upbeat.”
On Friday morning Annie’s blue-green eyes blazed with excitement. I knew that look—happy, irreverent, the glint of a born troublemaker and loveable rogue. Annie had no clue, but she was my secret sauce in an ongoing quest for optimism. She made me laugh.
“Boss, did you hear what happened to Scully?”
It was 7:40 A.M., the hour when Wall Street research vied with gossip for mind share. Inside PCS the clashes were no contest. Scandal, hearsay, scuttle-butt, the unthinkable, and the sordid always prevailed. Associates gathered around coffee machines to report the latest sexual trysts. Brokers swapped bar stories rather than stock ideas. And herds of young women invariably thundered into the bathrooms, driven more by chitchat than bodily need. Somewhere, someplace, Annie had scooped a story.
I had been listening to John Dewey broadcast over the squawk box. A cable analyst known for his Texan aw-shucks hyperbole, Dewey declared Microsoft was trading “cheaper than sunscreen in a snowstorm.”
Give me a break.
I focused on Annie, wholly taken by her perfume as she rolled up a chair. “What happened to Scully?”
“Strip club.” Annie smirked. She knew those two words would pique my curiosity.
Other than being a serial suck-up and the world’s loudest stockbroker, Scully was far too priggish to make the grapevine. He worked late and avoided the impromptu bar binges. Like so many other suburban fathers, he knew little about how his wife and four daughters spent their weeks.
“Scully’s too smart to expense anything.” Submitting tabs from a no-no bar was the surest way to get fired.
“That’s not it,” she replied. “The client paid.”
“Okay,” I drawled in the precise time it takes to say, “What do you know?”
Annie understood my intonation perfectly. “His assistant told me everything. He drives Jeanie up the wall, you know.”
“Got it.”
“Apparently, Scully has a huge client from Denver. The guy flew in yesterday morning, and they spent all afternoon behind closed doors reviewing the portfolio.”
“Bet the poor guy’s ears took a beating.” Four walls and the world’s loudest stockbroker—it struck me as cruel and unusual punishment.
“Don’t interrupt,” Annie admonished. “After dinner, the client says he wants to go to a strip bar in Times Square. Scully freaks out. He’s afraid somebody will recognize him.”
“But agrees to take one for the team.”
“Exactly,” Annie continued. “The client insists on sitting right up front. And Scully drags his heels, trying to look as small as possible, when he sees the dancer onstage.”
Annie rose from her seat and retreated five steps. She turned and walked toward me, swinging her waist and swooshing her hips like a stripper. Both arms were bent at the elbows and raised over her head.
Nice body English.
“Something about the dancer looks familiar,” Annie said three struts into her walk. “But Scully can’t place her.” Annie frowned momentarily to imitate deep concentration.
How many women can tell a story about a strip bar?
“The dancer, however, knows Scully right away. She takes one look at him and covers everything up.” Annie folded her arms in an X over her own chest.
“I get the picture.”
“She runs offstage screaming something in Norwegian.”
“How do you know it was Norwegian?”
“She’s Scully’s au pair.”
“No way.”
“Apparently, the girl was disappearing every night around eight-thirty until the wee hours of the morning. She was so good with the kids that his wife didn’t say anything. And Scully gets home late. He always thought the au pair was in bed.”
“What did the client say?”
“Oh, he’s pissed. A bouncer threw them out of the bar. The girl was hysterical.”
“I would have paid to see that.”
“It gets better. There were two police
On Friday morning Annie’s blue-green eyes blazed with excitement. I knew that look—happy, irreverent, the glint of a born troublemaker and loveable rogue. Annie had no clue, but she was my secret sauce in an ongoing quest for optimism. She made me laugh.
“Boss, did you hear what happened to Scully?”
It was 7:40 A.M., the hour when Wall Street research vied with gossip for mind share. Inside PCS the clashes were no contest. Scandal, hearsay, scuttle-butt, the unthinkable, and the sordid always prevailed. Associates gathered around coffee machines to report the latest sexual trysts. Brokers swapped bar stories rather than stock ideas. And herds of young women invariably thundered into the bathrooms, driven more by chitchat than bodily need. Somewhere, someplace, Annie had scooped a story.
I had been listening to John Dewey broadcast over the squawk box. A cable analyst known for his Texan aw-shucks hyperbole, Dewey declared Microsoft was trading “cheaper than sunscreen in a snowstorm.”
Give me a break.
I focused on Annie, wholly taken by her perfume as she rolled up a chair. “What happened to Scully?”
“Strip club.” Annie smirked. She knew those two words would pique my curiosity.
Other than being a serial suck-up and the world’s loudest stockbroker, Scully was far too priggish to make the grapevine. He worked late and avoided the impromptu bar binges. Like so many other suburban fathers, he knew little about how his wife and four daughters spent their weeks.
“Scully’s too smart to expense anything.” Submitting tabs from a no-no bar was the surest way to get fired.
“That’s not it,” she replied. “The client paid.”
“Okay,” I drawled in the precise time it takes to say, “What do you know?”
Annie understood my intonation perfectly. “His assistant told me everything. He drives Jeanie up the wall, you know.”
“Got it.”
“Apparently, Scully has a huge client from Denver. The guy flew in yesterday morning, and they spent all afternoon behind closed doors reviewing the portfolio.”
“Bet the poor guy’s ears took a beating.” Four walls and the world’s loudest stockbroker—it struck me as cruel and unusual punishment.
“Don’t interrupt,” Annie admonished. “After dinner, the client says he wants to go to a strip bar in Times Square. Scully freaks out. He’s afraid somebody will recognize him.”
“But agrees to take one for the team.”
“Exactly,” Annie continued. “The client insists on sitting right up front. And Scully drags his heels, trying to look as small as possible, when he sees the dancer onstage.”
Annie rose from her seat and retreated five steps. She turned and walked toward me, swinging her waist and swooshing her hips like a stripper. Both arms were bent at the elbows and raised over her head.
Nice body English.
“Something about the dancer looks familiar,” Annie said three struts into her walk. “But Scully can’t place her.” Annie frowned momentarily to imitate deep concentration.
How many women can tell a story about a strip bar?
“The dancer, however, knows Scully right away. She takes one look at him and covers everything up.” Annie folded her arms in an X over her own chest.
“I get the picture.”
“She runs offstage screaming something in Norwegian.”
“How do you know it was Norwegian?”
“She’s Scully’s au pair.”
“No way.”
“Apparently, the girl was disappearing every night around eight-thirty until the wee hours of the morning. She was so good with the kids that his wife didn’t say anything. And Scully gets home late. He always thought the au pair was in bed.”
“What did the client say?”
“Oh, he’s pissed. A bouncer threw them out of the bar. The girl was hysterical.”
“I would have paid to see that.”
“It gets better. There were two police
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