The Domino Effect

by Davis Bunn

  On the drive home, the realtor handling Nathan’s home called to say she had a prospective buyer. They were expected to make a formal offer that afternoon, as soon as the bank approved their loan application. Esther tried to put some enthusiasm into her response, though the news left her both thoughtful and sad.

  As she pulled into her driveway, Talmadge phoned to say, “I’m putting together a start-up fund of seventy-five million.”

  Esther cut the motor and tried to fit the words into her mind. “Say that again.”

  Talmadge chuckled. “Shaking your tree really is a dandy way to spice up my day.”

  “Suzie McManning already did that, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. I thought you recovered well, for somebody who got sideswiped. That quote from Lincoln was a nice touch.”

  “Let’s return to the subject at hand.”

  “I never left it.” Talmadge was enjoying himself enormously. “I talked with a few cronies. They share my concerns. They’re near-bout committed to a seed investment of seventy-five big ones.”

  She found Talmadge’s easy manner and down-home strength reassuring enough to ask, “Is near-bout a word?”

  “Is where I come from. Two things. They want to meet you for dinner tomorrow. Sit down, eyeball to eyeball, watch how you respond to a dose of Carolina barbecue.”

  “Done. And the other?”

  “They want you to start immediately. I’ll have my lawyers draw up the papers. Soon as the money comes in, you put it to work.”

  She had a dozen reasons to argue, starting with how such a move could threaten her position with the bank. There was nothing in her contract that forbade her from offering outside advice, so long as she did not divulge bank secrets. Otherwise even her conversations with the television station could be classed as a fiduciary breach. But Esther was not interested in excuses, or delays. She could almost hear the counter whirring at the bottom of her website. Counting up the number of people relying on her to get it right and help them stay afloat. So all she said was, “I can do that.”

  He chuckled. “City Club tomorrow, six o’clock.”

  She was unlocking her front door when Craig’s car pulled in behind her own. The sight was so jarring, the images did not want to fit together. A beaming eleven-year-old skipped up the sidewalk toward her, waving a blue banner over her head. She was followed by her older sister, who for once did not appear to be carrying her burden of rage.

  And behind them was Craig.

  Esther had imagined various responses to his reappearance. Her reactions altered to fit her mood. Angry, defiant, pleading, sorrowful, hurt . . .

  Anything but this.

  Abigail stopped directly in front of her, lifted the banner with both hands, and shrieked, “They’re all over town!”

  “We saw three on the way over here,” Samantha agreed.

  “Four! I saw four!”

  “Whatever.”

  Esther forced herself to focus on what Abigail held. “It’s a bumper sticker.”

  That caused both girls to laugh. Abigail said, “It’s your bumper sticker!”

  The background was chalk blue, the classic type done in fluorescent white. The bumper sticker read, STOP FEEDING THE BEAST. And underneath in smaller type, BookOfEsther.info.

  “I wish you could see your face,” Samantha said.

  “I wish you could see yours. You have such a lovely smile.” Esther pretended not to see Samantha’s blush and turned to their father on the front walk, waiting. “Hello, Craig.”

  “Hi.”

  Esther said to the girls, “Why don’t you go blast some evil warlocks.”

  “Evil wizards,” Samantha corrected.

  “Whatever,” Esther replied. “Go.”

  Craig remained ten feet from her front steps, the penitent struggling for words. “I owe you an apology, Esther. Your words really rocked my world. I didn’t handle it well. I’m so sorry.”

  “It was the wrong time to have that conversation. For a number of reasons.”

  “Which you tried to tell me.” His hands fumbled by his belt, for all the world like he was spinning an invisible cap. “I talked to the girls. They both cried. I never . . . I just wish . . .”

  They moved toward each other. She couldn’t wait any longer. The strength and goodness of Craig’s embrace felt, well, exquisite. Esther whispered, “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’ve missed you more,” Craig said. “I can’t tell you—”

  His reply was cut off by an eleven-year-old. “Ew.”

  Her father said over Esther’s shoulder, “I thought you two were inside.”

  She released him slowly, taking time for a long look into his wonderful eyes, sharing another smile. Then she heard Samantha say, “There’s something wrong with your computers. They’ve all gone blank. And it’s not my fault.”

  35

  As Reynolds left the bank, he reflected on how there was a certain electric dread attached to the prospect of shedding someone else’s blood.

  He walked to his BMW 7-series, slipped behind the wheel, and started the motor. He turned the a/c to high. His was the only space in the bank’s parking garage with a view of the outside world. The wall curved down here, allowing him to look eastward, out over the green border of First Ward. Reynolds knew many bank employees assumed he had ordered the dip in the wall as an act of vanity. The amount of time people spent on minutiae never ceased to amaze him.

  Reynolds Thane had been born in the Appalachian community of Mountain View, a region of poverty-stricken valleys and roads that went nowhere. The Interstate connecting Asheville to Tennessee ran forty-seven miles to the north. It might as well have been on the other side of the moon.

