A moment later, Muller grudgingly beckoned Peter into his office. When Peter explained what he’d told Stuart, Muller exploded, “Fundamental research is for losers. I have my facts first-hand. Sit down, shut up, and try not to shit in your pants.”
Muller phoned Stratton’s second floor analyst on the PC industry. The man confirmed: “The industry is in deep financial shit.”
Next, Muller phoned an unidentified contact. Thanks to Stuart, Peter understood this was Muller’s inside connection at Guerren, Clark. He too scoffed at Peter’s analysis. “These companies are hopeless losers,” he confirmed. “We’ve written them off as clients until this cycle turns, and that might take two years.”
“Now, Neil,” Muller said at the end of this second call, “get out.”
In the past, assuming he was wrong, Peter would have hung his head in shame. This time, feeling he was on solid ground, Muller’s dismissal merely pissed him off.
“What did Fat-Head say?” Stuart asked.
“Sadistic bastard threw me out.”
“You sure of your facts?”
Peter nodded his head while rage created a moist steam over his eyes. “That’s one ass I’d love to kick.” He pointed his nose at Muller’s office.
“Go to Morgan. She has an open-door policy. She’s a bright bulb, knows Muller’s a jerk. But beware, dude, if you’re wrong, you’re road kill.”
“If I’m right?”
“If you’re right, and it makes as much money as you say it will, you get
“What does Muller do if I back-door him on this?”
“Whether you’re right or wrong, he hates you.”
“He already hates me. He hates everyone.”
“Wrong. He has a hard-on for everybody. You haven’t seen hate yet. He’ll make Sherman’s March through Georgia look like a cake-walk.”
“You telling me to back off?” Peter asked, more a challenge than question.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. Morgan Stenman’s respect is worth any amount of Muller-fallout. You do what you gotta do, dude.”
“Then I do it.”
From the privacy of the conference room, Peter phoned Stenman. He explained that he wished to outline a trading opportunity.
“What might that be?” she asked.
He reviewed the highlights.
“And you spoke to Howard?” she asked.
“I did.”
“His reaction?”
“He phoned our in-house analyst, then a secret contact. They both said I was nuts.”
“Are you?” she asked.
“I’m expected to carry my weight. Make money. That’s what I’m trying to do. Is there another way to be successful at Stenman Partners?”
“No. Meet me in room 202 at five o’clock. I have been meaning to have a little chat with you anyway.”
Peter put the silent phone down. “Short and sweet,” he mumbled.
Before returning to work, Peter experienced a vague worry. Why, he wondered, had Stenman “been meaning to have a little chat . . . anyway?”
Stenman Partners’ second floor was divided into two sections. The first consisted of offices for analysts. From the elevator or stairs, one had to pass by a male receptionist who resembled a well-dressed paratrooper. Once past this humorless protector, a person had to input a six-digit pass-code to enter.
Inside the main floor, ficus trees and hyacinths lined and deodorized the hallways. Besides the hum that accompanies silence, Peter noted that the office trappings tended to get more luxurious and expensive as one progressed down the halls—as did the prestige and incomes of office occupants. At the end of this high-rent alleyway, the head of research had his corner suite. This individual’s income went beyond Peter’s ability to compute: twenty million dollars in a bad year, a hell of a lot more in a good one.
A right turn at the head of Research’s office yielded another set of doors. This led to the Promised Land: Morgan Stenman’s hallowed turf.
Stenman shared her half of the second floor with the executive dining rooms, of which room 202 was one. A second set of cameras, infrared detectors, and expressionless men greeted him.
Sign in, metal search, pat down.
“Hiding the Crown Jewels,” Peter quipped. The two men could have been deaf.
Once beyond the heavy metal door, the digs got really fancy—even more opulent, in fact, than Peter’s unschooled imaginings of New York’s white-shoe investment banking houses. Impressionist oils hung from the twelve-foot paneled walls. The hallway—illuminated by crystal chandeliers suspended every twenty feet—had deep carpet that Peter likened to a wall-to-wall yellow-brick-road. He carried with him an intertwining of anxiety, excitement, privilege, and fear—but mostly fear. For the first time since making the call two hours earlier, he began to doubt the wisdom of his action. He suddenly didn’t want to jeopardize his position.
Too late? Maybe not, he thought. He’d re-run his hair-brained idea by Stenman, then apologize for the insipid stupidity—admit he had made an arrogant miscalculation. Tell her how much he admired Howard Muller, how much he loved working as a trader. He practiced his verbal backtracking as he looked for room 202. Once he found the door, Peter had his revised strategy ready. He’d bow his head and make a joke about his ignorance—maybe repeat the comment he’d made at their first meeting about putting his foot in his mouth so often that he was good at getting it out.
With his left hand inside the pocket of his sport coat, Peter rubbed his index finger against his thumb, wishing he had his moonstone. He knocked.
The door opened automatically.
Peter glanced to the small video-cam mounted in the corner of the hall. He entered and saw his blurred image on a screen, one of many electronic devices built into a cabinet along a far wall. Beside Stenman was a second woman. At first Peter thought she was a child. She stood small, but had rounded hips and breasts, and showed no affect through blue eyes. Her forehead rode a bit too high, but led the eye to the complex white-weave of a widow’s peak—an imperfection that added to, rather than detracted from, the overall impression. Peter had a difficult time diverting his attention, as if looking at her was addictive. Had this been a poker game, Peter would have folded at the ante.
“This is Sarah Guzman, an associate,” Stenman said.
Peter stepped forward and took her hand. “It is . . .” her delicate fingers felt almost hot enough to burn . . . “it is nice to meet you,” Peter said, unable to manufacture anything other than a pat greeting. With his face stained red, he felt foolish as he tried to guess her age: anywhere from thirty to forty. He wished she had returned his light smile with one of her own.
“I am one of Morgan’s partners and an associate of hers for many years. She thinks one day you might be one of the great ones, if you are willing to make the necessary sacrifices. Are you willing, Mr. Neil?”
“Yes,” he said, wondering why she was attending this meeting. “That’s why I’m here.”
Stenman filled a chair, leaning her cane against the outside of the armrest. She nodded to Sarah. “We asked our PC analyst to review your findings,” Sarah said. “He did some checking and now agrees with your conclusions. I reprimanded him for his lazy habits.”
Peter sighed. He had to prove nothing now. So why did Muller have to be such an ass?
“I’m grateful you listened to me,” Peter said, his comments directed to Stenman.
Sarah Guzman glided to the wet bar and began mixing drinks. A glass of Chardonnay for herself. A Perrier for Stenman. “Peter,” she said. “Double Jack, a splash, two ice-cubes?”
