The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  And so I did. Partially because he asked me to. Partially to prove to him that he turned me on without a penny to his name. Partially to prove it to myself.

  That first night in Vermont was like magic—like we had been transported back to those early days in Cambridge when we delighted in discovering each other. When Sam awoke the next morning, I saw a lust and love in his eyes that I only then realized had been lacking in the past month. I hated myself for the victory of winning him over in only a day after months of neglect. I knew with such an easy victory, I would grow tired of making things right between us.

  With Friday stretching out long before us with little on the agenda, Sam pulled me close while still under the covers. I indulged him out of obligation, but it made my skin itch slightly. I already knew how the remainder of the weekend would go. I knew it would feel like an eternity. He didn’t want to go through the process of renting ski equipment for only a weekend. He thought massages were too expensive. He took my Thursday takeout suggestion to mean that I was content to hang out in bathrobes and eat pizza on the couch for the next forty-eight hours as well. I started growing antsy inside, rationing the time I spent on the New York Times crossword puzzle so it would last me the whole car ride home. I missed the grind of constant work I had become so accustomed to and comfortable with.

  Sam enthusiastically took to binge-watching Breaking Bad, which neither of us had watched when it originally aired, while I worked on the slides for Miami for a bit on Friday and a large portion of Saturday and drafted some postclosing cleanup emails for the deal we had just signed.

  “Al, this show is insane! Come watch!” Sam was practically giddy as he refilled his water glass in between episodes.

  “I wish,” I said, gesturing to my computer, though I knew I probably could have carved out some time to watch with him. Miami will be fun. I tried to force myself to relax and enjoy the slow workweek while I had it.

  * * *

  “Just a quick round, and then we’ll meet Didier out front and head to dinner,” Jordan said, pressing L as the doors closed to join the two halves of the Fontainebleau F inside the leather-walled elevator.

  “Where’s dinner?” Matt asked, not looking up.

  “Joe’s,” I said, one hand on my phone, the other pulling at the red dress I had carefully chosen because it was both conservative and lightweight, a rarer combination than one might think, and just cute enough for going out after the corporate cocktail hour.

  The elevator jolted at the end of its descent, and the automated voice announced that we were in the lobby. We all typed furiously for our last moments in the iron cage before putting our phones away.

  “Game faces, people,” Matt said, stretching his neck.

  The chrome doors disappeared fluidly into the elevator walls, releasing us into a sea of men, drinks in hands, and a very few women, most of them waitresses. New York City’s Ferragamo ties and Zegna suits were replaced by Miami’s Tod’s loafers and Ralph Lauren linen pants—it was like Wall Street: The Resort Wear Collection. The air conditioning pumped ferociously, almost allowing us to forget the sticky evening outside our protective cocoon. A woman with an iPad said something to Matt and then handed us all name tags, which Matt and Jordan slapped across their chests. I hesitated for a minute, then fastened mine awkwardly under my collar, just south of my neck, so as not to encourage any inappropriate eye wandering.

  “Vodka rocks. Scotch neat,” Jordan confirmed, pointing from Matt to me. “Skip?”

  “Um, I’ll do a vodka cranberry.”

  Jordan shook his head. “We do clear drinks.” I waited to see if he was kidding. “Vodka soda?” he asked. I shrugged and nodded as we stepped out into the pit. Jordan grabbed the first waitress he saw and ordered for us.

  “Watch and learn,” Jordan said, leaning into my ear. “Matt’s a master. He becomes exactly who the person he’s speaking to wants him to be.”

  “Mr. Jaskel!” A booming voice erupted from our left. Matt shook a large man’s hand firmly, never breaking eye contact. “Great presentation today,” the man said earnestly.

  “I hadn’t even seen the slides until I got up there. It was all these guys.” Matt pointed to me and Jordan—“Alex Vogel, Jordan Sellar”—and then to the man—“John Dornan.” I looked at his name tag: “Managing Director and Co-Head of M&A at J.P. Morgan.”