  His father had run the county’s only bank. The old man’s greatest legacy had been to die young. Reynolds inherited the bank at the ripe old age of twenty-six. His first big decision as CEO was to sell it to Carolina First Mercantile. His father had been dickering with them for years. Reynolds sealed the deal in a week, but with one new proviso. He was to be made a senior vice-president of CFM. He negotiated hard, insisting the position be hammered out before the deal was signed. He was not after being stuck in another backwater like Mountain View. He was aiming high.

  The great mistake made by many of his fellow executives was to discount Reynolds because of his heritage and personality. He had the quiet manner and fierce independence of his Appalachian forebears. His burning ambition, however, was all his own. At the age of forty-nine, Reynolds Thane was named CEO of the eleventh largest bank in the United States.

  Reynolds reached into his briefcase for a new disposable cellphone whose number matched the code for that day. He had returned from Bermuda with a dozen of them. He set it on the divider between the front seats and checked his watch. Sir Trevor’s call was scheduled to begin in two minutes. He settled back and resumed his walk down memory lane.

  His father had been terse with his emotions. The old man had dressed like an undertaker and usually wore an expression to match. Every now and then, however, he had offered his only child a true gem of banking wisdom. The one that came to mind now had followed the old man’s heart attack. Reynolds had been seated by his father’s hospital bed, wondering if he should reach out and hold the man’s hand. Signs of affection between them had been as rare as gold dust.

  Then he realized his father was awake and watching him. Reynolds straightened in his seat. He had no idea what his father might say. A final note of pride, perhaps. A message for the man’s long-suffering wife. Instead, he coughed weakly and whispered, “Board meeting tomorrow.”

  Reynolds replied gamely, “I’ve put it off a week, so you’ll have time to recover.”

  His father lifted one finger from the bedcovers and waved that away. “To rule the world, first you have to rule your lieutenants.”

  Reynolds leaned forward in his chair. He had never confessed his personal aspirations. Mountain View tended to frown on people who sought to r
ise above their station.

  His father said, “You understand what I’m saying?”

  Reynolds cleared his throat. “Choose them wisely.”

  The old man gave a fractional headshake. “Select the one most disposable. Find his weakness. Make sure he knows you know. Take him down. Make it public. Make it slow.”

  Reynolds had still been recovering from that little gem when his father swiveled his gaze to the bedside table. Reynolds lifted the water glass and fit the straw into his father’s mouth. The old man swallowed once, coughed, and said, “Make no mistake. So long as the money is parked in our vault, it’s ours. We might tell the public we hold it in trust, but that’s nonsense.”

  Reynolds repeated something he had often heard the old man say. “Possession is ninety-nine percent of the law.”

  His father’s eyes flashed with what Reynolds hoped was approval. “Never is that more true than with somebody else’s cash. We pay them a fair market return. That’s the end of their involvement. It’s ours to do with as we want.”

  Now, as Reynolds sat in his leather-lined car, he wondered what his father would think of all this. Merging CFM with a global behemoth. Doing it to mask another tactic. Taking these risks. All so he could join the most exclusive club on earth. The handful of people who could attach the word billionaire to their names.

  By the time his phone rang, Reynolds had decided his father would be absolutely comfortable with the recent turn of events.

  “I’m ready,” he said into the receiver.

  And he was.

  Sir Trevor demanded, “Have you heard about yesterday’s outflow?”

  “I have. Yes.”

  “The sixteen US banks your Larsen identified as high risk lost six hundred million dollars. In one business day.”

  “There’s no way reporters could be certain of that figure,” Reynolds said. “That information is highly confidential and—”

  “Ah, but there is a way.” Sir Trevor clipped off the end of each word. Like he carved them from a block of ice. “All it requires are allies inside each of the sixteen banks. People who are willing to break corporate rules and volunteer this information. To the Wall Street Journal, no less.”

  “All sixteen institutions have denied the information is true.”

  “What other choice do they have? Confess to the world that your Larsen’s efforts are impacting their balance sheets?”

  “She’s not my anything,” Reynolds countered.

  “Only because you don’t control her.” Sir Trevor gave that a frigid beat, then continued, “I hear those bumper stickers of hers are everywhere. I spotted several this morning even here in London.”

  “I’ve cut off her access to our system, a warning shot across her bow.”

  “I don’t want her warned. I want her gone. She must be eradicated.”

  “Understood.” Reynolds leaned back in his seat, satisfied. His sole aim for this conversation had been for Sir Trevor to take ownership of the action. Reynolds already knew this was to be their course. “This line isn’t secure. Maybe we had better—”

  “We don’t have time for that. This is most urgent. I fielded a call this morning from my ally at the Financial Times. They have heard rumors of our merger.”

  This was news. And most unwelcome. “We have to move things up.”

  “I agree.”

  “So we go public,” Reynolds said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Which means we have no choice but to accelerate our other actions,” Sir Trevor added.

  “The markets are stable,” Reynolds said. “We don’t have the lever.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong. You are hardly the only friend I have in high places.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing—”

  “Because your allies are focused on your markets, correct?”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  Sir Trevor swiftly related two items.

