Goldman Sachs. “And you? When you’re not being a mom?”
“I started a little venture called Geometry Partners.” She spoke as if he must have heard of it.
He nodded as if he had. She’d left Goldman Sachs to start her own investment firm. A go-getter for sure. He really hadn’t known her at all, back in the day.
“Tell me about Geometry Partners.”
“You first. I want to hear about these ‘online start-ups’ of yours.”
He drained his flute. A slight commotion caught his eye—their waiter standing at the maître d’s podium near the entrance, consulting with someone in a dinner jacket, maybe the maître d’, who had an air of authority. They both glanced over at Rick’s table, and then the authoritative man came walking over.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Hoffman, may I have a word?”
Rick knew right away what it was. The damned credit card he’d given them to guarantee the reservation. Normally they wouldn’t have run the card before the end of dinner, but he’d just ordered a four-thousand-dollar bottle of wine. Maybe they wanted to be sure he was good for it.
This was best handled away from the table. “No problem,” Rick said. “Why don’t you take me to your wine cellar?” As if the problem had to do with a wine selection they were unfortunately out of.
The manager, or maître d’, smiled uneasily. This was awkward and unpleasant for him. The two of them walked to the back of the restaurant near the kitchen, then stopped. “Is there a problem?” Rick asked quietly.
The man bowed apologetically, moving his head close to Rick’s. “Would you happen to have another credit card? This one was, er, declined.”
“You know, I just remembered—I canceled that card. My bad.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his preposterously expensive new sport coat and pulled out a sheaf of hundreds, flashing a wad of Benjamins as if it were a gangster’s bankroll. “In any case”—and he rifled through the banknotes like a blackjack player with a deck of cards—“I’ll be paying cash tonight.” He slid a single hundred-dollar bill off the wad, folded it between forefinger and thumb, and slipped it to the man. “Sorry for the trouble.”
“Absolutely, sir—my apologies for the, uh, misunderstanding.”
When he returned to the table, Andrea was looking at him with a half smile, her head tilted. “You know, I always thought you were going to be the next, you know, Woodward and Bernstein.”
“Me?”
“Isn’t that what you always wanted? The crusading investigative journalist? Unmask conspiracies, flush out corruption, all that?”
Rick shrugged. “Well, I don’t think I really was—”
“But that was the plan, right? Sunshine’s the best disinfectant, all that?”
“A guy’s also gotta earn a living.”
The tilted head, the half smile. She looked skeptical. Almost as if she could see right through him. Her smile turned a little sad, and she shook her head. He could almost hear her words:
That’s too bad
.
“Remember when you almost got Dr. Kirby fired?” she said, smiling. “That whole plagiarism thing?”
He shrugged modestly. “More like, I almost got myself kicked out of school.”
In his junior year at the Linwood Academy, Rick became editor in chief of the
Linwood Owl,
the student newspaper. One of the first issues he published contained a bombshell. It accused the legendary, and much feared, Latin teacher (and Classics Department chairman), Dr. Cadmus Kirby, of plagiarism. That June, Cadmus Kirby had given the commencement address to the graduating class of 1994, entitled “Why Study Classics?” Dr. Kirby had passed out copies to all his Latin students. It turned out to have lifted passages directly from a speech by the president of the University of Chicago decades earlier. The only reason Rick knew that was that he was going through a book of Great Speeches he found in his dad’s study, in prep for that fall’s debate competition, and he came upon some very
“I started a little venture called Geometry Partners.” She spoke as if he must have heard of it.
He nodded as if he had. She’d left Goldman Sachs to start her own investment firm. A go-getter for sure. He really hadn’t known her at all, back in the day.
“Tell me about Geometry Partners.”
“You first. I want to hear about these ‘online start-ups’ of yours.”
He drained his flute. A slight commotion caught his eye—their waiter standing at the maître d’s podium near the entrance, consulting with someone in a dinner jacket, maybe the maître d’, who had an air of authority. They both glanced over at Rick’s table, and then the authoritative man came walking over.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Hoffman, may I have a word?”
Rick knew right away what it was. The damned credit card he’d given them to guarantee the reservation. Normally they wouldn’t have run the card before the end of dinner, but he’d just ordered a four-thousand-dollar bottle of wine. Maybe they wanted to be sure he was good for it.
This was best handled away from the table. “No problem,” Rick said. “Why don’t you take me to your wine cellar?” As if the problem had to do with a wine selection they were unfortunately out of.
The manager, or maître d’, smiled uneasily. This was awkward and unpleasant for him. The two of them walked to the back of the restaurant near the kitchen, then stopped. “Is there a problem?” Rick asked quietly.
The man bowed apologetically, moving his head close to Rick’s. “Would you happen to have another credit card? This one was, er, declined.”
“You know, I just remembered—I canceled that card. My bad.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his preposterously expensive new sport coat and pulled out a sheaf of hundreds, flashing a wad of Benjamins as if it were a gangster’s bankroll. “In any case”—and he rifled through the banknotes like a blackjack player with a deck of cards—“I’ll be paying cash tonight.” He slid a single hundred-dollar bill off the wad, folded it between forefinger and thumb, and slipped it to the man. “Sorry for the trouble.”
“Absolutely, sir—my apologies for the, uh, misunderstanding.”
When he returned to the table, Andrea was looking at him with a half smile, her head tilted. “You know, I always thought you were going to be the next, you know, Woodward and Bernstein.”
“Me?”
“Isn’t that what you always wanted? The crusading investigative journalist? Unmask conspiracies, flush out corruption, all that?”
Rick shrugged. “Well, I don’t think I really was—”
“But that was the plan, right? Sunshine’s the best disinfectant, all that?”
“A guy’s also gotta earn a living.”
The tilted head, the half smile. She looked skeptical. Almost as if she could see right through him. Her smile turned a little sad, and she shook her head. He could almost hear her words:
That’s too bad
.
“Remember when you almost got Dr. Kirby fired?” she said, smiling. “That whole plagiarism thing?”
He shrugged modestly. “More like, I almost got myself kicked out of school.”
In his junior year at the Linwood Academy, Rick became editor in chief of the
Linwood Owl,
the student newspaper. One of the first issues he published contained a bombshell. It accused the legendary, and much feared, Latin teacher (and Classics Department chairman), Dr. Cadmus Kirby, of plagiarism. That June, Cadmus Kirby had given the commencement address to the graduating class of 1994, entitled “Why Study Classics?” Dr. Kirby had passed out copies to all his Latin students. It turned out to have lifted passages directly from a speech by the president of the University of Chicago decades earlier. The only reason Rick knew that was that he was going through a book of Great Speeches he found in his dad’s study, in prep for that fall’s debate competition, and he came upon some very
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