And me, I held tight to his coattails. Strickland hadn’t been jerking me off about trading again, and a few months after we opened for business I had a book of my own to run. This time I knew how to work the phones. I made managing director at the end of our first year, and when he moved up to take over the dealing room, I took over the hybrids desk.
It was a steep climb, and not without its bumps. There were months when the P&L slipped, but never two in a row — Strickland wouldn’t allow it. When trouble loomed, he’d saunter over to my desk, drop a hand on my shoulder, and invite me to his glassed-in office. We’d prop our feet, drink espressos, and shoot the shit about his latest vacation, his latest car, or his latest wife, and when we’d exhausted the chat and the coffee, he’d sigh and say the same thing.
“Numbers looking a little hinky, don’t you think, P-Man? Maybe you oughta check the models — see if something needs goosing.” After which we’d stroll back to the dealing room and I’d take up my keyboard.
There was never any talk of my leaving the desk — not when Strickland took over the trading floor, and not when he stepped up to run the whole bank either. Somebody had to do the goosing, after all. And besides paying for a bigger loft, the house in East Hampton, and Mia and her line of clothes, the seven-figure bonus checks made staying behind easy to take. At least until DiMarco.
I took another drink and gagged on the warm beer. On TV, one of the cops pounded the table. His partner shook his head and asked more questions, and the kid slumped lower in his chair. I thought about the maps on the motel bed and my car, icing over in the parking lot, and about throwing my stuff in the back and driving off. Mexico, or maybe Canada. I tried to remember where I’d put my car keys. In my coat pocket, maybe. Inches away, but too far to reach.
I slept late on the fourth day — past noon, and through the pimply girl’s knock on the door. I awoke in my clothes, on top of maps and surrounded by beer cans. There was a car chase playing silently on TV — a minivan rolling down an empty highway, five cop cars and the shadow of a helicopter in pursuit. My head was full of road salt and pieces of a dream. DiMarco standing over my desk, holding a report and tapping it with a boney finger. There was a smug, triumphant look on his librarian’s face, and a noise like static whenever he opened his mouth. Mia at the beach house, making blender drinks and laughing. Her hair was up, and her long neck was pale and damp. Her hands were bandaged, and there were red streaks in my margarita. Mia and Carter Strickland at the Playpen, bite marks on her breasts and colored lights shining on his big teeth.
My bones were like lead, and it was all I could do to lever myself up and into the shower. I stayed there until the dry heaves subsided and my skin was a savage red, and it was night by the time I set out for the quick-mart. I picked up a Snickers, some beef jerky, and another six of beer, and I was looking at the magazines when the state trooper came in. He bought coffee and a sandwich that he heated in the microwave, but he didn’t even glance down the aisle while it cooked. Still, I waited until he’d pulled out of the lot to pay for my stuff. My hands were shaking when I paid the clerk, and he gave me the eye when he handed back change.
“What are you looking at?” I said. He frowned and shook his head.
Even with every light on, a brown twilight was the most I could manage in my room. I turned on the radio and found the one station that wasn’t static. An angry guy was talking to an angrier guy about weakness and depravity on both coasts. It was drivel, but I wanted voices.
I opened a beer and turned on the TV. It was tuned to the game show channel — a show from the ’70s, with puffy-haired people in bad clothes. The contestants were paired with celebrities, though I wasn’t sure who was who. The point of the thing was one player guessing a secret word from clues given by his partner. Condiment; spicy; hotdog... mustard! Much applause followed.
I downed my beer in one swallow, and eyed the host. Something about him — the unlikely tan, the wide forehead, maybe the teeth — reminded me of Carter Strickland. I pictured Strickland in an ugly plaid jacket and too-wide tie, smiling, nodding, directing the game. I worked a strip of jerky in my back teeth, and thought about our last meeting.
It was in his vast office at the top of the tower. The shades were up and the river was bright and hard-looking in the morning light. The trading day hadn’t started in New York, but the big monitors on his wall showed the action in London. Strickland was scanning his e-mail, and I closed the door.
“Don’t give me more of that relax crap,” I said. “It’s all I’ve heard for weeks, and this guy still hasn’t gone away.”
He ran a palm over his slick hair and smiled indulgently. “He has questions, that’s all. Give him some answers, and this thing will run its course.”
Run its course? He has questions about the models, Carter — the fucking pricing models. And this guy is no lightweight — he’s half a dissertation away from being Doctor DiMarco. The formulas don’t faze him. He’s down in the guts of things, and he’s looking at P&L going back Christ knows how long.”
He kept smiling. “Is he?”
“Fucking right he is. So get him promoted, get him fired — take him out and get him laid for all I care — just get rid of him.”
The tanned brow crinkled. “Come on, Paul, you know how the game is played. The man has a job to do, and it wouldn’t look good if people thought I was trying to stop him from doing it. It wouldn’t look appropriate.”
Appropriate? What the fuck does that mean?”
Strickland smiled wide and shook his head like I was an idiot nephew. “It’s the optics of the thing, Paul, just the optics. Let it work itself out. It’ll be fine.”
I don’t how long I stood there with my mouth open. Long enough for Strickland’s secretary to come in and remind him of a conference call and usher me into his waiting room. She disappeared back into his office and shut the door behind her. I ran my hands through my hair.
Optics? Work itself out? And what’s with Paul — what happened to P-Man
I looked down at his secretary’s desk, and at his appointment book, open on it. I flipped the pages back, week after week — and there they were. Early breakfasts, late lunches, drinks and dinners — DiMarco, DiMarco, DiMarco. Since before the audit started. I went to the street from there, and didn’t even stop at my desk.
What’s the secret word, Carter? Scapegoat, maybe? Fallguy? How about fucked? Yeah — that’s it — definitely fucked.
More clapping on TV. A woman with heavy eye makeup was showing a flair for the game. Antlers, slipcover, clandestine — she got them all with just a hint or two. I couldn’t recall her name but I recognized her from a sitcom that ran when I was a kid, and I was pretty sure she was dead. Her hair was dark and wavy, and it reminded me of Mia’s.
I’d almost told her a hundred times, but always managed to convince myself the timing wasn’t right. This weekend maybe, at the beach — or next month, when she’s finished with her show. Maybe on the trip to Bali, or maybe after. Maybe over dinner. There would always be another, better moment.
The truth was, I was looking for a sure thing and Mia wasn’t it. Her moods were too volatile, and could whip from elated to dismal three times while her coffee cooled — and she traveled way too light. A bag of clothes, another of shoes, and she could leave on a whim. Sometimes, when I woke up next to her, I was surprised to find she hadn’t left already. Then I’d remember the dump she’d been living in and the firetrap that used to be her workshop, and I’d think of her shiny new studio and her plans for her next line. Who knew what she’d do if I told her they were built on sand?