the mention of Nassouli’s name made him crazy. Mrs. Lenzi might know what that something was, but if she did, she wasn’t going to tell me. She was terrified of Lenzi’s rage, and that their life was coming apart. Nothing good would come of pressing them any more.
I could make some guesses based on what little they had said. Lenzi had worked at a bank. And two years ago, maybe earlier, the bank had fired him. But which bank, and why was he fired? I thought about Arroyo Systems, and the kind of software they developed. Trading systems. For FX, money markets, and derivatives. Lenzi had come to Arroyo less than two years ago, having previously worked in banking. Maybe what qualified him to sell Arroyo’s software was prior experience in those markets. It wasn’t much of a theory, but it was one I could test.
Trading in over-the-counter instruments, like the ones Arroyo’s system was meant to handle, is a person-to- person business. And working on a desk that trades in those markets is a little like living in a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and, while they’ll pretend otherwise, everyone gossips. If Lenzi worked in that world, as a trader or a salesman or a broker or in some other capacity, other players might know him. I had a player in mind.
It was just past four, things should be wrapping up. I got off the subway at the Wall Street stop and walked a couple of blocks east and a couple of blocks south. I called from outside the building.
“Klein. Liz March,” she said brusquely.
“It’s your brother.”
“The embarrassing one?” she asked, laughing.
“That’s me. Got a couple of minutes? I’m downstairs and I need a favor and I’ll pay for it in coffee,” I said.
“Hang on,” she said, and put her hand over the phone and yelled something at someone. “I’ll meet you at that place on William Street. Give me ten minutes.”
I went around the corner and took a table and ordered a coffee and waited. Half an hour later she strode in. She was wearing a black pants suit, with a neon orange blouse underneath. Her hair was tied back with a band the same orange color.
“Wow,” Liz said. “Twice in less than a week. This must signal something. Maybe the coming apocalypse. After Ned’s go at career counseling, and David’s kind words, I figured we wouldn’t see you for another year or so.” She ordered some complicated latte thing.
“You wouldn’t have, except I need something from you,” I said. She smiled. “You ever hear of a guy named Mike Lenzi?” Liz thought about it.
“Skinny, dark-haired guy? Thinks he’s Joe Pesci in Goodfellas?” she asked after a while.
“That’s him,” I said. “Where do you know him from?”
“I don’t, really. Just know of him. He ran the short-term interest rate desk at Plessey Guaranty for a bunch of years. Used to see him at the Robin Hood dinners. He’d always drink too much and chase anything in a skirt. Kind of an asshole.”
“Know what happened to him?”
“I know he left Plessey a while back-couple of years ago. I don’t know where he went.”
“Know why he left?” Liz shook her head.
“I can probably find out. Want me to make a call?” I nodded. Liz took out her phone.
“This guy works for me,” she said as she punched the number. “He’s been around forever, and he knows everybody.” She waited for the call to go through. “Bobby, it’s me.” She listened for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right. No more than five hundred basis points.” She listened some more. “That’s bullshit. He’s full of shit, and he’s ripping us off, and you tell him I said so. And tell him he better think hard about this if he ever wants to deal with us again.” She paused. “Fine, fine. Different topic. Remember Mike Lenzi, used to be over at Plessey? He left there, what, two years ago?” She looked at me and nodded her head as she listened. “Yeah, an asshole. You know what happened to him?” Bobby spoke for a while and Liz listened, nodding. “You’re the best, Bobby. I’ll be up in a couple. You want anything?” She hung up.
“Says Lenzi left there about two years ago, under a cloud. Some sort of malfeasance, but Plessey was very hush-hush about it. Of course, there were rumors. Bobby heard something to the effect that Lenzi had been giving away the store-disclosing position informationsupposedly for years. Apparently Lenzi cut himself a deal so that he left all his stock and options on the table, and in return no charges were pressed. And neither side talks to anybody about anything ’cause it’s too embarrassing all the way around. Bobby says Lenzi’s not in the markets anymore. Thinks he’s hawking some second-rate trading software. You owe Bobby a decaf skim latte, by the way.” I paid up.
It was nearly six when I got off the subway at Fourteenth Street. The rain and wind had spent themselves, and in their wake the night was cold and clear. I was weary and stiff and wired from too much coffee, and, as I walked up Seventh Avenue, I couldn’t shake the image of Lenzi’s wife, a woman I’d never seen, crumpled by her front door, crying. I didn’t tell myself that I’d had to do it, that trading her pain for information was part of the job, that I was acting in my client’s best interest. Why bother, when it would lack all conviction? Shit.
But what I’d learned from her and her husband, and from Liz and Bobby, was enough to paint a picture. Michael Lenzi had been one of Nassouli’s pet traders. He was in Nassouli’s pocket fifteen or so years ago-that’s how Burrows had known him-and he may have been doing favors for Nassouli right up until MWB closed. Around two years ago, somebody had tried to squeeze him. They’d had proof of his dealings with Nassouli, the sort of proof Nassouli kept in his personal files, and they’d threatened Lenzi with disclosure. Lenzi had said shove it, or something to that effect, after which a package had been delivered to his management at Plessey. Then it was good-bye, Mike, don’t forget to leave your money at the door, and you’ll never work in this business again.
My picture had lots of white space in it, though, and Lenzi was the only guy I knew who could fill in the gaps. Only he could tell me what they had on him, how they’d contacted him, and what they’d wanted. Only he could confirm that someone had, in fact, tried to squeeze him. Or, he could tell me that my picture was bullshit-that, after who knew how many years of favors for Nassouli, Lenzi’s management had finally caught on and canned his ass.
I stripped off my clothes, changed into running stuff, and ran five miles in thirty-eight and a quarter minutes. After that, I went to the gym and pushed some steel around until my arms were quivering and I felt vaguely nauseated. Then I went home, showered, ate two cartons of yogurt, and fell into an empty sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
“Let me fill that,” Lisa Welch said. She took my glass and moved serenely across the slate floor of her sunroom, into the adjoining kitchen.
She was a calm, almost ethereal woman with straight, straw-colored hair that fell halfway down her back. She had an open, fine-featured face and, though December was closing in, her prominent cheeks and broad forehead were tanned an attractive golden color. Her large eyes were an odd shade of blue that changed with the changing light-from gray to nearly violet. Her mouth was broad, and in repose fell into a faint, sad smile. She was five foot seven and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, including the change in her pockets. She wore jeans and a sleeveless blue T-shirt that said “Sanibel Dive Shop” on the front. Her arms were firm and lightly tanned. She was about my age.
I heard her bare feet pad across the wide plank floors of her kitchen. I heard her open the fridge and pour water from a pitcher. I heard her open the oven to check the bread baking inside. The phone rang, and I heard her soft, even voice speaking, though I couldn’t make out the words. An indolent chocolate Lab named Jesse slept near the wrought iron and glass table where I sat, and I heard him sigh heavily.
While I waited for Lisa, I watched her children play on the big back lawn, just beyond the stone patio that lay outside the sunroom. There were two of them-a boy and a girl, ages five and three, blond-haired, blue-eyed, broad- faced, long-limbed, like their mother. The girl seemed to have something of her mother’s serenity. She was feeding two baby dolls in a toy stroller, and occasionally wheeling them around the patio. The little boy was more frenzied. He was climbing and jumping all over a backyard playground, doing imaginary battle with pirates, or robots, or robot pirates… it was hard to tell.
It was Thursday afternoon, and a warm day for late fall, in the low sixties. Birds twittered softly, and
