was like holding dynamite. He could feel the power — and the undercurrent of danger, too.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “There won’t be a problem.”

After leaving the clearing firm’s offices, David had gone downstairs to the Floor. At an unattended computer, he had logged onto the National Hurricane Center’s website. The tropical storm was following the path his brother had predicted. We are not concerned about the Gulf Coast and we expect little if any impact on the oil industry, read the latest bulletin. But David hadn’t been swayed. Tom always called storms right. His gut told him there was no reason to doubt his brother now.

With twenty minutes left before the close, David had commenced buying. Ten, fifteen contracts at a time, working his way up. Some of the traders had been curious about such volume from a one-lotter, but David explained he was doing a favor for a broker friend.

After the closing bell rang, David had flipped through his trade pad, slightly astonished. He owned a hundred natural-gas contracts. Every ten-cent change in price meant a loss or gain of a hundred thousand dollars.

On the ferry ride home, David had paced the deck, restless and jumpy. He wouldn’t be riding the slow, fat boat much longer. Maybe he and Malia would move to Manhattan, or better yet, Connecticut. Malia and their kids would have their own leaf-strewn yard.

Now, thirty-six hours later, that life was within reach. All David had to do was watch the numbers go up as the red swirl moved across the screen. The hurricane closed in on the Hub, and the fifty-cent opening bump in price became sixty cents, then seventy-five.

“Thirty Deece at eighty-five!” someone yelled from the other side of the ring. David did the math in his head. Up a million and three-quarters. Caught up in the calculations, he didn’t hear the quiet voice right away.

“Looks like you made a good call, Dash,” Kinder repeat-ed.

Because a trader could buy or sell ten-dollars’ worth of contracts for every dollar’s worth of security posted, the clearing firms kept a close eye on their customers’ positions. If the market changed direction and a firm didn’t pull a trader’s badge in time, the clearing firm had to eat the loss. David had seen Kinder physically hustle a busted trader off the Floor so he couldn’t do any more damage — not to himself, but to the clearing firm’s credit line.

“Remember, the market gives, and the market takes away,” the clearing house rep said. “Don’t you think it’s time you covered?”

David checked the quote board. The December contract price had hit twelve dollars, up twenty percent from yesterday’s close. He’d made two million dollars in less than an hour — and the storm still hadn’t hit the Hub.

“Not yet,” he said.

But watching the clearing house rep walk away, David wondered exactly whom he was trying to convince. If he sold his position, he could pay back Kinder, redeem the seat, and be left with more trading capital that he had ever imagined, his one-lot days forever behind him. Malia would want me to get out. David stretched up on his toes, preparing to shout his offer, then hesitated.

To make money, you have to spend money. His own words came back to him, and he felt a sense of certainty, destiny even. There was two million dollars’ profit in his account, enough to buy another hundred gas contracts. David glanced at the television screen. The hurricane was still bearing down on Louisiana.

Successful traders all had a story about their Big Day — the moment on the Floor that had defined them, the day they made the trade that launched them into a new place. This was his Big Day — David was certain of it. At last Malia would respect him.

“A hundred Deece at twelve!” shouted the trader in front of him.

David bent down and spoke into the man’s ear. “Buy ’em.”

The trader frowned at him. “A hundred at twelve? You’re sure?” His tone made clear he knew David was a one-lotter.

Hearing the other man’s doubt, David felt something rise up inside him. He jerked his head in a nod. “Write it up.”

As the trader scribbled the details of the trade on a pit card, someone called, “Dash!”

David glanced around the ring and spotted Vigneri’s bulky frame on the other side. His friend cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, but David couldn’t hear him over the hubbub. Vigneri made a slashing motion across his throat, then gestured at the quote board.

David looked up. December gas had dropped a nickel. As he kept watching, the number changed again. Ten cents down. His stomach churned. The market was turning against him.

He calculated his loss — two hundred thousand. A temporary slide, he told himself, like a car skidding across an ice patch, then regaining traction before it hit anything. Small when compared to two million. But as he watched, the numbers dipped again, and the two hundred became two hundred and fifty.

David felt as if he were in a pool of rising water. He craned his neck to see the television. Breaking News read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. The red swirl was still there, but the dotted line showing its projected trajectory had shifted. According to the graphic, the storm would bypass Louisiana altogether. The hurricane is going to miss the Hub David’s heart banged against his ribs. He flicked his eyes back to the quote board just as the gas number began to nosedive in earnest.

Around him, shouts became bellows as the market fell. A few feet away a trader held his head in his hands and moaned, while another threw up. Transfixed, David watched the price grind down, taking his dreams with it.

The house was the first to go. “Eleven seventy-five.” Kiss the place in Connecticut goodbye. “Eleven forty.” There goes the red Porsche “Eleven twenty.” Au revoir, trip to Paris. “Eleven ten.” No more Cartier watch David winced at every down-ward tick, the plummeting number like a finger poking him in the chest.

“Eleven dollars!” yelled the trader beside him. All of David’s profit was gone. The realization jolted him from his stupor, and he raised his hands to join the cacophony.

“TWO HUNDRED AT TEN EIGHTY! TWO HUNDRED AT TEN EIGHTY!” he shouted.

There were no takers. Abandoning the hand signals, David screamed ever-decreasing offers. “Ten sixty!... Ten forty!...” It was like trying to find someone to catch a falling knife. No one answered.

By now the spread between buyers and sellers was so huge, it was practically unbridgeable. One by one, would-be sellers stopped shouting. Instead they stared wordlessly, watching the price of gas plunge too quickly for the quote board to keep up. The ground was littered with discarded pit cards. In the middle of the ring the clocker gaped at the traders, eyes large behind his goggles, bewildered at having nothing to do.

At last the number slowed, finally stabilizing at its pre-hurricane level of ten dollars per contract. David stared at the quote board, the neon colors blurring. Two million dollars gone, like water through his fingers. All that was left was—

Realization burned through him. It wasn’t only a watch or a car that was gone. He owed the clearing firm two million dollars for the two hundred contracts. I lost Malia’s seat. As if reading his thoughts, Earl Kinder materialized on the other side of the pit and headed toward him.

David tasted bile in his mouth. He whirled and began shoving his way out of the ring to the exit. He couldn’t face the clearing house rep. Not until he figured out how to save the seat.

