sleep it off.
We shook hands outside the restaurant like the best of friends.
I climbed into the back of the Town Car while he weaved off toward Broadway.
“This a regular thing with him?” I asked the driver.
“I’m his regular driver, sir,” he said, which answered the question.
As we made the turn onto Broadway, I caught sight of Toland, head down and shoulders hunched, ducking into a doorway in the next block. Flash Dancers—one of New York’s many gentlemen’s clubs. Basically a titty bar with pretensions. I supposed he could have been meeting a client—business gets done over cocktails more often than over the phone—or he could just have been another bottom-feeding lowlife.
—
IT WAS AFTER THREE by the time I got back to Weld. Gwendolyn had arranged a tiny conference room for me to use as an office. It was smaller than my cell at Ray Brook. There was a small, round conference table, four chairs, and a credenza with a phone and a computer terminal. No window, no art on the walls, and no clock, though there was an overactive air-conditioning vent overhead that seemed to find me wherever I went in the room. I kept the door open, but the cold gray walls started squeezing in on me the minute I sat down. I kept my jacket on.
I wasn’t there long enough to start screaming before a serious-looking young man arrived bearing two boxes of reports.
“Did Stockman’s office send you?”
“No. Mr. Barilla said to help you.”
I could tell he wasn’t a trader—his tie was pulled up and tied, his sleeves were rolled down, and he neglected to swagger when he came in the room. “Are you the trading assistant? You worked for Brian Sanders?”
“Sometimes. They rotate us through the group.”
“Who do you work for now?”
“I’m still unassigned. I cover for whoever is out.” He projected eagerness rather than efficiency. He was young—just out of school, I judged. His dark brown hair was still a little too gelled for Wall Street, his shoes more fashionable than expensive.
“Perfect. You are now assigned to me. Sit down. Do you know who I am?”
“No. I guess you work for Mr. Stockman.”
“Jason Stafford,” I said. The name meant nothing to him. When I had last been famous, he was probably too busy beer-ponging to have seen my name in the press. “He’s hired me to look into Sanders’ trades. I report only to him.”
“Okay.” He seemed neither pleased nor displeased. Nor suspicious.
“What do you think about that?” I found that if I kept focused on him and the task, the walls tended to behave better and keep their distance.
He hesitated. “About what?”
“About somebody looking into Sanders’ trades.”
He shrugged. “He could be pretty secretive. I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”
“We will,” I said. “What kind of secrets?”
He thought for a moment. There was an answer on the tip of his tongue, but he held on to it. When he finally spoke, I felt like I was getting the story he thought I wanted.
“Well, a lot of the traders like talking about what they’re doing in the market. Like bragging, but not really. Brian never explained. Even if I asked him something straight out, he would give me half an answer at best.”
“Anything else?” He was holding something back. “It’s all going to come out. Sooner is a lot better than later.”
“I guess it wasn’t that much of a secret.”
“What’s that?”
“Brian was a serious hound. Always in pursuit mode. It got weird sometimes when he was trying to keep all the different girls straight.”
Ah. That kind of hound. “A player.”
“Exactly.”
I had been a virgin when I graduated from high school—having been skipped ahead two years in elementary school and never quite recovered socially. My introduction into the mysteries of the flesh by Meagan Albright occurred during my second year at Cornell. She and I had several brief entanglements, the main purpose of which, as far as I could tell from her
We shook hands outside the restaurant like the best of friends.
I climbed into the back of the Town Car while he weaved off toward Broadway.
“This a regular thing with him?” I asked the driver.
“I’m his regular driver, sir,” he said, which answered the question.
As we made the turn onto Broadway, I caught sight of Toland, head down and shoulders hunched, ducking into a doorway in the next block. Flash Dancers—one of New York’s many gentlemen’s clubs. Basically a titty bar with pretensions. I supposed he could have been meeting a client—business gets done over cocktails more often than over the phone—or he could just have been another bottom-feeding lowlife.
—
IT WAS AFTER THREE by the time I got back to Weld. Gwendolyn had arranged a tiny conference room for me to use as an office. It was smaller than my cell at Ray Brook. There was a small, round conference table, four chairs, and a credenza with a phone and a computer terminal. No window, no art on the walls, and no clock, though there was an overactive air-conditioning vent overhead that seemed to find me wherever I went in the room. I kept the door open, but the cold gray walls started squeezing in on me the minute I sat down. I kept my jacket on.
I wasn’t there long enough to start screaming before a serious-looking young man arrived bearing two boxes of reports.
“Did Stockman’s office send you?”
“No. Mr. Barilla said to help you.”
I could tell he wasn’t a trader—his tie was pulled up and tied, his sleeves were rolled down, and he neglected to swagger when he came in the room. “Are you the trading assistant? You worked for Brian Sanders?”
“Sometimes. They rotate us through the group.”
“Who do you work for now?”
“I’m still unassigned. I cover for whoever is out.” He projected eagerness rather than efficiency. He was young—just out of school, I judged. His dark brown hair was still a little too gelled for Wall Street, his shoes more fashionable than expensive.
“Perfect. You are now assigned to me. Sit down. Do you know who I am?”
“No. I guess you work for Mr. Stockman.”
“Jason Stafford,” I said. The name meant nothing to him. When I had last been famous, he was probably too busy beer-ponging to have seen my name in the press. “He’s hired me to look into Sanders’ trades. I report only to him.”
“Okay.” He seemed neither pleased nor displeased. Nor suspicious.
“What do you think about that?” I found that if I kept focused on him and the task, the walls tended to behave better and keep their distance.
He hesitated. “About what?”
“About somebody looking into Sanders’ trades.”
He shrugged. “He could be pretty secretive. I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”
“We will,” I said. “What kind of secrets?”
He thought for a moment. There was an answer on the tip of his tongue, but he held on to it. When he finally spoke, I felt like I was getting the story he thought I wanted.
“Well, a lot of the traders like talking about what they’re doing in the market. Like bragging, but not really. Brian never explained. Even if I asked him something straight out, he would give me half an answer at best.”
“Anything else?” He was holding something back. “It’s all going to come out. Sooner is a lot better than later.”
“I guess it wasn’t that much of a secret.”
“What’s that?”
“Brian was a serious hound. Always in pursuit mode. It got weird sometimes when he was trying to keep all the different girls straight.”
Ah. That kind of hound. “A player.”
“Exactly.”
I had been a virgin when I graduated from high school—having been skipped ahead two years in elementary school and never quite recovered socially. My introduction into the mysteries of the flesh by Meagan Albright occurred during my second year at Cornell. She and I had several brief entanglements, the main purpose of which, as far as I could tell from her
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