The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3)

by David Charters

  I struggle manfully to my office, where Maria, my longsuffering, loyal secretary is waiting for me. Maria is mid-forties, heavily built, half German and a Grossbank lifer. She understands me – well, sort of – and we get on well. When I’m ten yards from her, I pause. A hush descends on the trading floor as I drop the crutches and walk slowly, painfully towards my office. In my head I’m playing the theme tune from Chariots of Fire as I drag myself one painful step at a time. Only when I get there do I catch hold of the doorframe and turn to wave to the troops. A great cheer goes up. I’m back, and the cameras have caught it all.

  Once I’m inside my office Maria draws the blinds so I can wander over to the desk in privacy, put my feet up and light a cigar, blowing smoke rings at the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall.

  * * *

  MY FIRST day back in the office passes slowly as I get up to speed with what’s happened to the business while I was away.

  Just as I feared, it’s been going brilliantly, masterminded by my two key lieutenants, Two Livers, who handles all the corporate business, and Paul Ryan, the head of Markets, who looks after sales and trading. Paul is the Brad Pitt of Grossbank, tall, fit, good-looking, charming, but unlike Brad Pitt he’s gay. I’m very pleased about Paul’s sexual orientation. It means that out of the top three people running Grossbank in London, the only predatory heterosexual male is me.

  Maria calls through on the intercom. I assume it’s another ‘welcome back’ call from someone senior at another firm. I’ve been getting a lot of them. All the heads of the major firms have called, and I even had a bunch of roses from Tripod Turner, the biggest swinging dick of them all, Chief Investment Officer at the Boston International Group, the world’s biggest investing institution. Herman Schwartz, the Frankfurt-based Chairman of Grossbank, has sent me a long, handwritten personal letter of welcome, and Two Livers has sent me an email saying she’s so pleased to have me back that if I’m free tonight she’d like to invite me round to her place for a special treat. I like it when she gives me special treats.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mister Hart, I have Wendy on line three.’

  Shit. Wendy is my ex-wife. She wants something. She’ll have heard I’m back, and now she’ll expect to resume normal milking activities – briefly paused while I was in recovery – and the pretext will be Samantha, our daughter, who has recently celebrated her fourth birthday. I couldn’t actually make it in person, but I did send a van-load of presents, so this had better not be a complaint.

  I flick the button on the speakerphone. ‘Darling, how are you?’

  ‘Wh – what? Dave, it’s me – Wendy.’

  ‘Wendy? Wendy who? But I thought – oh, shit…’ I hang up and grin. That’ll really piss her off.

  Paul Ryan comes to see me. He’s looking incredibly elegant in a way that no straight Englishman could ever manage – in fact a straight guy would have to be Italian to look this good – but he’s come to say he’s concerned about me.

  ‘Dave – you can’t carry on the way you were… you know… before all this happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. The whole lifestyle thing. You were killing yourself. It simply isn’t viable.’ He’s just a little wary, watching to see if he’s overstepped the mark and I’m going to explode. He doesn’t want to alienate the Golden Goose, but at the same time can’t allow it to carry on mainlining heroin. ‘I don’t know if anyone else is going to tell you this, but I am. You have to change. You have to get this stuff under control.’

  Damn, he’s good. If I had a couple of scoring cards behind my desk I’d hold up ten points for sincerity. But then I check him out again and nobody’s that good. He actually means it. Or have I lost my touch and I just can’t read him anymore?

  The problem for people who run investment banks is finding colleagues who are prepared to disagree with you – at least up to a point. This is why I like Paul and Two Livers so much. If you hand out tens of millions of pounds each year at bonus time, most people want to stay on the right side of you at all costs. Announce that you’re planning to open an investment banking operation in Antarctica, and most of them will convince you you’re a genius, a visionary who’s ahead of the game and will steal a march on the competition.

  ‘Paul, I know. I need to re-focus my priorities. Life isn’t just about money. What’s the point of having lots of money if all you do is count it?’