He burst through the Exchange’s revolving doors and into the cold air. Reporters from the financial press hovered near the entrance, looking for first-person accounts of the carnage. They surged forward at the sight of David’s trading jacket. Dodging the photographers’ zoom lenses, he sprinted down the walkway that led to the ferry. Once he was north of the pier and onto the rocks, the journalists abandoned their pursuit.

Reaching the river’s edge, David propped his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths, waiting for his heart to slow. A pair of pelicans trundled along the shoreline, like two old men on their way to the corner bar. There was no one else around.

David sank to the ground, heedless of the damp rocks. Raindrops stung his skin and the air was sour with exhaust and brine. He could hear the hum of traffic behind him on the West Side Highway.

Tomorrow he would talk to Kinder, work something out. Even as he formed the idea, he knew it was ridiculous. The Floor was like Vegas — you had to pay to play.

Two million dollars He’d had his Big Day, and already he couldn’t really remember what it had felt like. One thing was certain: Getting what you wanted and losing it was worse than never having had it at all.

“Dash.” The soft voice startled him out of his reverie. A hand dropped onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

Kinder Wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, David pushed himself to his feet, a litany of if onlys running through his brain.

If only I hadn’t borrowed the money against the seat... If only I had sold out instead of buying more... If only I hadn’t believed red cars and trips to Paris would make things right between Malia and me again...

“Did you cover before you left?” Kinder asked.

David shook his head, then shivered as the wind knifed through his thin trader’s coat. The sky was low and opaque. “After I sell out your position, we’ll go upstairs to turn in your ID.” Kinder nodded at the square of plastic on David’s lapel. “I need you to give me that.”

“Mr. Kinder, please...” David covered the badge with his hand. “Spot me fifty,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You know I can’t do that. Give me the badge, Dash. The sooner you do, the sooner this will be behind you.”

David tightened his grip on the plastic pin. Kinder reached out as if to pry his hand loose. David twisted away, stepping into the water and shoving the rep with his shoulder. Kinder gasped as he lost his footing on the slick stones. He started to topple forward.

In that split second, David knew he could reach out and catch the falling man. But he didn’t move. Instead, he watched Kinder strike his head on a sharp rock and land face-down in the river.

The clearing house rep lay still, save for one hand undulating in the current as though it were waving. Blood leaked from his wound, clouding the water before it was swept downstream.

Ankle-deep in the icy water, David stared at the scene in disbelief. Then panic overtook him, propelling him out of the river and back onto the walkway, where he tried to collect himself.

He was alone. No gunboat, no security patrol, no pedestrians or loitering homeless. Even the pelicans were gone. Unable to think of what else to do, David began walking toward the Exchange. As the building loomed in front of him, he slowed his pace and looked toward the Hudson.

Maybe I should... He had a decent term life insurance policy, enough so that Malia could start over. David veered off the walkway toward the water, his shoes squishing on the gravel.

“Hey, Dash!”

David turned to see Vigneri lumbering toward him, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Almost unconsciously, David reached into his pocket for an antacid tablet.

“Christ, I hate these stupid smoking laws.” Vigneri exhaled a stream of smoke through his nose and eyed the roll of antacids in David’s hand, though he didn’t seem to notice his wet feet. “The Exchange should have bowls of those on the Floor for days like today.” He barked out a laugh. David flinched at the sound.

“Jesus, you’re twitchy. That’s what holding size will do to you.” Vigneri dragged on his cigarette. “So, did you catch my signal and get out in time? That reporter I used to date told me about the ’cane missing the Hub right before it went out over the air. I got short, made a little money.”

David’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak. “Not exactly.”

Vigneri grimaced. “Ah shit, Dash.” He dropped his cigarette onto the gravel and ground it out with his shoe, then glanced at his watch. “Close is in thirty minutes.”

For a moment, David watched the river slide past. He thought he could see tendrils of red in the water. “Let’s go.”

They walked back to the Exchange, David’s wet pant cuffs flapping against his ankles. David dully watched his ID pass through the card reader at Security, then followed Vigneri to the elevator.

The natural-gas pit was in full cry, as frenetic as it had been that morning. Out of habit, David glanced at the quote board, then looked again. Gas was trading at thirteen, up three dollars from the opening.

His eyes flicked to the television monitor. The red swirl had been replaced by a blaze of flames leaping into the sky. David stared at the image, struggling to make sense of it, as a roar went up from the pit — the signal that the price had hit another new high.

Vigneri broke off talking with another trader. “Can you fucking believe it? When they evacuated the Hub, someone left a valve open at the gas processing plant. The whole damn place blew up! Gas is going through the roof!” Vigneri punched David on the arm. “You’re making a killing, you lucky bastard.”

David was stunned. Because Kinder hadn’t sold the two hundred contracts, his account was up four million dollars. And Malia’s seat was safe.

His heart beat faster as he mentally replayed the scene at the waterfront. He and Kinder had been alone. Vigneri had chalked up his nervousness to holding a big position. Hope spread through David’s chest. My Big Day.

Against Floor rules, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Punching in Malia’s number, David checked the quote board again. As soon as he told her the good news, he’d sell. No way was he making the same mistake twice.

Underneath the electronic display, a security camera slowly panned the area. Just like the ones posted along the riverbank.

Feeding Frenzy by Tim Broderick

40 Wall Street

A terrorizing demonstration by Jim Fusilli

23 Wall Street

An aptitude with higher mathematics earned him an enviable position at the nation’s most powerful bank, but he soon lost it to petulance. “No good will ever come of you,” said the paymaster as he tallied his severance, wagging an ancient finger. “Not by half are you as clever as you believe.”

With a smirk on his lips, the young man departed the bank’s gray, bunker-like offices. By the time he stepped into the bustle of Broad Street, he decided the events that had led to his dismissal required redress.

He told himself neither the prissy clerk who declared his work ill conceived nor the secretary who deemed his advances untoward was worthy of his consideration. The creaking paymaster was a cross-eyed dolt.

Soon he realized not even the attenuation of J.P. Morgan himself would compensate for the unwarranted assault on his character.

By the time he reached Cortlandt Street, he knew that only the institution itself would merit the full force of his intellect in the service of his sense of Justice. Taking the Sixth Avenue El uptown, he began his withdrawal into what would be a lengthy period of unwavering purpose.

When he returned to the corner of Wall and Broad streets twenty-one months later, on the third Thursday of September 1920, it was to execute a plan that, in his mind, was perfect.

