“Not yet,” Chester said. Morgan looked at him, confused, but then the driver came around to Morgan’s door and opened it for him. The driver bowed down, and Morgan slid out. Though this odd gesture in front of some sort of run-down warehouse confused him even more,
Morgan did not let it show.
Chester came around to him and said, “Follow me.”
The blond man led him up the driveway to a door. It wasn’t quite a front door, since this building didn’t seem to have been built with traditional comings and goings in mind, but Chester punched a security code into a small black keypad and an LED light turned from red to green. Chester turned the latch, opened the door and ushered Morgan in.
They were in a gray stairway, steps leading up and down. Chester took the path upward, and beckoned
Morgan to follow. They went up two flights of stairs.
Morgan could see numerous cameras lining the stairwell, each with red lights. At the top of the third-floor landing,
Morgan noticed that the camera was in fact moving, panning over the entire stairwell.
“Security measures,” Chester said. Morgan nodded.
Again Chester punched numbers into a keypad, and Morgan heard a latch unlock. Chester smiled at him, and opened the door.
“Go on in,” he said. “Take any open seat.”
“Thanks,” Morgan said, and stepped into the room.
And if he’d been confused before, this just took it to a whole new level.
The room inside was wood paneled, as though it had been transported from some high-end hotel. In the middle of the room was a long, dark mahogany conference table, polished and gleaming. Track lights illuminated the entire room. But what struck Morgan more than anything was not the room’s decor, but rather the dozen young men, dressed to the nines just like him, surrounding the table.
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Morgan didn’t know what to say. The other men turned to see him when he walked in, but then turned away. They all had looks on their faces that looked startlingly like his own: confidence on the outside, but eyes that showed confusion, discomfort, and above all desperation.
Every face was cleanly shaved, every suit neatly pressed. The ties were knotted perfectly, and the room reeked of designer cologne. There were young men of every race and ethnicity. Black, white, Asian, Indian,
Arab. Tall, short, fat, skinny. Some had full heads of hair, some looked to be going prematurely bald. None of the men looked to be older than their early thirties, and some looked barely old enough to have graduated college. Yet every one of them looked like a hungry dog waiting for a meaty bone.
Morgan felt Chester’s hand on his back, and a soft voice said, “Sit down, Morgan.” The voice had become much firmer than Morgan was used to.
There was an empty seat in between a lanky Indian man and a chubby white guy with a red face and thick shoulders who was fiddling with his cuff links. Morgan walked over and sat down. The chairs were red leather, plush and comfortable. Morgan debated leaning back, but noticed that all the other guys were sitting straight, waiting for something, not wanting to be viewed as too aloof. Morgan guessed that they were all there for the same reason he was: money.
There was something oddly familiar about the grouping, and it didn’t take Morgan long to realize what it was.
Everyone at the table, their clothes, their mannerisms, their style and smell, all reminded him of men he used to work with.
Morgan looked back at the doorway, wanted to see
Chester’s reaction to all of this, but the blond man had closed the door. Morgan noticed there was another small keypad on this side of the door he’d entered from. The
LED light on it was red. They were all in here until someone let them out.
There were few noises. Chubby played with his cuff links. A black guy at the opposite end seemed to have the sniffles. A young guy with red hair and a pocket square was rubbing what looked like a razor burn on his neck.
And then the door at the other end of the conference room opened. Every eye in the room turned to face it, pupils wide, breath being held.
In strode a man who stood about five foot ten. Brown hair, neatly trimmed and parted to the left. He wore a suit that Morgan guessed to be Brooks Brothers, maybe
Vestimenta. There was a gold watch on his left wrist, and a thick silver wedding band as well. He had wide eyes, narrowed ever so slightly. He wore a pair of smart, stylish glasses and gave off an air of both confidence and wealth.
He stood at the doorway for a moment, his eyes traveling around the room, gazing over every single person seated.
And then he walked over to the head of the table, put his palms on the wood, hunched over and stared at them.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. “I know why you all went to bed early last night, got up this morning, took hot showers, broke out those shave brushes and dolled yourself up like you were going to the fucking prom. I know why you did that.”
He looked at the chubby kid, fingers squeezing one cuff link like a pig trying to get the hot dog out of the blanket. “Son?” the man said.
“Sorry?” Chubby replied.
“Those things aren’t going to fly away. You don’t need to keep touching them.”
“Sorry,” Chubby said. He stopped fidgeting, and placed his hands on his lap.
“Anyway,” the man continued, “my name is Leonard
Reeves. But you’re not here to be my best buds, so let’s cut to the chase. Two years ago, I was making one point two million. I had a sweet corner office at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. I had it all. When people say they had it all, they’re usually bullshitting you, but man, I had it all. Beautiful wife who could’ve put those
Swedish bikini models to shame. A penthouse spread overlooking Central Park with a terrace bigger than most people’s homes in the Hamptons, and a secretary that I could tell wanted to blow me every time I stepped into the office. Everyone in my life acted like I walked on water, and that’s how I felt as well.”
Chubby smiled. He must have liked that mental image.
“But then, just like that, I lost it all. Every cent. My company got bought by another, larger corporation. Overnight my millions in stock options were worth less than the Pope’s cock. I owed three million dollars on my mortgage. When I hadn’t found a new job in a month, my wife left me. For one of my best friends, who was lucky enough to be working at the same company only in a sector that didn’t overlap. She divorced me on the grounds that I was emotionally distant, which, to be honest, I probably was.”
Morgan heard a few muted laughs, but they were respectful rather than dismissive. They’d all been there. Or knew those who had.
“So I got thrown out of my apartment,” Leonard said.
“My parents offer me a place to stay, but I refuse. Stupid decision, I gotta say, because you know where I end up?
On the street. Borrowing money to buy drugs that I can’t pay for. One day I wake up in an alleyway on a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street with three broken fingers and a dislocated kneecap.”
He held up his left hand. Three of the fingers were held at an awkward angle. Morgan grimaced looking at them.
“I’m in the hospital, but of course I don’t have insurance. Second day I’m there, a guy comes to visit me. I don’t know him from the inside of my ass, but he tells me all my bills are paid for. He tells me he knows who I am,