  He’s nodding, agreeing with me. I’m not sure quite where this is going, but I’m feeling relaxed, so I decide to press on.

  ‘Sex is also important. And drugs. And of course alcohol and fast cars, even if most of us don’t know how to drive them properly.’

  ‘No, Dave, no – don’t go there. Dave, we’re bankers. This isn’t rock and roll.’

  ‘Really?’ I say this as if I kind of wish it was. Which maybe I do. He’s got up and he’s standing facing me. ‘Dave, those things were destroying you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I thought they stopped me getting bored. I was planning to treat this as a light-hearted piss-take and have a laugh. But he could be right. ‘You may be right. Okay. Look – I’ll ease up on the drink.’

  ‘And the drugs.’

  I nod. ‘And the drugs.’

  ‘And the hookers.’

  ‘Okay, okay – I promise.’ He strides round the desk and I get up quickly, wondering if he’s going to attack me for taking the piss. But instead he embraces me, a big bone-crunching hug, and I smile broadly and squeeze him back.

  ‘I give you my word, Paul. I’ll ease up on the drink, the drugs and the hookers.’

  At least before lunch.

  * * *

  I’M BORED. This was always my problem in the past, and it’s even worse now. The thing about being in charge is that you don’t really have to do anything. Sure, you can fill your days with meetings, where your subordinates brief you on things and try to look good (but for what – so you can pay them more?), or you meet clients and shake their hands and mouth platitudes to convince them that their business is important to the bonus pool – I mean, the firm – or hold morale boosting ‘town hall’ meetings where you patronise junior employees by reading out ‘key corporate messages’ prepared by the Human Resources Department or the worker bees in Corporate Communications – ‘one dream, one team, one firm’ – or some such twaddle. It would all seem so futile, if it weren’t for the millions of pounds I get paid for doing it.

  In an attempt to raise my spirits, Paul and Two Livers are taking me to the Berkmann Schliebowitz drinks party. It’s a modest bash hosted by one of Wall Street’s most successful firms for their five hundred closest friends in the London market. It’s being held at the Embalmers’ Hall, one of the oldest livery companies in the City of London, and anyone who is anyone in the Square Mile will be there. Champagne, ice sculptures, entertainers – I can hardly wait.

  Tom drops us off about half an hour after the due time, mainly because they had to twist my arm to go. I’m in a foul mood. I haven’t had sex all day, my nose is running and my mouth is dry. I could fix all this in a couple of phone calls, but they won’t let me.

  So instead we find ourselves waiting in line to collect our name badges from a pretty girl at the reception desk, behind a very tall, mid-thirties, balding American with a deep booming voice and a very athletic figure. He’s the sort of man who exudes certainty – you just know he was a college football star, got all the top grades, comes from a privileged family, probably ‘East Coast aristocracy’, and he has what the Americans call Big Verbal Presence: take him to a meeting, any meeting, even if he knows nothing at all about what’s being discussed, and he’ll talk a lot at great volume and Be Impressive. These days, this is what the American investment banks like – quiet, short, thoughtful people need not apply.

  Right now, he’s being Verbally Massive with the receptionist, who is trying to be polite but is obviously flustered.

  ‘The name is Hurst. H – U – R – S
– T. That’s G. Herbert Hurst the Third. From Schleppenheim. That’s Schleppenheim with an S. I’m head of Derivatives. That’s with a D.’

  He says all this in a slowed down, ‘I’m talking to a moron’ manner. The receptionist blushes delightfully and looks flustered. I guess she’s about twenty-three, quite pretty with a trim figure and a cute butt, and from the sound of her accent, comes from Poland. She’s probably getting the minimum wage, working nights to earn money and putting up with shit from the likes of G. Herbert. She looks at him helplessly. There isn’t a name badge for him, although he is on the list.

  ‘I’m very sorry. This won’t take a moment.’

  Exasperated, he turns to us as the next in line, does a double-take when he sees Two Livers and raises his eyes heavenwards, as if trying to elicit some sympathy at the nonsense that People Like Us sometimes have to suffer at the hands of the merely mortal. Two Livers stares right through him.