Mauro sat on the brownstone steps, elbows on scuffed knees, and gazed doe-eyed into the summer evening, his ten-year-old mind all but unoccupied by thought.

The slight, round-headed boy was unaware he had been judged insufficient by the nuns, who recommended to his mother that she return with him to Terracina. Paterson teemed with Italian immigrants, they explained carefully, and only the brightest among them would find purchase in America.

Stunned, Mauro’s mother took her son by the hand to the public school. The sympathetic vice principal, a Mr. Piatti, un Milanese, was made to understand that the boy was the family’s future, the reason they had come to northern New Jersey from southern Italy. Mauro was placed in the third grade class for slow learners. When September arrived, he would be the oldest among his new classmates.

Widowed by a trolley accident, Mauro’s mother took in laundry and repaired garments for her Essex Street neighbors, many of whom considered use of her services an act of charity. Among her customers was the man who moved in three floors above her basement apartment, the rare American in the Italian quarter. She saw him as quiet and respectful with a dash of charm, despite his angular face that dry skin had reddened at the nose and pale eyes of a peculiar aspect she could not identify.

Each Tuesday, he left a plump pillowcase outside her door, a crisp dollar bill atop his soiled clothes.

One afternoon, she found in his shirt breast pocket a crinkled deposit slip from the Morgan Bank of 23 Wall Street. Eager to return it to him, she instructed her son to sit outside and summon her when the man approached.

Mauro wiped his nose with a slender arm as he watched an orderly row of black ants enter a narrow breech in the steps where, earlier, he had inserted a pignoli nut.

Mama,” he shouted, “sta venendo!”

Removing her apron, Mauro’s mother scurried to the wrought-iron fence and held out the slip, her hand trembling with nerves.

In greeting her, the man removed his boater, revealing hair lighter than the color of straw.

Mauro watched incuriously.

The man thanked her and buried the paper in a side pocket. Returning his hat to his head, he said, “Perhaps the boy would profit from a visit. Wall Street, the financial capital of our country, and the New York Stock Exchange, of course.”

She smiled in agreement.

He tussled the boy’s hair as he climbed the steps, soles scraping brownstone.

He rented the apartment in Paterson after learning the city was the anarchists’ capital of the United States, home to La Questione Sociale, a weekly newspaper whose circulation at one time exceeded fifteen thousand, roughly the equivalent of the daily distribution of The Wall Street Journal. Its publisher was Errico Malatesta, a proponent of violence as a means to social change.

Another Paterson resident, Gaetano Bresci, returned to Italy in 1900 and killed its king, Umberto I.

And a third Italian anarchist, Luigi Galleani, also lived in Paterson for a while, until he was deported. His admirers, known as Galleanists and largely comprised of laborers of Italian descent, absorbed his philosophies. A few had bombed police stations, creating the infernal weapons by following Galleani’s instruction manual that bore the title “La Salute è in Voi,” a crude translation of which is “To Your Health.”

“The irony of it!” said the man who had dyed his hair the dark color of a Mediterranean native. His tittering laughter drew the ire of the people at an adjoining table in the library’s reading room. He quickly gathered his notebooks and blue prints, leaving the Galleani manual in plain sight.

In fact, he had no real need for the Italian’s instructions. In the Yorkville section of Manhattan, there were Germans, some of whom had served the Fatherland in the Great War, who knew how to build bombs far more sophisticated, and devastating, than those the Galleanists deployed.

Using the name Errico Bresci, the man purchased a wagon built in 1893. At a stable on Paterson’s Mill Street, he bought a ten-year-old harness for the dark bay he kept under the Brooklyn Bridge.

T.J. O’Neal Jr., a resident of Nutley, New Jersey, transported himself to lower Manhattan via the Tubes from Newark. He did so daily, endeavoring to complete the crossword puzzle of the Newark Star before arriving at the Hudson Terminal.

The twenty-minute ride was inevitably uneventful, for Mr. O’Neal traveled after the morning rush had ended. From his window, he saw the great concrete and sandstone towers of Wall Street, one rising higher than the next, as if climbing each other in competition for a gold ring hidden among the clouds. Though he had been a waiter at Ye Olde Chop House on Cedar Street for more than a decade, he still felt a jolt of amazement at the sheer audacity of the district, the intensity of its activity and its presumption of

Today, a man carrying a tennis racket assumed the seat next to Mr. O’Neal, arriving at the moment the train slid to the underground.

“Hello,” said the black-haired man, who introduced himself as Fischer.

Mr. O’Neal nodded politely, but in such a way as to discourage further conversation. The puzzle beckoned.

“I’ve seen you,” said Fischer, adjusting his tennis racket. “You are amiable.”

Mr. O’Neal gripped his pencil and edged against the train’s sidewall.

“September,” the man said, “in this, the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty, on the day you read in your newspaper that many police of the Old Slip Station have been reassigned...”

The waiter frowned, but did not turn away. He had heard rumor of a pending action by the New York Police Department against Communist agitators marching at Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company headquarters and its assorted car barns.

“On that day, you are best served to remain at home.” The man nodded knowingly. “A dastardly deed. Chaos.”

The train eased its speed as it entered the Hoboken terminus

“I am in the employ of the Secret Service,” he continued, “and I know whereof I speak.”

He stood as the train came to a halt, reaching high for a leather strap.

Mr. O’Neal watched as the man tucked his tennis racket under his arm and departed.

Mauro’s mother ironed her son’s white cotton shirt, his brown short pants, his brown knee socks, and polished his black shoes with diluted vinegar, also replacing the news-papers that had covered the holes in their soles. After she bathed him, she watched as he dressed, and admonished him to remain as neat as he was at that moment.

He grimaced as she dragged a comb through his thick curly hair.

She handed him her last handkerchief. “Use it,” she said.

“Sí, Mama,” he replied.

She tugged him toward the living room, tapping the sofa as she sat.

The boy nestled into the plump cushion at his mother’s side. His feet failed to reach the floor.

“Grazie,” she said.

“Thank you,” the boy replied in singsong, his accent thick.

“Sì, por favore.”

“Yes, please,” he recited.

“Non, por favore.”

“Ah, Mama! Arresto!” he whined, jutting his bottom lip, thrusting his hand in the air. “Sì, non. Non, sì. No, yes. Sono parlaro inglese—”

She grabbed his earlobe. “You listen to me,” she said in rapid Italian. “This man... You know where he’s bringing you, this man? You think there you walk around like they dragged you out of the straw?”

