It’s the beginning of September, the run-up to the bonus season, and it’s Two Livers’ birthday. She’s sitting at her desk, her chair pushed back, and she’s reclining, eyes half closed, breathing heavily, while I’m crouching underneath the desk. Her dress is pushed up and she’s not wearing any panties. You can guess the rest. I’d like to say I do this for all my employees on their birthdays, but I’d be lying.
Suddenly the door flies open, and Paul Ryan comes in. Two Livers jerks upright and smooths her dress down as he throws something on the desk.
‘Have you seen these?’
‘Seen what?’
‘Photos of Dave – hard core photos of him with three hookers.’
There’s a crunch as I bang my head on the desk, and Two Livers pushes her chair back to allow me to crawl forward on my knees and get out.
‘What did you say?’
‘Christ, Dave, I’m sorry – I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Dropped my pen. Got it now. Let me see these photos.’
Spread out on the desk are some high quality shots of me with three girls, all of us naked. There’s a brunette – I think she was Katerina, from Estonia – a blonde – no idea who she was – and a black girl. I don’t recall her either. We’re not at my place, and I can’t see enough from the shots to recognise where it was all happening, or even recall when, but boy, was it happening. There are fifteen pictures altogether, and I’m seriously impressed. Did I really do that? I could be a porn star.
‘Look at this.’ Paul passes me a note.
‘Tell your boss to behave, or the press get these.’
Paul and Two Livers look pretty sick about the whole thing – they have these hangdog ‘So what do we do now, boss’ looks on their faces.
But I’m excited. So excited that I’ve dragged myself to the surface of my exhaustion, gasping for air, but ready to take on the world.
‘Get me the Silver Fox.’
Two Livers also had a set of photos sent to her, and I had a set too. It looks as if that’s it, though I can’t yet be sure.
When the Silver Fox arrives, I have the gratifying and unusual task of giving him a PR assignment that even he hasn’t taken on before. Meanwhile the team are worried that I’m not worried.
It takes a couple of days, but then Herman calls.
‘Dave – I’m very embarrassed to have to talk to you like this, about a rather awkward and difficult, personal matter.’
I assume he has a problem. ‘Herman, you can trust me. I’m a man of the world, I’ve seen it all – hell, I’ve done most of it.’
‘I know you have, Dave. I have the photographs in front of me.’
Damn. So the bad guys are upping the ante. Fine with me. ‘Oh, you got them? Great. What do you think?’
‘What do I think? I don’t know what to think.’
‘But they have an impact, don’t they? You can’t tell me they don’t challenge your perspective on investment bankers? The ugliness of global finance and the sensuality of the world that surrounds us. It’s all there, Herman, and it’s all for a good cause.’
‘Dave, what are you talking about?’
‘The calendar. The charity calendar that Ball Taittinger are preparing for us. Didn’t you see my note? The children’s cancer charities?’
‘Dave – I’m worried about you.’ Great, Herman, thanks a million. That makes two of us.
‘I guess it hasn’t happened yet in Germany, Herman, but in this country there’s a fine tradition of the least likely people baring all for charity. The Women’s Institute did it, rugby players have done it, trendy ‘it’ girls have done it, and now I’m doing it. It’s just that I’m taking it to a new, more explicit extreme – though Ball Taittinger say they’ll airbrush out the bits that go too far.’ I know Herman hasn’t hung up, because I can hear him breathing at the other end.
‘Dave, I want to help you.’
‘Then order ten thousand copies. Hang them in all the branch offices, all over Germany, and have an exhibition of the originals in the Grossbank Tower – that’s what I plan to do over here. I’ve already called the President of the Orinoco Banking and Finance Corporation – told him he and his associates will all get personally signed copies when it’s published. The City columns of the papers are going to start running the story tomorrow. Herman, this is going to be huge. And it’s great for our image – it keeps us right out there, on the edge. That’s where we have to be, Herman – edgy… and unpredictable… and dangerous.’