  “Jaskel!” the managing partner of Oakwood Private Equity cut in just as the waitress returned with our drinks. We all sipped at them hungrily, in need of liquid lubrication, and I absorbed the chatter surrounding me.

  “His policies will be fine for the big banks.”

  “Interest rates are going to climb. I’d never vote for him, but part of me is hoping he gets elected.”

  “It’s barbell investing.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, thanks. This is just water. I don’t drink too much. And my wife prefers it that way.” Matt flashed a subservient smile to Margaret Nichols, head of M&A at Wells Fargo, as he took a swig of vodka on the rocks. Hence the clear drinks. Jordan and I smiled broadly at her as well.

  “Smart woman,” she said.

  “I’m surrounded by them. Have you met Alex Vogel?” Matt asked, thrusting me toward my comrade in genitals. I smiled politely and made small talk about Boston, Margaret’s hometown.

  “Would love to get lunch when we’re back in the city,” she said to me with an approving nod, and we exchanged business cards before she moved on. I breathed a sigh of relief, tired of pretending to be sober. Matt and Jordan took turns replenishing my drink in between making small talk with all the people we seemed to know.

  “Join us on the yacht tomorrow.”

  “Stay with us through the weekend.”

  “Come to Prime 112 tonight,” a balding man offered.

  “We have a reservation at Joe’s or we’d love to,” Jordan politely declined.

  “Joe’s doesn’t let you make reservations,” the guy said, straightening his cuff links.

  “Joe’s doesn’t let you make reservations,” Matt corrected him, to which the guy laughed and shook Matt’s hand. “Let’s do lunch back in New York.”

  “We’ve done more mergers in the past three years than any other law firm in the world. Here’s my card.”

  Jordan smiled apologetically. “I don’t think any of us are in any position to party tonight. We have a flight out first thing in the morning. Let’s get lunch back in New York.” The thin, dark-skinned man looked dubiously at me, and I nodded.

  “This is water,” I assured him.

  Jordan gave me a wink. “You’re a quick study,” he whispered to me after the man had left. I beamed. I was loving every second of the conference.

  “I will send my wife your regards. And you do the same. I would have brought her, but she hates Miami,” Matt said to a petite woman, looking sincerely dejected.

  “It’s just water for me tonight,” Jordan said, pointing to his glass as he spoke to the treasury secretary’s wife.

  “My kids are my whole world. I miss them even when I’m away for these long weekends!” Matt showed the petite woman pictures on his phone.

  “I think I’ve reached my bullshit threshold,” Jordan finally whispered to me and Matt.

  “Did anybody see Gary Kaplan?” Matt asked. Every hair on my neck stood on end. Jordan shook his head, and I forced the slightest shake of my own. “Skippy, order us a car. I’ve seen everybody I need to except the CFO of Oculus.”

  I turned to Jordan. “It bothered me when Gary touched me at the Stag River party,” I said, emboldened by the four vodka sodas I’d consumed.

  Jordan watched me carefully. “Look around, Skip. Do you see any young women? No. Not many of them are invited. Every young guy in this room is getting his boss a drink. Most didn’t get invited at all. When you’re a boss, you can make your own rules. For now, all the young people, men and women, just need to take the shit they’re given.” His tone was easy enough, but his words were harsh in my ears. I clenched my jaw, ha
iled a passing waitress, and asked her to arrange a car to Joe’s Stone Crab. She started to direct me toward the concierge desk before seeming to think better of it.

  “Room number?” she asked. I knew it wasn’t her job to arrange transportation, but since joining Klasko I had come to expect service professionals, any service professionals, to accommodate my requests.

  “Fourteen thirteen.”

  “Ah. Ms. Vogel,” she said after inputting my number into an iPad. “We’ll have the house car brought around for you right away. Much faster than calling a car. You can head outside at your convenience.”

  I’d never before stayed in a hotel where they’d looked me up and given me better treatment because of my name. I wanted so badly to be above it all, to resist falling for everything about the beautiful hotel and the look of deference the waitress gave me. I wanted to be blasé about the name tags of the people who passed. But as I stood in the middle of the cocktail party, I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face.