  Reynolds’s mind swirled. “Are these for real?”

  “I do not bandy in rumors. Not at this stage.”

  “I’m going to go shake a few trees,” Reynolds said.

  “You do that. And just so we are perfectly in sync . . .”

  He nodded to the sunlight. The adrenaline rush was exquisite. “Larsen is all but erased.”

  Jason Bremmer called ten minutes later. They had arranged for a daily check-in to follow the call with Sir Trevor. Reynolds wished his senior trader a good morning and then waited patiently as he was given a summary of their secret trading arm’s current positions, scarcely hearing a word.

  When Jason was done, Reynolds said, “It’s time for you to reconsider your options.”

  Reynolds heard the quick intake of breath, the tight swallow. Then Jason asked, “You mean . . . ?”

  “Exactly what I said,” Reynolds replied. “Exactly what we discussed.”

  “I’ll need thirty-six hours.”

  “Then there’s not a moment to lose.” Reynolds ended the call.

  36

  Esther had never been more thankful for Talmadge’s support than when she called to report, “CFM has severed my home access to the bank’s system. My data array has gone blank. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

  “Explain that to me in words my grandkids might understand.”

  But ninety seconds into her explanation, Talmadge cut her off and said he had no idea what she was talking about or why this was so important, except for one thing. “This means the bank is worried.”

  “Upset is probably a better way to describe it. Irritated. Like swatting a fly.”

  “Did you see today’s article in the Journal, the one talking about the six hundred million outflow from your enemy banks?”

  “They’re not my enemies, but yes, I saw it.” She hesitated, then added, “I heard from a friend in New York this morning. The ante is over a billion now.”

  “I got an office with your name on the door.”

  “I have an office, thank you very much.”

  He laughed out loud. “You best jump while you still can. Before they shove you off the cliff themselves.”

  “I’m thinking about that.”

  “You do that. Stay close to your phone. I’ll have somebody who speaks geek call you right back.”

  Less than three minutes later, a young woman phoned, breathless from having just received a call from the company owner. Yes, she understood what Esther needed. Yes, Burroughs Motors had access to a financial data array. Their provider was far less sophisticated than the one the bank used, but the technician assured her that Talmadge had already signed off on anything extra she might require. The young woman did not try to hide her envy when Esther mentioned that her home was linked by fiber-optic cable. Ten minutes more and Esther’s screens came back to life.

  Samantha and Abigail were offered two of Esther’s laptops for their e-game, but the girls preferred watching Esther learn to navigate the new system. Craig went to a deli and came back with sandwiches, and they ate a late lunch in her office. Esther described her new hedge fund and explained her need to have it all in place before close of business the next day. She knew the girls did not understand much of what she was saying. But both of them seemed to like how she spoke to them as adults, introducing them to a different world. Craig said little, though his eyes rarely left her.

  After the meal, Abigail helped Esther clean up while Samantha returned to her game, which she assured them with teenage intensity was an extremely serious matter. Craig moved to the dining room table to work on a talk he was delivering at church that evening.

  Abigail helped wrap the remaining sandwiches and pickles in plastic and stowed them in the fridge. As Esther rinsed the plates and loaded the dishwasher, Abigail put the wrappings in the garbage, then accepted Esther’s offer of Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road, which Esther explained was her emergency comfort food.

  Midway through the bowl of ice cream, Abigail declared around a bite, “My mom and her new husband never hug each other.” />
  Esther’s movements became slow as she sorted through her thoughts, looking for the proper response. “You mean, your stepfather.”

  “I don’t like that word.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “I call him Hank. Samantha too. That’s his name.”

  “Understood.”

  Abigail inspected her reflection in the spoon. “Hank says affection should be kept private.”

  Esther closed the dishwasher and quietly settled onto the stool opposite Abigail. The doors leading to the dining room were slid shut, but Esther had the distinct impression that Craig was listening.

  Abigail went on, “Hank says how a couple express their feelings is between them alone.”

  Esther asked, “Do you understand the word diplomatic?”

  Abigail took another bite. “Sort of.”

  “Diplomatic is like a big suitcase. You open it up and all sorts of things come out.”

  “I was talking about Mom and Hank.”

  “I know you were. And I’ll listen carefully to whatever you want to tell me. But it would not be diplomatic of me to respond, except to say that I understand. And that I care for you.”

  Her response caused Abigail’s lower lip to tremble. She said to her bowl, “Daddy told us what you said to him. About what we want being important.”

  Esther simply nodded.

  Abigail said, “It made Samantha cry.”

  A voice from the hall said, “You did too.”

  “Yeah, but you never cry.”

  Esther rose and walked to the doorway. She took Samantha by the hand and pulled her into the kitchen.

  Samantha said, “Not one of those hug things again.”

  “You betcha.” Esther embraced the girl, then reached out one arm and gestured for Abigail to join them.

  Samantha squirmed at her sister’s approach, but not too hard. “Yuck.”

  Esther held them as tight as she could, breathing in their fresh scent. “You two are so special it makes my heart full just to be in the same room.”