Read Online Money to Burn by James Grippando - Free Book Online
Authors: James Grippando
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Suspense fiction, Mystery Fiction, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Fiction - Espionage, Capitalists and Financiers
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scare us.”
“And doing a damn fine job of it. This is all too crazy. Why is this happening?”
“We don’t know yet. But we have the best of the best working on it. I’m meeting with Eric as soon as—wait. He just got off the phone. I have to go, okay?”
“Call me just as soon as you know anything more.”
I promised I would and hung up.
Nancy opened the glass doors and escorted me into the president’s office. Eric was a handsome man with a touch of gray hair at the temples, the strong handshake of a former Olympic rower (Munich ’72), and impeccable taste in custom-tailored suits from Hong Kong. Decorating the walls of his spacious office were a dozen large underwater photographs that he had taken while scuba diving the most spectacular reefs in the world. He was the one senior manager who consistently took the time to talk one-on-one with up-and-comers like me to make sure we weren’t getting too wound up and heading toward burnout—which was amazing, given the constant pressure he worked under. He was president of an institution that derived 40 percent of its annual revenue and 70 percent of its profit from its most risky and volatile line of business: trading and investing. Even in bull markets, the firm’s trading desk spent forty days a year operating in the red. In other words, Saxton Silvers’ Investment Banking Division could arrange the biggest deals in town, its Asset Management Division could manage client portfolios with precision, and one boneheaded call by a single group of traders could still land the entire firm in the toilet.
This morning, the stress had tightened its grip on Eric’s facial muscles beyond normal. Before he could even try to flash a semblance of a smile and greet me, he was on another phone call and speaking into the headset. He motioned for me to sit on the couch by the window. Listening to Eric, I quickly realized that he was talking to our CEO, who, as usual for this time of year, was in Palm Beach. It was the first time I’d witnessed Eric in what appeared to be the financial equivalent of code blue. He spoke clipped, rapid-fire sentences into his headset.
“As of this morning cash reserves were at twenty-nine billion,” Eric said. “I’ve checked with the finance desk, the repo desk, the treasurer and asked each of them point-blank—has anyone heard of any margin calls from our major lenders? No. A trade gone bad? No. Anything out of the normal course? Across the board the answer was absolutely not. No problems.”
The call lasted another two or three minutes, and it was abundantly clear that my identity theft and personal financial problems were not on the president’s radar. Eric ended the call by ripping off his headset and throwing it on the floor. He was seething, apparently in desperate need of a punching bag. But he was the ultimate multitasker, never missing anything out of the ordinary.
“What the hell happened to your hand?”
I looked down and saw it was turning lobster red. I told him quickly about the package.
“Shit like that happens when people lose money. We’ve had nuts walk into branch offices and start shooting. Be careful. Did you call the police?”
“Sonya’s got the FBI on it,” I said. “But this is just the latest in a much larger problem.”
“No shit,” he said, and suddenly we were no longer talking about me. “Biggest financial crisis Saxton Silvers has faced in its hundred-fifty-seven-year history, and I can’t get our CEO to cancel his tee time and deal with it.”
I said nothing. I knew by now when to shut up and let him process his anger. Finally he looked at me and said, “It’s going to hit the fan today—huge.”
“What’s wrong?”
Eric went to the window and looked off into the distance. The morning sun gave a warm glow to the new leaves and blossoms in Central Park, confirming that April showers really do bring May flowers. Eric seemed oblivious to the spectacular view, still stuck in the icy
“And doing a damn fine job of it. This is all too crazy. Why is this happening?”
“We don’t know yet. But we have the best of the best working on it. I’m meeting with Eric as soon as—wait. He just got off the phone. I have to go, okay?”
“Call me just as soon as you know anything more.”
I promised I would and hung up.
Nancy opened the glass doors and escorted me into the president’s office. Eric was a handsome man with a touch of gray hair at the temples, the strong handshake of a former Olympic rower (Munich ’72), and impeccable taste in custom-tailored suits from Hong Kong. Decorating the walls of his spacious office were a dozen large underwater photographs that he had taken while scuba diving the most spectacular reefs in the world. He was the one senior manager who consistently took the time to talk one-on-one with up-and-comers like me to make sure we weren’t getting too wound up and heading toward burnout—which was amazing, given the constant pressure he worked under. He was president of an institution that derived 40 percent of its annual revenue and 70 percent of its profit from its most risky and volatile line of business: trading and investing. Even in bull markets, the firm’s trading desk spent forty days a year operating in the red. In other words, Saxton Silvers’ Investment Banking Division could arrange the biggest deals in town, its Asset Management Division could manage client portfolios with precision, and one boneheaded call by a single group of traders could still land the entire firm in the toilet.
This morning, the stress had tightened its grip on Eric’s facial muscles beyond normal. Before he could even try to flash a semblance of a smile and greet me, he was on another phone call and speaking into the headset. He motioned for me to sit on the couch by the window. Listening to Eric, I quickly realized that he was talking to our CEO, who, as usual for this time of year, was in Palm Beach. It was the first time I’d witnessed Eric in what appeared to be the financial equivalent of code blue. He spoke clipped, rapid-fire sentences into his headset.
“As of this morning cash reserves were at twenty-nine billion,” Eric said. “I’ve checked with the finance desk, the repo desk, the treasurer and asked each of them point-blank—has anyone heard of any margin calls from our major lenders? No. A trade gone bad? No. Anything out of the normal course? Across the board the answer was absolutely not. No problems.”
The call lasted another two or three minutes, and it was abundantly clear that my identity theft and personal financial problems were not on the president’s radar. Eric ended the call by ripping off his headset and throwing it on the floor. He was seething, apparently in desperate need of a punching bag. But he was the ultimate multitasker, never missing anything out of the ordinary.
“What the hell happened to your hand?”
I looked down and saw it was turning lobster red. I told him quickly about the package.
“Shit like that happens when people lose money. We’ve had nuts walk into branch offices and start shooting. Be careful. Did you call the police?”
“Sonya’s got the FBI on it,” I said. “But this is just the latest in a much larger problem.”
“No shit,” he said, and suddenly we were no longer talking about me. “Biggest financial crisis Saxton Silvers has faced in its hundred-fifty-seven-year history, and I can’t get our CEO to cancel his tee time and deal with it.”
I said nothing. I knew by now when to shut up and let him process his anger. Finally he looked at me and said, “It’s going to hit the fan today—huge.”
“What’s wrong?”
Eric went to the window and looked off into the distance. The morning sun gave a warm glow to the new leaves and blossoms in Central Park, confirming that April showers really do bring May flowers. Eric seemed oblivious to the spectacular view, still stuck in the icy
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