Straw?

“L’America,” she said, letting go.

“Sì, Mama, ma—”

“Dovete essere il la cosa migliore?”

“Be the best,” Mauro replied dutifully.

“Ah.” She nodded in triumph.

The man bought, separately, red ink and a set of rubber stamps. Last night, after rinsing the black dye from his hair, he pressed the same message onto five sheets of coarse paper

It had cost him fifty dollars and the price of a meal at the Hotel Marguery to learn from a postal inspector the precise language the anarchists employed in previous threats. During the supper, the man told him of the troubled tennis pro Fischer and his postcards bearing predictions of doom.

Now, as dawn beckoned, the man whose hair was once again lighter than the color of straw, folded the sheets of paper and slipped them into an inside pocket of a blue suit that had once belonged to his late father, a builder of solid repute, a diminutive man who had been as dedicated and self-effacing as his wife was disdainful and superior.

As he examined the tiny room, the man thought of the after-event and the comeback of those who had been humbled. To no one, he said, “Eager to blame and thus they will, and it will be those whose culpability best serves their interests. For they know only of opportunity.”

He packed the ink and stamps into a brown paper bag and deposited them in a trash bin a block south of the offices of La Questione Sociale

As he crossed a dim, litter-strewn alley on his return to Essex Street, he repeated what he had said, adding, “But in their heart of hearts, they will know they have been taken down.”

Mauro was studying his parade of ants on the brownstone steps when the man emerged precisely at 8 o’clock.

“Ready for adventure, Mauro?” he asked, and offered the boy his hand.

“Good morning,” Mauro said, as instructed.

“Let us proceed then, shall we?”

The man brought a finger to the brim of his boater when Mauro’s mother came into view.

“Thank you,” she said, her hands anxiously clasping the fleur-de-lis pickets of the wrought-iron gate. “Thank you very much. Thank you.”

“Yes, this will be a day to remember,” said the man. “A day for the ages.”

She didn’t fully understand, but when he looked to the September sky, she did too. It was flawless, the lightest blue with downy clouds.

“Ciao, Mama,” Mauro said, his voice cracking with sudden nerves.

“Be a good boy,” she replied in Italian, and then repeated what she had told him last night and again this morning. “Listen to the man.”

Clasping her hands in front of her breasts, she watched as they walked along Essex Street, her son skipping to match the man’s confident stride.

Mauro opened and closed the stable door, and was engulfed quickly by overwhelming scents and unexpected heat. He stayed close to the entryway, taking sips of cool air as he peered through the vertical space between the red doors.

Though the snorting horses behind him seemed mammoth and mice scurried near his freshly polished shoes, the boy was more baffled than frightened. His mother had told him of streets of gold, towers that kissed the sky, and the world’s smartest men. Now he wondered if he had misunderstood.

As Mauro watched, the man emerged in green overalls from a barn on the other side of the narrow thoroughfare, dragging an old rack wagon, its yellow bed enclosed by poles and rails covered by ragtag canvas. The man grunted as he brought the wagon to a halt, then chucked the wheel against the curb.

The man approached the stable, mopping his brow. Mauro retreated, backing into a weather-beaten barrel, blinking in the sudden wash of light.

“Come,” the man said to the boy as he marched past.

With Mauro lingering behind him, the man deftly harnessed a dark bay mare, affixing blinders the old horse accepted without protest.

Responding to a clicking sound the man made with his mouth, the horse left its station, albeit without enthusiasm, its long tail hanging limply.

“Follow and shut all doors,” the man said, as he tugged on a strap, leading the animal toward fresh air.

As Mauro reached up to close the stable, he tried to make the same clicking sound, but could not. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

The horse in place across the shaded lane, the man beckoned Mauro to the rear of the wagon where he pulled back a canvas flap.

Mauro saw a simple wooden crate. It was tied with thick hemp to the wagon’s frame.

“You know what we have there?” the man asked, gesturing with his head.

Mauro looked up at him.

“A gift,” he said. “A gift that you will present. You.”

“Yes,” the boy said.

Without warning, the man lifted Mauro under his arms and hoisted him into the wagon.

Mauro hunched to avoid the rail above his head. Now sawdust covered the tops of his shoes and clung to his knee socks.

“You sit here,” the man said, tapping the tattered rear panel, “and you watch the world go by.”

The boy’s expression was blank.

The man trotted to the barn to remove his overalls.

Mauro’s mother looked at the clock above the stove and permitted herself a little grin: At this moment, her son was becoming a part of America. Her husband would have been proud; a big, gap-toothed smile beneath his walrus mustache, thumbs hooked under his suspenders against his barrel chest.

The aroma of sugar and almonds rose from the oven. The were to serve as an expression of her gratitude for the man who had taken her son to Wall Street. She saw herself handing the pyramid of cookies to him upon their return. Perhaps he would have a story of her son’s—

She realized she did not know his name.

Certain he hadn’t introduced himself, she tried to recall if she had seen an errant piece of mail addressed to him. But he hadn’t received any mail, as far as she knew.

A rush of worry brushed her heart. Wiping her damp hands on her apron, she was suddenly desperate for any source of his identity. His shirts bore the Arrow label, a popular brand among the men whose clothes she laundered, so that was of no—

Then she remembered the slip of paper she had found in his pocket. The Morgan Bank, it read. The Morgan Bank of 23 Wall Street She sighed in relief. The man was known to the people of the great Morgan Bank.

L’ America, she thought as she returned to work, her mind floating toward ease.

At that very moment, the man delivered the old mare and wagon to Wall Street east of Broad, at the center of the Morgan Building.

“Mauro,” said the man, as he crawled beneath the canvas hood, having placed the last of the stamped notes in the postal box at the corner of Cedar Street and Broadway. “Come here, boy. Quickly.”

Mauro watched while the man removed the top and side slats of the wooden crate to reveal a device made of Bessemer steel. It resembled a torpedo. A red wire protruded from a vein in its casing.

“Mauro, sit here,” the man said. “That’s right. On top. That’s it...”

The boy eased himself atop the device, straddling it as if he were riding a horse.

“This is simple, son,” the man said. “In a minute or so, you will hear a church bell. Do you understand? A bell.”

The man looked into the boy’s round eyes.

“Yes,” the boy said. “A bell. A church bell.”

“Good, good,” the man replied, tapping the boy’s bare leg. “When the bell strikes 12, you pull this cable.”