  * * *

  I sat sandwiched between Didier and Jordan in the back of the hotel’s house Rolls-Royce Phantom as we waited for Matt, who’d spotted the CFO of Oculus and gone to say hello. I could tell that Didier had been pregaming with more than booze—he alternated between rubbing his pant leg and wiping sweat from his upper lip as he stared out at the driveway, ogling the unsuspecting women passing by our tinted windows. Meanwhile, Jordan scowled at his phone screen. The vodka I’d consumed gave me the feeling of belonging with them. Even if they were a cokehead and a workaholic, respectively, we understood each other professionally and enjoyed each other personally. Just as I turned and looked out the back windshield for Matt, the front door opened and he slid in next to the driver. “Joe’s Stone, good sir.” The driver nodded, and we rolled away.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Didier thundered.

  Matt turned back to us and rolled his eyes at Didier’s outburst. “I have bad news and good news,” he announced. Jordan stopped typing and looked up. “The bad news is, we’re not going to the strip club after dinner.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m going, so fuck you,” Didier spit out, his French accent thicker than when he was sober.

  “That’s fine,” Matt said. “We’re not going because the good news is that Doug Capshaw is coming out with us tonight, and I’m not taking him to a strip club.”

  Everyone snapped to attention.

  “The CEO of Oculus?” Jordan asked, staring at Matt.

  “That’s the one.” I could only see the back of his head, but I could tell he was smiling. “CFO is an old buddy of mine. He introduced me.”

  Didier sprang up and grabbed Matt’s shoulders from the back seat. “You are going to make me rich! Richer!” he bellowed.

  “Let’s show him a great night first,” Matt said calmly.

  “Is he cool? Should we take him to a bar? Or just meet at the hotel bar?” I asked excitedly, knowing that as the most junior person on the totem pole, it would be up to me to plan the social events for the evening.

  “He’s cool. He’s young. Let’s get a table somewhere,” Matt directed me.

  “On it.” I was already emailing the concierge. “It’s going to be a long night!” As though I had asked for it, Didier took a small Ziploc out of his breast pocket and placed some coke in a line on the flat part of his huge hand, between his thumb and forefinger, and offered it to me. I shook my head politely, and he shrugged and hoovered it up himself.

  “I want,” Matt said, turning to Didier, who handed him the small bag in the front seat. Matt poured a bit onto his hand. The driver had no visible reaction at all. “Jordan?”

  “I have,” Jordan responded without looking up, reaching into his own pocket. The driver stared directly ahead as the car plugged forward along Collins Avenue, choked with the traffic of partygoers.

  “I can’t believe people wait hours to eat here,” Matt said, looking at the tourists milling around outside the window by our table. “I don’t even think the food is that great. I only come here because I like getting to cut the line.”

  Jordan snorted in agreement, but I just sucked determinedly at the white-and-black shell of my stone crab claws, trying desperately to jostle loose the sweet sinew from the crevice. Didier was staring at me droopily over his scotch. I wondered if my face was slipping down toward my chin as much as I felt it was and speculated that the other tables were beginning to take note of our less-than-sober condition.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be that crab claw,” Didier slurred at me.

  “I find you repulsive,” I said dryly, giving him an almost imperceptible smile as I pried off a shard of shell.

  “You know the female stone crab has to shed her exoskeleton before the male can mate with her? She’s prickly at first, but it all comes off in the end. It’s nature. And that’s what’s happening here. Just waiting for you to give in to nature and stop being so prickly.”

  I looked up at him. “Is that true?”

  “Just because I’m an idiot doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

  “You are an idiot,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

  Matt and Jordan laughed, but Didier looked distressed. “My wife certainly thinks so. And she definitely finds me repulsive,” he said. We all looked over at him. He looked at us and shook his head with a smile. “We’re getting a divorce.”

  I looked at Matt and Jordan, trying to gauge whether they had known, but their faces registered the same confusion as mine. We searched Didier’s face, hoping for an outburst of laughter. None came.

