the smartest move, but since he didn’t intend to spend the rest of the day—maybe the week—waiting, he had no other choice. He took a second sip and closed his eyes as the liquid scorched his throat and raced to his brain. His secretary’s intercom-voice cut through the air, snapping him to attention. He depressed the open speaker button.
“Yes, Carolyn.”
“Ms. Stenman returning your call.”
Ayers’ hands shook. He put the glass down, flipped open a breath mint box, and grabbed and swallowed half the candies in it. With his breath flowing cold across his tongue, he opened the speaker attached to line two.
“Morgan?”
“What?”
“How did Peter Neil do?”
“I’m busy,” she said.
“The polygraph? Did he pass the polygraph?”
“You sound apprehensive.”
“No, no. I only wanted to know what Peter said.”
“Is there something I should know about Peter Neil?” Stenman asked, her words feeling to Ayers like poison-darts. “Perhaps concerning his mother?”
The attorney regretted calling. What if Peter did know something about what Hannah had done? He sipped, and put the glass down, but didn’t let go. “I would have told you—that is, if I thought there was anything else taken from our offices by . . . .” He couldn’t finish.
“If the polygraph were a problem, you would have known by now,” Stenman said.
Ayers flopped down and sank into his chair. Thank God, not a problem. Change the subject, he thought.
“I really called to discuss the new offshore bank accounts.”
“A necessary change because of sloppy security at your law firm,” Morgan said coldly. “I want to hear that there will be no more Hannah Neils.”
“No. No more such problems. I know you’re busy.”
It took another minute to wrestle free of the stress-filled exchange, but once he did, Ayers breathed a deep sigh. Knowing Peter had no additional information came as an enormous relief. Now, with the issue settled, things might work out well for Peter. This was a perfect job for him and, if he thought seventy-five thousand a year was serious money, wait until he realized the boy sitting next to him made ten times that much—and that others were paid well over seven figures a year.
“I really do want to help,” Ayers said to the walls. “And yes, Peter—” he whispered, feeling better than he had in weeks, “—maybe this is how I begin repaying your parents. Give you something they never had. Make you rich.”
With a final tilt of the glass, Ayers finished his drink. Clutching the breathmints a second time, he tossed the rest of the box into his mouth. He then took the glass to the sink, rinsed it with soapy water, and replaced it on the shelf above the wet bar.
All evidence of indiscretions gone, it was time to get back to work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHORTLY AFTER ONE P.M. ON THE WEST COAST— CORRESPONDING TO THE close of the U.S. markets—a second contingent of traders began to trickle in. During the overlapping shift, which lasted well into the afternoon, thirteen traders and at least that many support people reconciled positions and confirmed the hundreds of trades done during the morning and afternoon.
Peter learned that traders tossed their completed trade-tickets into out-boxes. Every few minutes, runners— looking like ants hustling after spilled sugar—dashed up and down the rows and collected these tickets. The handfuls of trade-records then made their way down chutes to the first floor, where trade-processing took place. These back-office professionals immediately keyed the information into in-house computers. The traders therefore had computer access to positions with only a brief time lag. The first-floor back-office was also responsible for comparing trades with the hundreds of confirms flooding Stenman Partners’ offices every day from dozens of worldwide brokers. Reconciliation of a trade break, a fail-to-deliver, or a
Stuart Grimes, in a brief moment of peace, mentioned that these workers also arranged for share borrowing to facilitate short sales, monitored receipt of rebate income on short sales, negotiated margin interest rates, ADR fees, and a dozen other mumbo jumbo functions, none of which made any sense to Peter.
Close to three o’clock, Stuart spun around his chair and said, “Let’s grab the conference room and begin your education. I’m meeting a New York broker for drinks and dinner at five, so that’ll give us a couple of hours.”
Before rising, Peter asked, “What’s a New York broker doing in San Diego?”
Stuart put a paternalistic hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We’re gods, dude—that’s what they’re doing here: paying homage to the money. We fork-over a hundred million a year in commissions to brokers. Every trade, every time we buy stock in a secondary or IPO, some institutional salesperson makes some serious scratch—we have several sales-traders who make over a million dollars a year, just off our account. These bozos come to town all the time to brown-nose. Wait until Christmas.”
“A hundred million in commission?”
“More than that,” Stuart answered. “I have no idea what Howard Muller pays out on his shit. And that doesn’t even include Stenman’s farmed-out money.”
“What’s ‘farmed-out’ mean?”
“Morgan’s taken some of the money she’s raised offshore—that means money domiciled abroad—and turned it over to outside money managers. You remember that guy Stanley Drucker? The one that blew himself up?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”
“He was one of the managers that had a small chunk. Guys like Drucker charge us 1% for their efforts. We still get to keep 20% of the profits. Between you, me, and these walls, even though the money is supposedly invested at the sole discretion of these outside managers, Muller and Stenman tell them what to buy and sell.”
“Why not manage it ourselves?” Peter asked, confused by such a convoluted scheme.
Stuart took his hand off Peter’s shoulder. Across the room, Howard Muller filled the doorframe of his office. “I don’t know,” Stuart said, sounding tense.
“Neil! At five. That’s when I’ll have time for you.”
Peter nodded. “Fine . . . good. Five. Okay, Mr. Muller.”
The CIO shook his enormous head as if what Peter had said was idiotic. “Fine, good, okay,” he mimicked. Muller turned and shut his door.
“Is he always such a prick?” Peter asked.
“Pretty much a two hundred forty-pound blood blister,” Stuart confirmed.
“A misanthrope,” Peter said.
“A what?”
“He’s a misanthrope. Someone having an aversion to his fellow man.”
“What’re you? A dictionary?”
“He’s a jerk,” Peter said, wishing he hadn’t stretched his vocabulary. “That sound better?”
“Yeah, he’s a hammered-shit jerk. But—and it’s the almighty
“The Civil War stuff?”
“Strange, don’t you think?”
“Is there a story to that?” Peter asked.
“Muller is a closet bigot, I think—wishes the South had won. He’d like to have slaves working these phones.”
“That’s funny,” Peter said, smiling at the thought of traders chained to computers, and Muller, in a golf cart,