The man made a gesture with his empty hand.

“Twelve bells and you pull the cable. Understand? Twelve, pull.”

Mauro said yes.

“Say it, please.”

“Twelve, pull.” His voice all but squeaked.

As he edged toward the rear of the truck, the man glanced at his father’s pocket watch. Reaching for the canvas flap, he said, “Do your best, Mauro.”

Mauro smiled. Twelve and pull, he thought. Church bells.

The Trinity Church bell struck 1.

Immediately, people began to pour from the Morgan Building, the Assay Office, the Sub-Treasury, the New York Stock Exchange, and scores of other buildings in the vicinity, moving toward restaurants and lunch counters.

On the steps of the Sub-Treasury Building, hidden behind a column adjacent to the base of a bronze statue of George Washington, stood the man with hair lighter than the color of straw, a smirk affixed to his face.

Beneath him, the Street continued to fill with people. Taxis were unable to move, and horns began to blare.

The bell struck 3.

Swelling with confidence, the man thought, There is no system, no institution, greater than the marshaled thoughts of a singular man in the pursuit of Right.

The bell tolled again and again, soon to 7, 8, 9...

And now Justice shall be done.

The church bell struck 11. The man put the tips of his forefingers in his ears, closed his eyes, and, in preparation for the colossal explosion, hunched into his body.

But there was no explosion.

All was as it had been.

The Morgan Building was not destroyed. The executives therein had not been killed.

The unsavory crowd of co-conspirators to the folly of Wall Street continued to surge from buildings, many bypassing his horse and wagon. These included the postal inspector who had sold him information crucial to his deceit, and the German who had been vital to the construction of the bomb. He had agreed to meet them at the entrance to the Morgan Building precisely at noon.

Stunned, the man hurried down the steps.

Mauro wiped his nose with the handkerchief his mother had given him, and he struggled to return it to his back pocket. Doing so, he looked between his legs at the device, which rested on a bed of sawdust. He had been thinking of the sound of the horse as it trod cobblestone, and of the magnificent bridge that, an hour or so ago, had been high as the moon above his head.

The bells had stopped.

Dodici? he thought, having lost count.

Could have been twelve.

He shrugged. He was hungry and, in the fog of his mind, reasoned the man would not return until his chore was complete.

He looked at the red cable in his hand and gave it a hardy tug.

He was instantly blown to atoms.

A yellow-green mushroom cloud rose in his stead.

The wagon was obliterated, and the bay mare flew into the air. It landed, dead and disemboweled, in the center of the Wall and Broad streets intersection, at least fifty feet to the west

A block away, the Broadway trolley line leaped its tracks, pinning a messenger boy beneath its wheels.

The iron bars that defended the Assay Office bowed inward.

Shrapnel more deadly than a thousand machine-gun bursts propelled forcefully in every direction. The bomb had contained thirty pounds of TNT packed beneath approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of sash weights, pieces of which landed as far away as the Trinity Church grave-yard.

Riders emerging from the IRT station were greeted with a spray of viscera, and a human leg and foot landed in their midst.

A woman’s severed head, hat still in place, stuck momentarily to the façade of the Morgan Building, where blood was splattered to a height of a dozen feet.

Glass and stone rained from buildings within a half-mile radius of the blast site. The windows of the New York Stock Exchange were destroyed, and several employees therein were shredded to ribbons. The American flag flying above its entrance caught fire, as did awnings throughout the district, several as high as twelve stories above ground.

Ambulance surgeons arrived to find bodies of the dead and dying strewn about. Blood pools reflected the midday

Fifteen people were killed instantly. Among them was the man with hair lighter than the color of straw, who was caught full in the chest by the force of the blast.

Others died within the hour, victims of the whirling, white-hot steel bits. Thomas Joyce, Morgan’s chief clerk, was violated by shards of glass from the building’s cathedral windows. He was the only Morgan employee to perish, though the first floor of the building was wrecked.

Upon hearing a report that the Assay Office and Sub-Treasury had been attacked, the men of the Twenty-Third Infantry stationed on Governors Island were rushed by ferry to the Battery, from there they marched in double-time to the district, bayonets fixed.

When they arrived, they reported a stench in the air that recalled the battlefields of France. Burlap sacks placed the blood-soaked bodies could not contain the smell of death.

The streets were swept clean overnight, as Sanitation Department employees helped police comb for clues, as well as matter to aid in the identification of victims. The smallest body parts were gathered in wax paper.

Blood was dispatched by water hose to the nearest sewer, and men took steel wool to the remnant stains.

Well before sunrise, large sheets of canvas were stretched over the glassless windows at the Morgan Building. Similarly, bunting covered the broken windows at the Stock Exchange.

Both institutions opened promptly at 9 o’clock, the appointed time. Many employees arrived dressed in bandages.

The infernal machine had exploded at one minute past noon, and the banks and exchanges regularly closed at 3 o’clock, so the terrorizing demonstration had caused only a three-hour delay in the transaction of the district’s vital business.

Edwin P. Fischer, a former championship tennis player, was arrested in Hamilton, Ontario. He was said to have predicted the bombing in a series of postcards sent to various officials of government.

Mr. Fischer’s brother-in-law, Robert A. Pope, said Mr. Fischer was not involved in the attack, but had known of them via “mental telepathy.”

Arrangements were made for Mr. Fischer’s immediate transport to New York City for questioning. The police were well aware of his erratic behavior. He had fled north to avoid being committed to an insane asylum, as per his family’s wishes.

When Mr. Fischer arrived from Canada at the Grand Center Terminal, he was wearing two business suits, one atop the other, over tennis whites, on the chance that a game might opportune.

That evening, The News, which, as “New York’s Picture Newspaper,” was obligated to publish several gruesome photos of the aftermath of the attack, announced in its headlines that Wall St. Ignored Warnings. Another read, Trace Crank in Bomb Outrage. On its front page, the latter featured a photo of the troubled Mr. Fischer.

Entering the terminus of the Hudson Tubes on Church Street, the waiter T.J. O’Neal Jr. of Nutley, New Jersey accepted a copy of the paper from a newsy, but did not look at it until he had boarded the train. Then, to no one, he said, “That’s not him. That’s not Fischer.”

The waiter reported immediately to the Old Slip police station. His statement was added to the mountain of testimony the police had already compiled, much of which only served to confuse the inquiry.