  The receptionist goes to make him up a badge, but he ignores her and walks past.

  ‘I think most of the people here know who I am.’

  Wanker. I look at Two Livers and Paul and we nod to each other. If they didn’t know who G. Herbert Hurst the Third was before tonight, they certainly will in about thirty minutes. As we take our badges, I growl to the others, ‘Let’s nail the motherfucker.’

  We peel off in different directions, Paul seeking out the trading types while Two Livers and I head for the bar. She’s wearing a skirt and jacket by Chanel, flatteringly snug in all the right places, without being in any way revealing, shoes by Jimmy Choo and jewellery by Kiki McDonough. Heads turn as we pass, and they aren’t looking at me.

  We get to the bar, where I catch the barman’s eye and nod towards Two Livers: ‘Fill her up.’ At first he doesn’t understand, then Two Livers leans forward and whispers something in his ear, and he scurries off, returning with two mojitos, and hands them both to her. She heads off into the crowd, doing the old ‘excuse me, I’m taking this drink to a friend’, so she can briefly mumble to the tedious, while staying on the move to nail down our prey.

  I take a glass of champagne and wander over to the corner of the room, where some of the senior people are holding court.

  Dan Harriman is talking to Clive Gunn, who runs the sales trading side of Prince’s, and a tall, early forties, fair-haired guy I don’t recognise.

  ‘Hey Dave – come on over. Let me introduce you.’

  Dan is heavily overweight, sweating, and looks like he’s had about four martinis too many. ‘Dave Hart, from Grossbank, this is Vladimir Kommisarov, from First Siberian Bank.’

  Vlad the Impaler is well-known in the markets, though I’ve never met him before. He gets his nickname not because he’s an aggressive trader, but from his alleged prowess with the ladies. He’s been sent by his masters in the Kremlin to set up a heavyweight investment banking operation in London. He has a firm grip and nods respectfully. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mister Hart. You are truly an amazing man.’

  Wow – how about that for an opening line? I like him already. And I like his bank. The Russians have hit London in force, and are setting up investment banking operations to take on all-comers. Amongst the Russians, OneSib, as they are known in the market, are the biggest. Vlad has deep pockets behind him and a serious game to play. They are planning to hire two hundred professionals for their London operation and he’s definitely in the market for talent. In no time at all we are getting on like a house on fire, talking the talk the way heads of investment banks do, swapping tales of business trips to the Ukraine – ‘Six in a bed – at the same time? Really? It must have been a huge bed’ – and sharing addresses and phone numbers in London – ‘Are they really twins? And they make you watch first? Hot candle wax where?’

  And then across the room I spot G. Herbert, clutching an orange juice and sharing his wisdom with a couple of shorter guys from other firms. I point him out to the others.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Dan and Vlad don’t know him, but Clive does. ‘We deal with him a bit on the derivatives side. Seems sharp enough.’

  I tap the side of my nose. ‘Not as sharp as he should be.

  Word has it – and this could be complete bullshit – that Schleppenheim could make a third quarter loss on the back of some of his trades.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nod knowingly. ‘They’re putting a brave face on it, running fast to make good their bad positions. It’s not impossible they’ll dig their way out and no one will ever know. But let’s just say he may not have a long term future round there.’ I snort. ‘Or anywhere.’

  Vlad seems stunned. ‘But he is said to be very bright.’ Vlad obviously does know him after all, or at least the headhunter who’s been retained to hire OneSib’s two hundred new employees does.

  I wink and pat him on the back. ‘All I’ll say is let the buyer beware.’ I tap the side of my nose again. ‘Trust me on this one.’

  Behind me, Two Livers is standing by the bar, doing tequila slammers with a couple of corporate finance types from one of the US firms. The guys are already unsteady on their feet, perspiring and starting to slur their words. They have no idea who they are drinking with. As I pass, I see them looking at G. Herbert as she speaks.