  “Shit,” Matt said, taking a drink.

  “Are you okay?” I placed a hand on Didier’s forearm. He was quiet as he placed his paw of a hand over mine.

  “Happy to be out here with you guys,” he said. “It’s a good distraction.”

  “Can I . . . ?” The waitress appeared.

  “Another round,” Jordan said quickly.

  “When?” Matt asked Didier.

  “What happened?” I asked, a question that I never would have asked if my lips hadn’t been loosened by vodka.

  “A few weeks ago. Right after the Falcon closing,” Didier said, looking at Matt. “I was never there,” he continued, looking at me.

  “Did you have a prenup?” Jordan asked.

  Didier nodded, and my colleagues exhaled in unison.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll give her whatever she wants,” Didier muttered. My throat caught, seeing him in this vulnerable state.

  “Look, let’s blow off this Oculus guy and go out,” Matt offered. “Anywhere you want. Just us.”

  Didier shook his head as our next round of drinks arrived. “Nah. This is a huge opportunity. Making money makes me happy. It’s one of the few things left that I . . .” He trailed off, staring into space.

  I squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Thanks, Skip.” He smiled back at me. “Let’s just have a great night. I really need it.”

  “Yes.” “Yeah.” “Done,” Jordan, Matt, and I responded simultaneously.

  “I’m going to go get myself together,” Didier said, pushing out of his chair.

  “As in . . . up?” Jordan asked. Didier nodded, and Jordan followed him into the men’s room, and Matt and I were left staring at one another across the table.

  “Shame,” I said, taking a long swig of my vodka. “I didn’t even know he was married.”

  “Me neither!”

  I gave Matt a look.

  “I’m kidding. I knew. But only because it came up once. He never talks about her, and he doesn’t wear a ring. I’m emailing Doug Capshaw now. Where should I tell him to meet us?”

  “Basement at the Edition Hotel. We have a table in your name. He won’t have a problem,” I said, taking another long drink, relishing the burn of the vodka on the way down.

  “This place is connected to a bowling alley and ice-skating rink!” Doug yelled over the music as he leaned into me, his blond curls accidentally brushing
my cheek. He wore light jeans, a thin heather-gray hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers. His skin was studded with pockmarks, presumably residue from teenage acne, which suited him the way a five o’clock shadow suits some men. He handed me a glass of clear liquid that I lifted to my nose.

  “Tequila?” I yelled.

  “Mezcal. Tequila is only made in Jalisco. All tequila is mezcal, but not all mezcal is tequila.” As he recited these facts, I pictured him raising his hand in third grade and using the same tone. He kept his body angled away from me at a safe distance. There was something charming about his awkwardness and lack of sleaziness.

  “Like Champagne and sparkling wine,” I yelled. He nodded enthusiastically. I put the glass to my lips and threw my head back, then slammed it down on our table, which was sticky with juice and liquor. I wiped at the mezcal dribbling down my chin with the back of my hand as I sucked at the lime in my mouth and waited impatiently for it to drown out the smoky flavor.

  Doug was staring at me, wide-eyed.

  “What?” I yelled as soon as I pulled out the lime.

  “That wasn’t a shot! It’s a sixty-dollar glass of tequila!” he yelled back.

  “It’s mezcal!” I stuck my tongue out at him and he laughed. “But it tastes like tequila. And I hate tequila! Needed to get it down fast,” I told him, feeling the warmth spread throughout my chest and abdomen. “And we’re paying anyway, so who cares how quickly I drink it?”

  “Why did you drink it if you hate it?” He was screaming into my ear, and I could still barely hear him.

  I stared at him. Because it’s my job to keep you happy.

  “Because you ordered it!” I said, smiling broadly. He looked over my shoulder at Matt, Jordan, and Didier, who were now talking to our cocktail waitress, and I followed his gaze.

  “Impressive crew you roll with.”

  “The best in the business,” I said. “They just let me tag along.”