The Secret Service, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Morgan’s men had already decided the attack was the work of anarchists. But the New York Police Department did not agree, at least not yet. They stood by the statement that had been given to the Evening Post: “It may have been the work of a single criminal lunatic mind spurred on to its fiendish act by we know not what influence.”

The carcass of the horse provided the clue of greatest value, and through unmitigated industry, the police identified John L. Haggerty of Finnegan & Kyle, 82 New Chambers Street, as the man who had shod it.

A taciturn man with wire spectacles and the requisite sinewy arms, Mr. Haggerty took pride in the belief he could identify any horse he’d ever shod. The condition of a horse’s hoof, he said, was as distinct as a human fingerprint.

He watched while a policeman unwrapped a length of canvas containing part of a horse’s foreleg, including the hoof and shoe.

“Dark bay mare. Ten years old if a day,” Mr. Haggerty said, as he ran a calloused finger across the mark of the International Union of Journeymen Horseshoers. “Stood right for shoeing.”

“When?”

“No more than two weeks ago.”

He could not, however, identify the mare’s owner.

“Never look at them,” he said plainly.

Business on Wall Street closed at noon on Saturdays, marking the customary half-holiday. By 1 o’clock, thousands after thousands arrived in the district to see the site of the carnage, jamming the streets, their solemnity in stark contrast to the panic and horror of those who had been subject to the terrorizing demonstration two days ago. Women dabbed away tears as men removed their hats in silent tribute to the dead. Other visitors pointed to the hole in the surface of Wall Street and the chips in the Morgan Building façade, even as workers replaced the cathedral windows.

From the crowd emerged a panic-stricken Italian woman, her olive visage an expression of unadulterated agony, her eyes ringed red and swollen. Dressed in black from head to heel, she clawed at passersby and pleaded for help in finding her

At her side was Mr. Piatti, the vice principal of the boy’s school. Sobbing, he was too aggrieved for purpose.

The woman cried, “My son... My hope. Please.”

A candle peddler was retrieved and pressed into service as a translator. He was nudged amid the crowd surrounding the wailing woman.

“He is a boy. Simple,” she said in Italian. “He is confused, and he is lost. You cannot tell me he is — You cannot!”

The peddler said, “Please. We wish to help you, but... First, did you visit the hospitals?”

“It is possible he has forgotten his name,” she said, her voice a song of desperation. “He is frightened. He is just a small boy.”

Mr. Piatti intervened, and it was finally understood by the crowd that the boy was ten years old and he had been treated to a day-visit to the district by a neighbor.

When her son and the nameless man had not returned by late Thursday evening, the woman reported to a nearby police station. There she had learned of the bomb attack.

The peddler tilted his head in sympathy.

After contacting the New York City police, Mr. Piatti explained, Paterson officials had come to Essex Street to examine the apartment on the third floor.

“Ah,” said the peddler, nodding to the crowd.

They found it empty, save for the furniture that had been left by a previous tenant and a few discarded pages from the latest edition of La Questione Sociale

Town car by David Noonan

85 Exchange Place

It was waiting for him in front of the building, as always, eight quick steps across the sidewalk. Black, tinted windows, minimal chrome, a little bulgy in the haunches, like a 140-pound woman in a tight dress. One of a million, utterly anonymous. But special, too, his alone, for twenty minutes anyway. This one was freshly washed; he noticed droplets of water glistening on the bumper, catching the sparkle of the traffic light on the corner. He liked that. One night the car was so dirty he sent it away and threatened to take the firm’s business elsewhere. It wasn’t his call to make — Hackett handled all the vendors — but the frazzled dispatcher didn’t know that. He only knew he had a seriously unhappy customer screaming in his ear and a big account suddenly in play. They sent a limo to calm him down, no charge. It worked. The limo was superior to the Town Car, no question. He knew a lot of the big earners stayed with the Town Car after they made it, that whole low-profile thing. Not him. When he broke through he was getting a limo, and a retired NYPD detective to drive it and handle his personal security, one of those tough Irish guys with the blank expressions, the ones he saw in the Daily News all the time, escorting murder suspects out of their dreary apartment buildings in the Bronx. The car was as clean on the inside as it was on the outside, odor-free except for a hint of the driver’s cheap aftershave. He could live with that. It was a lot easier to take than the greasy stench of curried goat or whatever aromatic delicacies the Middle Eastern drivers wolfed down between calls. This guy looked American, an increasingly rare thing, and he was even listening to the Yankees game.

“Eighty-third and Third, right?” said the driver, in perfect Jersey, as they slid away from the curb.

He had planned to head straight home, but now he thought he might swing over to the West Side and see Heather. Maybe pick up some Chinese on the way from that joint she liked on Amsterdam, Hunan whatever. He checked his watch. It was 10:30 already. If his wife wasn’t asleep yet, she would be soon. Taking care of the twins wiped her out, with the full-time nanny. He didn’t really get that. His mother raised five kids on her own and did the old man’s books every night, too. She had more energy than ten of these hot-house flowers on the Upper East Side. And she was still going strong at seventy-eight, playing tennis every morning in the jungle heat of Miami, volunteering at Jackson Memorial in the afternoon, knocking off a bottle of cabernet every night with one or another of her widow buddies. Heather would be up, of course, studying for the LSAT or doing situps or making pies or writing one of her wacky poems or meditating or organizing her rock climbing equipment or IMing with one of her eight million close personal friends. She was a jammer, and that was fine with him. The last thing he needed was a girlfriend with nothing to do, calling him six times a day, sitting in front of the TV all night wondering why he couldn’t spend more time with her, carefully watering her boredom until it bloomed into glorious hysteria. Heather was too busy for that shit. He saw her three times a week, max. And forget about spending the night. She was in it for the sex, just like he was. Fucking her was like going to the gym for two hours, and that’s usually where he told his wife he was.

“Change in plans,” he said to the driver. “Let’s head for the Upper West Side.”

“Upper West Side. You got it.”