‘We’re dangerous enough, my friend. I can’t allow you to do this.’
He hangs up. What kind of remark was that? We’re Grossbank. We can do what we want, because Grossbank rocks. Doesn’t it?
When I get home that night, I can’t sleep. I realise I’m going through a kind of cold turkey – with all the security everywhere, I can’t misbehave the way I’m used to, and my body is tormented by the absence of the poisons and the pleasures it’s come to depend on. Half a bottle of whisky later I doze off on the bed, still fully clothed, but keep seeing faces hovering over me: black men with dreadlocks; ugly hate-filled faces of men and women in jeans and combat jackets carrying placards; smooth, evil men in sharp suits carrying nasty little machine-guns; and angry men with beards in Arab dress, their mad eyes filled with hatred. The rational part of my brain is wondering whether there’s any other serious hate-group out there that I’ve somehow failed to antagonise, but I can’t come up with one.
In the middle of all this, the phone rings. Thank God for that. I hope it’s Dan Harriman, suggesting I sneak out and play hookey, or hooker, or something. I’m damned if I’ll hide away in here forever. These schmucks think they can threaten Dave Hart? Think again, pal. You think I care? Bullshit.
‘Hello, Dave, is that you?’
It’s a familiar voice. Female, sweet, innocent. ‘Sally! It’s been so long. Where are you?’
She’s crying. ‘I’m here. In London. I’ve come back, Dave. I thought I could run far away and forget about you, but I was wrong. Wherever I went, there was news of you. You were in the papers, on the radio, on the television news at night. I couldn’t escape. I’ve told Trevor. He’s heartbroken. I don’t think he’ll ever understand. I feel so guilty, Dave, but I can’t help myself. I love you.’
Am I dreaming or what? It can’t be the drugs, and I’ve only had half a bottle of Scotch. This is it. I am definitely going to get inside those perfectly white cotton panties. At last. Tonight.
‘Sally – where are you?’
‘I’m at Euston station. I’ve just arrived.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be right over.’
I know – I should have told her to take a cab. She’s only a woman, for God’s sake. If it had been Ilyana, or sweaty Sveta, or Breathless Beth, or glorious Gabbie, or any of them really, I would have done. But this is Sally, and I’ve been waiting a long time.
I hang up, rush downstairs and grab my jacket and car keys. Tom’s long since left for the evening, so I’ll drive myself.
‘Mister Hart, sir – where are you going?’ It’s one of the goons who’s here for the night shift.
‘Out. By myself.’ I run to the front door, and step out into the street, where H1 PAY is parked.
‘Mister Hart, sir – please wait a moment. Let me check the car first.’ He’s got a hand-held radio out and as he hurries after me, he’s calling for a car to follow me.
‘No time – sorry.’ I definitely don’t want a bunch of goons overseeing my great romantic moment.
I jump in, slam the door, put the keys in the ignition, and for a moment wonder if I should just wait a minute or two. Will it really make that great a difference? I promised Mike Moss I’d do as I was told. Fuck it. When have I ever done as I was told? Sally’s waiting, and it really has been a long, hard chase.
I turn the key and there’s a loud bang and a blinding white light. I feel rather than see the windscreen shatter in front of me and a great blast of hot air engulfs me.
THE THIRD INSTALMENT OF
DAVE HART’S ADVENTURES IS
AVAILABLE NOW
THE EGO
HAS LANDED
by David Charters
from Elliott & Thompson
I’M DEAD.
I know I must be dead because I’m walking slowly up a long staircase in bare feet, wearing an old-fashioned nightgown, and I’m surrounded by puffy white clouds. Sitting or standing in the clouds are groups of beautiful young women, all dressed in long white gowns, all singing heavenly arias. I recognise Ilyana from Kiev, and Breathless Beth, and Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussycat Club, and there’s a stunning redhead from Warsaw whose name I’ve forgotten. Choruses of heavenly hookers, all serenading me as I ascend the final steps to a pair of huge iron gates, and standing in front of them a very ancient man with a long beard, who is staring at a book on a lectern.