  ‘…and I’ve heard there are three lawsuits in the process of being settled already. Quietly, obviously. No firm wants publicity like that. He just can’t keep it zipped up.’

  They seem amazed. ‘But he always comes across as such a straight type. We go to the same gym. He works out pretty hard, plays golf at the weekend. Single, no girlfriend as far as I know. Pretty boring if you ask me. He’s certainly serious about his career.’

  ‘No girlfriend? Maybe that’s why he keeps misbehaving at work. But these days you just can’t do that stuff. Not unless you’re really senior.’

  I head to the bar for a refill, and pass Paul Ryan talking to an obviously gay – which is to say incredibly good-looking and immaculately turned out – Asian guy who I remember as head of Debt Capital Markets at Samara Bank. They are also looking at G. Herbert.

  ‘…sure I’ve seen him cruising. He often comes to the Sugar Club late on a Friday night. He does this big thing at work about being straight, but once he’s done a few lines, well…’

  ‘So he’s a user?’ The Asian guy looks disdainful. He obviously doesn’t approve.

  ‘Big time.’ Paul sniffs theatrically. ‘Loves the stuff.’

  And so it goes on. We work the crowd, pleased to have something worthwhile to do on what might otherwise have been a routine occasion. When we eventually leave, ten minutes after our deadline, G. Herbert is standing alone in the centre of the room. He’s somehow morphed into the social equivalent of the Invisible Man, finding it strangely hard to get anyone to catch his eye, despite seeing so many familiar faces in the crowd. He’s dimly aware that all around him huddled conversations are taking place and strange looks are coming his way. There’s a peculiar vibe tonight, and he can’t quite put his finger on it. In fact if he didn’t know better he’d be paranoid. Christ, I love my job.

  * * *

  TWO LIVERS is angry. I only made it into the office at three in the afternoon, after an all night party. I don’t feel exactly brilliant, though I have a feeling that if only I could remember where I went and what I was doing, I must have had a great time. I sit at my desk, trying to look as if I’m concentrating, while all the time resisting the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up.

  ‘Earth to Dave…hello? Is anyone there? Dave, be honest. You’re never going to change, are you?’

  I shrug and try to look pitiful, which is not too hard with a brass band marching up and down in my head. ‘I might get worse.’

  I’m not sure if I meant it as a joke, but if I did, it didn’t work.

  ‘Dave, you’re bored. You know it and I know it. You need a challenge, something to get you interested again, something to engage you.’

  She’s right. I am incredibly bored. Th
e investment banking business is doing fantastically well, Herman and the board keep sending me messages of congratulation and invitations to ever more boring celebratory dinners in Frankfurt, but I really have no interest. I keep thinking about Sally, the love of my life, who has changed her phone number, returns my letters unopened, and refuses all contact. Bloody women. You can’t live with them, but I certainly can’t live without this one – at least not until I finally get inside those perfectly white panties.

  It’s strange how the mind works. Sometimes the subconscious makes connections in a way that the rational intellect would find impossible. Perfectly white panties make me think of the lingerie worn by the women I’ve slept with recently, all of which was dark coloured or black. I struggle to think of a non-G-string-wearing woman with traditional white cotton panties, and the last one I recall sleeping with was… French. And one thought

  leads to another.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What sort of idea?’ She has an expectant twinkle in her eye, and I don’t think it’s to do with sex. Sometimes I really can surprise her.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’ About five seconds, actually. ‘We’re going to do what Grossbank should have done long ago. A major strategic move. What the Germans do best.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re going to invade France.’

  Two Livers’ eyes widen and she takes a sharp intake of breath. I love it when she does that.

  I flick the switch on the intercom. ‘Maria – get me the Silver Fox!’

  * * *

  INVESTMENT BANKING is ninety per cent form and ten per cent substance. My rivals say I’ve always hired the best to deal with the form, taking care of the substances myself, but that’s just sour grapes. However, it is true that the most important events in life require the most meticulous stage management.