Then he remembered that Heather was having her period. Or was it his wife? One of them was, he was pretty sure. Could it be both? Was that possible? He hadn’t seen Heather since the Chicago trip. Or had he? Somebody had mentioned cramps recently, he knew that much. He should probably keep track of stuff like that, but then he’d have to start writing things down and that would put the whole arrangement at risk. He didn’t know anyone who had a setup as sweet as his — exhausted wife on the East Side, inexhaustible mistress on the West Side, the two of them separated by the great green expanse of Central Park. And there was no chance of a random encounter because he never took Heather to the East Side and Callie, his wife, hated the West Side. When she was thirteen, some old creep in a doorway waved his dick at her and her friends as they were leaving a movie theater on Broadway. Talk about making an impression. Twenty years later, the dominant image she had of the neighborhood that included Lincoln Center, the Museum of Natural History, Columbia University, hundreds of good restaurants, and at least a dozen great ones was of a droopy penis winking at her from the shadows. He knew it was droopy because he had questioned her once in great detail about the incident. Now, it was all he could do to get her to cross the park in a limo once a year for the charity benefit the Old Man threw every fall at the Metropolitan Opera.

He sensed a change in the world and suddenly the Hudson River was on his left, wide and flat and undeniable. New Jersey loomed across the dark water, a mile away at least. A hulking tanker pushed north against the current, the white streak of its bow wave pointing the way. Manhattan was an island. He liked that. Manhattan was an island, and he lived on it. It was a great castle, surrounded by a great moat, with many kings and many more princes. It was a kingdom, full of riches and treachery, where the game was played as well as it was played anywhere in the world. And he was one of the players. And he was winning. It wasn’t always pretty, it wasn’t always fair, but how could anyone expect it to be? When two people wanted the same thing, one of them was bound to be disappointed. The weak would always lose to the strong, that was nature’s way. If he beat someone on a deal, that was their problem, not his.

He reached across the seat to open the window — he wanted to feel the rush of air and smell the river and the summer night — but when he pushed the switch, nothing happened. He tried the window on his right, same problem.

“What’s with the windows?” he asked. “They’re not working.”

“Short circuit, I think,” the driver said.

“Can you open them from up there? I’d like some air.”

“No, sorry, they’re all on the blink.”

“Well, that’s fucked up.”

“Hey, at least the AC’s working, right?”

He thought about getting angry, but decided not to waste the energy. “Good point.”

They stopped at a red light and through the tinted glass he could see that the car on their right was also a black Lincoln Town Car, as was the car in front of them and the car behind them. He called in the order to the restaurant, checked his e-mail, and, finally, eighteen hours after he put it on and slid it tight, he loosened his tie. It was only Monday, and the week wasn’t going to get any easier, but he felt strong and in control. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Life. Was. Good.

He dozed for a bit and when he awoke they were bumper-to-bumper on the Henry Hudson, inching past the 72nd Street exit.

“Shit, driver, we need to get off here.”

“Must be an accident up ahead,” the driver said. “The traffic shouldn’t be so heavy this time of night.”

“Did you hear what I said? We have to get off here. The restaurant’s at 77th and Amsterdam, then we’re going to 82nd and West End.”

“Could be from the Yankees game, I suppose. Jersey fans heading home, fucking everything up at the bridge.”

“Hey, asshole, are you listening to me? The exit’s right there. Turn the fucking wheel and get us the fuck out of here.”

The driver eased the car past the exit and snugged it up against the thick stone wall that separated the highway from Riverside Park. As horns honked and cars squeezed past on the left, he turned to face the backseat.

“Don’t call me asshole, asshole,” the driver said.

It wasn’t possible that the driver had just called him an asshole. He knew it wasn’t possible because it just wasn’t possible. He knew that. And yet, even though it wasn’t possible that the driver had called him an asshole, the driver had in fact called him an asshole. He knew that, too. So he knew it couldn’t have happened and he also knew that it had happened. Hence, his initial confusion.

“What... did you say?”

“I said don’t call me asshole, asshole.”

Now he laughed, because it was so impossible it was actually kind of funny. And then the adrenaline hit and the confusion ended and things became perfectly clear. He loved this shit, for some reason, almost as much as he loved making money. Close encounters of the fucked-up kind. His wife called them run-ins — his confrontations with waiters, parking garage attendants, the people sitting next to them in restaurants or behind them in theaters — and she hated them. To him they were like training exercises, a way to keep his edge when he was away from the office. The world was full of people who didn’t keep their shit tight and he considered it his duty to straighten them out when the opportunity presented itself. The way he looked at it, he was a force for good, trying in his own small way to make the city a more organized, efficient, and civilized place by coming down hard on dopes like this driver, who thought they could say anything to anybody.

“You might as well drive straight to the unemployment office, motherfucker, because you just lost your job.”

He started to dial the dispatcher, but the driver reached back and snatched the BlackBerry out of his hands. Two things about this amazed him — that it happened at all, and how quick the driver moved.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he said. “Give me my phone.”

But the guy didn’t give him the phone. Instead, with the same lizard quickness, the driver grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He came off the seat awkwardly and found himself kneeling, with his arms over the front seat. The driver banged on the handcuffs and shoved him back into the corner. Then a pistol appeared.

“You’re going to sit still and keep your mouth shut,” the driver said. “Do you understand?”

The barrel of the gun was a small black hole, deep as a well, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. What would he see if the driver pulled the trigger? Would he see the bullet? Would he see a small flame? Smoke? Anything? Was it a real gun? It looked real. The handcuffs were real, heavy and solid. What the fuck was going on?

“Are you robbing me?”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“I’ve got eight hundred in cash on me. If you take me to an ATM I can get you another thousand or so. There’s a limit on daily withdrawals.”

The driver ignored him and eased back into the traffic. Was he being kidnapped? Is that what this was? But why him? He was just another trader. Sure, there were the Caribbean accounts, but nobody knew about them. Nobody. And kidnapping never worked in the States, anyway. Ever. It was a booming business in South America, but the FBI didn’t put up with that Wild West shit. He rattled the cuffs. Maybe it was a joke. There was nothing funny about the driver, but that was the point, wasn’t it? The more he thought about it, the more it seemed right. And he had a pretty good idea whose strange sense of humor was at work here — Christensen, that lunatic fucker. He had weird friends and he was always talking about crazy stunts, like the time he sent a bunch of hookers to his brother’s wedding or the time he had one of his cop buddies pull over his ex-wife’s new boyfriend and search his car with a drug-sniffing dog. The driver was exactly the kind of thug Christensen would know. They probably went to kindergarten together. “He’s a great guy,” Christensen would always say when he introduced one of these characters. Later on, he’d casually mention that the great guy just did a year for beating up a nun, but it wasn’t really his fault because he was on acid at the time and he thought the nun was a hallucination. Real handcuffs, real gun, real criminal at the wheel — this was Christensen at his excessive best, no doubt about it. So how should he play it? He’d been pretty cool so far, and that was a good thing. There was probably one of those lipstick video cameras running. Christensen expected him to fall apart, piss his pants, maybe even cry. Then he’d e-mail the clip to everybody and they’d all have a good laugh. Well, sorry to disappoint.

