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, and where I’ve come from. His name was Stephen
Gaines, and he saved my life. Want to know how Stephen saved me?” Leonard said.
The room nodded.
“He gave me my life back. More importantly, he let me become a man again. See, once I lost my job, lost my wife, lost it all, I wasn’t a man anymore. I was a dickless nothing wandering the streets waiting for someone to put me out of my misery. And Stephen took me from that, and he gave me my life back.”
“What did he do?” Chubby asked. Leonard smiled and walked over to Chubby, knelt down and stared at him in his bright red face.
“He let me earn again.”
Chubby nodded, and suddenly Morgan realized he was doing the same thing.
“I know each and every one of you,” Leonard said. He looked at Chubby. “Franklin LoBianco. Laid off from
Morgan Stanley three months ago. You’re listed as owning a four-bedroom apartment on Madison and Thirty-fourth.
Nice neighborhood, Franklin, but I bet you’re wishing you didn’t splurge on that four-bedroom now.”
Franklin lowered his head.
Leonard walked around the room and stopped by a young Indian man with a slight goatee and an earring.
“Nikesh Patel,” Leonard said. “You were the chief financial analyst at a hedge fund that was worth one point two billion dollars. But then that fund blew up, and you were without a job. I bet it makes paying for your parents’ home in New Delhi rather difficult.”
Nikesh opened his mouth questioningly, but shut it as
Leonard walked around the room some more. Morgan went rigid as Leonard stopped right by him and looked down at him.
“Morgan Isaacs,” Leonard said. “A few years ago, you bought your apartment for one point eight million dollars.
I’m sure at the time it seemed like a good buy. A good investment. But records show that that same apartment was listed two months ago at one point five. Then one month ago at one point two. Now, it’s currently off the market. Figure between costs and renovations, you’re out a million dollars minimum. And this real estate market isn’t going up anytime soon.”
Morgan felt the eyes of the room locked on to him, but when he met their gaze he saw there was no condescension, no patronage, no disdain. Instead there was pity. And
Morgan smiled when he saw his fellow brothers, knowing they were right there with him.
“In the past twenty-four months,” Leonard said, standing straight up and walking back to the front of the room,
“I have made two point three million dollars. Twice as much as I ever made on Wall Street. And that’s in the worst economy in decades.”
Morgan could tell his eyes were just one of a dozen pairs that went wide when hearing that sum.