I told him my name, my job. That he could end up on the front page of the Gazette tomorrow. Naturally I didn't tell him this was a personal investigation, but chances were Scotty Callahan would not be the kind of guy who'd consider filing a suit for libel.
We went into a 24-hour coffee shop, somewhere quiet where we wouldn't be disturbed and didn't have to worry about being kicked out. Scotty walked with his head down, and for a moment I felt sorry for the guy.
He was still in his rumpled suit, still carrying the same briefcase. As he walked, the case flopped against his side like a fish running out of air.
I led him to the back of the restaurant, where we took a booth. A waitress came by and dropped two menus on the table with a thunk. One good thing about New
York coffee shops, they took the food from every menu in the city and crammed it under one roof. You could order anything from a BLT to baby back ribs to sushi.
Though I wouldn't recommend coffee-shop sushi.
Scotty slid into the far end of the booth. He looked tired, and I could imagine that this was literally the very last place on earth he wanted to be. After a long day delivering house to house, I was sure a cold beer and a warm bed were the next two items on his agenda.
They'd have to wait a little while.
'You're making a big mistake,' Scotty said. 'I don't know anything.'
'See right there,' I said, pointing at him. 'That's how I know you're lying. Anyone who says 'you're making a big mistake' knows a whole hell of a lot.'
'Great, so you're a mind reader. Read my palm and let me the hell out of here.'
'You stand up before I say you can, and you know what the front page of the paper says tomorrow?' I held up my hands as though spelling out a movie matinee for him. 'It says, 'Scott Callahan, drug dealer.' Now, I don't know what your dreams and am bitions are, Scotty, but I'm going to guess you'll have a tough time finding gainful employment after that happens. So we're going to sit here, I'm going to have a big-ass chocolate milk shake, and we're going to talk. Then, maybe, if I feel like you've been honest, you can go.'
'And if not?'
I held up my hands again, framing the marquee.
'Then consider yourself Spitzered.'
'You're a classy guy.'
'Yeah, and how's the drug-dealing business going?'
'I'm not a drug dealer,' Scotty said. The anger in his voice told me he actually believe what he said.
'Now, I'm not sure what the actual term 'drug dealer' is in Webster's, but I'm pretty sure that if you go door to door selling drugs, you'd find a picture of yourself next to that definition.'
The thing was, I had no proof of Scotty being a dealer. I could link him to 718 Enterprises, and Hector
Guardado, and possibly even my brother, but I hadn't actually witnessed him doing it. Thankfully by denying it with such vehemence he proved it for me.
'I'm not a dealer,' he said. His voice was quieter this time. I wondered if Scotty had ever sat alone in the dark thinking about what he was doing, what he'd become.
The softness in his tone told me he had. 'That's not what
I do.'
'Then, please,' I said. 'Enlighten me.'
He looked at me suspiciously, his eyes traveling over my shirt, my chest. Then he leaned over and peered under the table.
'Can I help you?' I said.
'Are you wired?'
I shook my head. 'I'm not. This is between you and me, for now. I'm not looking to bust you. That's the truth. I just want some answers and I know you have them. You help me, I help you.'
'How do you help me?' he said.
'By keeping my mouth shut.'
'And how can I know I can trust you?' he asked. 'I have a family, man. I have friends. They all think I'm living on a sweet severance package.'
I sat for a moment. 'You know what guys usually say in the movies when someone asks how they know they can trust them?'
'No.'
'They say, 'because you have no choice.' So right now, you have no choice but to trust me. I'd be happy to strip down to my George Foreman underwear, but I don't think that's a scene either of us needs.'
Just to show him I was on the up-and-up, I stood up, flattened out my jeans and did a quick flip-up of my top.
Sitting back down, I could tell Scotty was far from sat isfied, but he also knew if motivated, I could cause him a world of trouble.
'They're not my drugs,' he said. 'I never wanted to do it. I mean, you're a reporter, right?'
'That's what my business card says.'
'So you've got a job. And even though everyone's saying newspapers are going in the tank, you're still getting paid, right?'
I wondered where this was going, but nodded.
'I had my life planned out. I was gonna have my
MBA by twenty-six,' Scotty said. 'So much for that.
Three-point-nines all the way through college. Paid my own way through school because my parents could barely afford to buy the clothes I took with me. And right before I graduated, I got a six-figure job with
Deutsche Bank structuring CDOs. That's the American dream, right'
'CDOs?' I said.
'Collateralized debt obligations. Basically you have a lot of banks giving out hundreds of thousands of loans.
These loans are packaged into what's called a security.
Then a bunch of securities are piled into what's called a CDO. Then when the crisis hit, we all got screwed.'
'Still not quite sure I follow.'
'Think about it like you were selling eggs,' Scotty said. 'There are dozens of chickens laying hundreds of eggs. Those eggs are taken from all different chickens and put into one carton, which is then sold. But what happens if the whole coop was diseased? Every egg in the carton is basically worthless. That's pretty much what happened. We ended up with a bunch of packaged loans that were in essence worthless. And once the economy got turned upside down, everyone who worked in that branch got the ticket out of there. I was at Deutsche Bank less than a year when I got canned.'
'I'm guessing you didn't live with your parents while you were working.'
'No way. Bought me a sweet two-bedroom for threequarters of a mil. Between salary and bonus, I could afford the payments while paying off my student loans.
But then I lost my job, couldn't make the payments, and took a hundred-thousand-dollar loss selling the apart ment.'
'Wow,' I said. 'I think you lost more on that pad than my apartment is worth.'
'Don't be too sure. There's always someone willing to overpay for Manhattan real estate. If I could have waited six months I would have found a good buyer, but
I couldn't afford my mortgage anymore and it was either that or live on the street for a while.'
'And now?'
'And now what? I live with my parents. They still think I'm gonna be some financial genius. Warren
Buffett or something. That's why you gotta keep this quiet, man. They can't know. It'd kill them.' Scotty was starting to breathe harder, red flaring up under his collar.
He was getting angry just talking about this. 'You know what that feels like? You work your ass off for ten years, you pour every penny you have into your future. And then just when things seem like they're going your way, the rug is pulled out from under you and you're left with nothing but debt, bad credit and a crappy old bedroom that