“Listen, pal, I don’t know who you are or who you’re working for, but there’s no reason we can’t be civilized about this. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? There’s a joint on Broadway and 97th, McGuire’s. It’s dark and the bartender hates everybody who comes through the door. You’ll fit right in. We can sit in the back and negotiate a figure that works for both of us.”

“I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“Eat shit. I’m offering you a deal here.” This was actually pretty great, a perfect chance to show people how tough he could be. They’d send the clip around, all right, but they wouldn’t be laughing at him.

The driver left the highway at a pullout just north of 86th Street. He put the car in park and turned to face the backseat. The gun appeared again.

“You’re not listening to me, douche bag,” said the driver.

Jesus, where’d Christensen meet this guy? His head was the size of a cinder block and he had a lumpy scar that started in the corner of his left eye and ran down to his neck. The gun was like a toy in his big meaty hand. A bone-snapper with a rock for a heart. Born scary. Unless he was an actor. That was also a possibility. The city was full of them, all colors and sizes. He met a few when Heather took an acting class in the Village. Losers, every one. Broke, delusional, dedicated to their art, and destined for oblivion. He used to take them out to dinner, ten at a time. Fucking babies. They ate like Teamsters. Did anything to pay the rent. This guy probably did children’s theater in Brooklyn on the weekends, playing ogres and talking trees. He was good, though, really good. There was an emptiness about him, something missing, like a soul.

“Look, man—”

The driver cracked him across the forehead with the barrel of the gun. Blood gushed into his eyes and down the front of his suit. Dazed, in pain, he put his cuffed hands to his head. They came away slippery and warm.

“Oh... shit... what the fuck...”

“Am I getting through to you, now, asshole?”

“Christensen...” The blood kept coming.

“What?”

“Practical joke...” His white shirt wasn’t white anymore.

“A joke? You think this is a joke?” The driver coughed up an ugly laugh. “Trust me, motherfucker, this ain’t no joke. You made somebody very unhappy. Now you just lie there and bleed quietly.”

Back into the traffic, his head throbbing. Who was unhappy? Who was this fucking unhappy? He had pissed off some people over the years, but who hadn’t? Business was business. He’d been beat a few times himself. You suck it up and move on. You learn from your mistakes and let it go. You scream a little, maybe a lot, maybe you even make some threats. But that’s it. You take the hit. And you try not to get beat again. There was always more money to be made. Nobody got rough. Not really. He’d heard stories, but he figured they were just that, stories. Christ, the blood wouldn’t stop. He went back over his side deals — no way this was company business — from the last couple of years. What about that Australian, Elliott? He was a hothead, for sure. But if he was going to get crazy he’d do it himself, in person, no hired help. The South Africans? The Koreans? The Russians? All had reasons to be unhappy, all had threatened him in some way. But it was mostly bullshit about going to the SEC. It had to be the Russians. They lost the most. They were the scariest. But the driver wasn’t Russian. Wouldn’t they use one of their own people? It was hard to think, his head hurt like hell. If he could just think it through, he could figure this thing out. He could fix it, he knew he could, if he could just get to his office, get out of this goddamn car and get to his office, make a few calls, talk to people, say the right things. He had to make a deal with the driver. That was the first step. There was $25,000 in cash in the safe in the apartment.

“Listen to me, I can pay you. Ten thousand. Cash.”

“You’re some piece of work, you are,” the driver said.

“I know what this is about. I know who you’re working for. There’s been a misunderstanding. I can fix it, but I have to make some calls. I have to get out of this car. I’ll pay you.”

“You think you can fix this? You can’t fix this. This is unfixable.”

“Where are you taking me? Who are we meeting?”

“Your maker.”

“Twenty thousand. Cash. It’s in my apartment. On the East Side.”

“Thanks for the raise. Now shut the fuck up.”

“Twenty-five thousand. All yours. The Russians will never know.”

“What Russians? What are you talking about? And why are you talking at all?”

The driver turned up the radio as loud as it would go, reached back, pressed the gun against his knee, and pulled the trigger. It was like being hit with a sledge hammer and stabbed at the same time. He screamed and the driver screamed with him. The people in the car next to them looked over and saw the driver screaming. Just another crazy New Yorker.

“Everybody’s always talking about the Russians,” the driver said. “I don’t get it.”

Pain now. And the back of the driver’s head and the radio voices and the great steel towers of the George Washington Bridge and his bloody suit and the handcuffs and the back of the driver’s head and his eyes closed and the car moving faster and his knee with the bones shattered and on fire and the car moving faster and a little dream about the river and then moonlight and then, yes, just a little better. Okay, the driver didn’t want to hear it. But he was just the driver. There was bound to be another guy. There was always another guy, the guy who was really in charge. That was the guy he had to think about it. He was a serious guy, obviously hardcore. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be cheap. All right, fine, whatever it takes. He could have it all. Yes, that was it. Give him everything. The Caribbean accounts, the Florida house, all of it. What the hell? Why not? He’d make it all back again eventually. And more. No way the guy turns down a deal like that. Four million total, maybe more. Not the most money in the world, but enough, a nice pile. The knee was bad, but he could live with it. Get a new one. Titanium. No problem. He’d be back on the tennis court in a few months.

They drove up the Palisades Parkway a few miles to a defunct rest area, its entrance blocked by a chain strung between two posts. The driver bumped over the curb and went around the post on the right. A hundred yards in was a small parking lot that overlooked the Hudson. There was a low wooden guardrail and ten yards beyond it was the edge of a cliff. Beyond the cliff there was nothing, just a 350-foot fall to the rocks. The guardrail had a gap where one of the crossbeams had been cut out. The driver stopped the car in front of the gap. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down the steering wheel, the gear shift, and the front eat.

“Is your boss here?”

“He’ll be here in a minute,” the driver said.

“Good, I need to talk to him. We’re going to straighten this whole thing out.”

“Glad to hear it. Now sit back and relax.”

To keep the car straight, the driver rigged a piece of rope between the steering wheel and the brake pedal. He used a chunk of stone for the gas pedal and it all worked just like it was supposed to.