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Authors: Norb Vonnegut
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outside, and the bouncer complained to the cops. Big ruckus, you know how loud Scully gets. A few reporters showed up at the scene, and now the New York Post may run a story.”
“With SKC front and center,” I noted.
“Not to mention Scully and the client,” Annie replied. “I wonder what their wives will say?”
We both laughed, and Annie’s face warmed with the pleasure that had exited my life. For a long, lingering moment, I considered inviting her downstairs for coffee.
No, I told myself. Annie works for you. She’s eight years your junior.
I decided to ask anyway. It had been months since I last met a woman for a cup of coffee. And yesterday had been tough, talking to Thayer, teaching him the financial side of death. I could use Annie’s company. And it was important to venture out. The Scully story, working like a tonic, seemed to release unwanted memories. My career was taking hold again, distracting me from my past. Annie, PCS, and a new prospect—it was all good in that moment.
The phone rang, however, and robbed me of my opportunity. I never asked Annie. The interruption reminded me that things would never be the same. There was no going forward or moving on. There would always be something to suck me back inside the world of Charlie Kelemen.
CHAPTER TEN
“May I speak with Grover O’Rourke?”
“Call me Grove.”
I’ve always wanted to say that.
“Mandy Maris here.” She sounded energetic and commanding.
“How can I help?” I looked at my watch and signaled Annie to wait a second.
“Well, you could buy me a cup of coffee,” Maris replied, outgoing, all butter and charm.
You’re keeping me from one now .
“I understand Charlie Kelemen and you were close friends,” she continued.
“Okay,” I said, hitting the brakes, “maybe you should introduce yourself, Mandy Maris.”
Annie sensed a prolonged engagement and returned to her desk. In our business we never knew when a new opportunity, or problem, would surface.
Damn.
“I’m with the New York Post, ” Maris explained. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Not this .
“Hang on,” I said, and transferred Mandy Fucking Maris to SKC’s Department of Public Relations. I didn’t warn her, just punched the transfer button, keyed in the internal extension, and bam, punched the transfer button again.
It wasn’t a proud moment. Force of habit or Broker 101, advisers learned never to speak with reporters. There’s nothing but downside. The press terrified me, sort of a Pavlovian response from eight years of brainwashing.
The phone rang instantly, leaving no time for me to second-guess my rudeness or for Maris to dial back. “Heard you were in the office yesterday,” Cliff Halek whispered in his gravelly voice. “I thought you were going to Rhode Island.”
“Graveside referral from the bankers. Literally.” Sometimes I hated my BlackBerry.
“Big sitch?” he asked, using SKC’s shorthand for “situation.”
“IPO. My guy’s got a hundred million dollars in stock.” There it was, the word “guy.” Consciously, I had already closed Thayer and moved him from prospect to client. Subconsciously, I was trying hard to flip into the swagger-speak of finance. It wasn’t working, though. No enthusiasm in my voice. No “awesome.”
“Don’t forget your starving pals in Derivatives,” Halek teased, always asking for the order. A $100 million block of stock offered a hedging opportunity for his team. He was also testing me. He heard something foreign, none of the kick-ass bravado of a top producer.
“It’s early, Cliff. Six months to the IPO. Six months of banker’s lockup. Who knows when the corporate windows will open? I bet it’s eighteen months before he can trade.”
“Got it.” Changing the subject, he probed, “How was the
“With SKC front and center,” I noted.
“Not to mention Scully and the client,” Annie replied. “I wonder what their wives will say?”
We both laughed, and Annie’s face warmed with the pleasure that had exited my life. For a long, lingering moment, I considered inviting her downstairs for coffee.
No, I told myself. Annie works for you. She’s eight years your junior.
I decided to ask anyway. It had been months since I last met a woman for a cup of coffee. And yesterday had been tough, talking to Thayer, teaching him the financial side of death. I could use Annie’s company. And it was important to venture out. The Scully story, working like a tonic, seemed to release unwanted memories. My career was taking hold again, distracting me from my past. Annie, PCS, and a new prospect—it was all good in that moment.
The phone rang, however, and robbed me of my opportunity. I never asked Annie. The interruption reminded me that things would never be the same. There was no going forward or moving on. There would always be something to suck me back inside the world of Charlie Kelemen.
CHAPTER TEN
“May I speak with Grover O’Rourke?”
“Call me Grove.”
I’ve always wanted to say that.
“Mandy Maris here.” She sounded energetic and commanding.
“How can I help?” I looked at my watch and signaled Annie to wait a second.
“Well, you could buy me a cup of coffee,” Maris replied, outgoing, all butter and charm.
You’re keeping me from one now .
“I understand Charlie Kelemen and you were close friends,” she continued.
“Okay,” I said, hitting the brakes, “maybe you should introduce yourself, Mandy Maris.”
Annie sensed a prolonged engagement and returned to her desk. In our business we never knew when a new opportunity, or problem, would surface.
Damn.
“I’m with the New York Post, ” Maris explained. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Not this .
“Hang on,” I said, and transferred Mandy Fucking Maris to SKC’s Department of Public Relations. I didn’t warn her, just punched the transfer button, keyed in the internal extension, and bam, punched the transfer button again.
It wasn’t a proud moment. Force of habit or Broker 101, advisers learned never to speak with reporters. There’s nothing but downside. The press terrified me, sort of a Pavlovian response from eight years of brainwashing.
The phone rang instantly, leaving no time for me to second-guess my rudeness or for Maris to dial back. “Heard you were in the office yesterday,” Cliff Halek whispered in his gravelly voice. “I thought you were going to Rhode Island.”
“Graveside referral from the bankers. Literally.” Sometimes I hated my BlackBerry.
“Big sitch?” he asked, using SKC’s shorthand for “situation.”
“IPO. My guy’s got a hundred million dollars in stock.” There it was, the word “guy.” Consciously, I had already closed Thayer and moved him from prospect to client. Subconsciously, I was trying hard to flip into the swagger-speak of finance. It wasn’t working, though. No enthusiasm in my voice. No “awesome.”
“Don’t forget your starving pals in Derivatives,” Halek teased, always asking for the order. A $100 million block of stock offered a hedging opportunity for his team. He was also testing me. He heard something foreign, none of the kick-ass bravado of a top producer.
“It’s early, Cliff. Six months to the IPO. Six months of banker’s lockup. Who knows when the corporate windows will open? I bet it’s eighteen months before he can trade.”
“Got it.” Changing the subject, he probed, “How was the
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