‘Name?’ He has a deep, gravelly voice, commanding and stern, the sort of voice that makes me worry in case he somehow knows my guilty secrets. All of them.
‘H – Hart. Dave Hart.’ My mouth is dry and it’s an effort to get the words out. But at least I get a reaction as he looks up from the book.
‘Dave Hart? Are you kidding? You’re a fucking investment banker. Get out of here, you wanker!’
And suddenly a great wind is blasting through the railings of the gates and I’m tumbling, falling head over heels back down the stairs, and the girls have stopped singing and are all pointing at me and laughing, and I want to scream, need to scream, desperate to scream…
‘Aaaaaaargh!’
I open my eyes. I’m lying in bed in a small room with white painted walls.
An institutional room. The bed is narrow and uncomfortable and is surrounded by medical equipment with wires running under the covers and dials and flashing lights. I know I’m in hospital, but as I scream the door of my room bursts open and a policewoman runs in followed by a nurse.
A policewoman? In a hospital? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Now it’s coming back to me. I rest my head back on the pillow and try not to laugh.
I’m an investment banker. And not just any investment banker. I’m Dave Hart. I run the investment banking operations of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank – ‘Grossbank’ to its friends – which I’ve turned from Sleepy Hollow into one of the most happening places in the City of London in a little over twelve months.
And most of my friends are investment bankers too. I still can’t recall exactly what I’m doing in hospital, but instinct takes over and I look at the policewoman and the nurse and grin.
My voice is croaky and it’s an effort to speak. ‘Don’t tell me – Dan Harriman sent you.’ Dan runs European equities at Hardman Stoney. He’s what passes in investment banking circles for one of my closest friends – which is to say that he’s always there when he needs you. But now it’s my turn and he’s done me a favour.
‘All right, get your kit off.’ I nod to the policewoman. ‘You first. I’ll start with a blow-job.’
They look at each other, pretending to be surprised, and neither of them undoes so much as a button. I stare at them. They’re not actually that pretty.
‘Come on, I don’t have all day.’ Actually I do have all day. I’m aching all over, and can feel wires attached by sticking plaster at strategic points all over my body. What’s going on?
The one who’s dressed as a policewoman speaks first. ‘Mister Hart – I’m Police Constable Hardy, attached to the Anti-Terrorist Squad.’
Now I’m impatient. You can take role-playing too far. ‘Honey, cut the bullshit – just get your top off.’ A thought is forming in my mind. I’m starting to blame that cheapskate Dan Harriman. Probably only paid for topless hand relief.
I close my eyes and sigh, half impatient, half exhausted, and am dimly aware of murmured voices, then something wet being rubbed on my bare arm, a sharp jab, and I drift off again.
Also by
DAVID CHARTERS
AT BONUS TIME, NO ONE
CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM
Meet Dave Hart. Dave is worried. He’s an investment banker and it’s not long until ‘B’ day, the most important day of the year. He’s thinking what he would do with a million pounds. But we all know a million just isn’t what it used to be…
THE EGO HAS LANDED
The third in the Dave Hart series, The Ego Has Landed sees our man recovering in a posh clinic after his explosive ending in Trust Me, I’m a Banker. Dave Hart is reunited with his investment banking team at Grossbank to continue his epic quest to avoid a boring life and make as much money, take as many drugs and frolic with as many girls as possible.
NO TEARS: TALES FROM THE SQUARE MILE
The original collection of short stories from David Charters lifts the veil on the dark heart of the City. Greed, ambition, ego and cunning conspire to triumph in this dog eat dog world, but often with startling twists. If you think you know how it all works in the Square Mile, No Tears will have you thinking again.
I LOVE YOU… AND OTHER LIES
An eye-opening collection of stories from the matrimonial front.
Trust Me, I'm a Banker (Dave Hart 2) Page 16