Perhaps it was because she’d played it safe her entire life. From elementary school through to her MBA, she’d always done what she was told and excelled at everything she did. According to her parents and friends and society she should be happy. And on many levels she was happy. She enjoyed her work, loved living in the city, spent her discretionary income traveling; she had it all. So why was she feeling the need to act out? Why couldn’t she revel in the glow of corporate success? Maybe it was a deeper, spiritual itch that needed scratching, something that Cardio Barre classes weren’t really getting at. Or perhaps she needed to go wild for a weekend, go to Vegas and do whatever people did there or fly out to Burning Man, drop acid, and get gangbanged in the orgy dome. She’d read an article about that. “Transcendent,” one participant said.
Her fiancé looked up at her. “I’m not sure about the Helvetica. I know it’s modern but, I don’t know, it seems like we’re announcing a merger and acquisition,” he said.
Seo-yun smiled and then, after a thoughtful pause, said, “Do you think it would be all right if I occasionally hooked up with random guys?”
Her fiancé looked confused. “What?”
“For sex,” she clarified.
He put down the wedding invitations. “But we’re going to be married.”
Seo-yun nodded. “That’s why I’m asking. Would it bother you?”
His lips blew into a pout. “Yes. Yes, I think it would.”
Seo-yun scooped another clump of bland noodles into her mouth.
“Why? Is it something you want to do?”
She shrugged. “I just want to know what’s expected.”
He reached out across the breakfast bar and touched her hand. “I know it’s normal to get cold feet before doing something like this. It’s a big commitment. A lifetime commitment.”
She let his hand linger. He smiled at her.
“Soy, if you need more time or you want to talk things through or you want to go to couples therapy, whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
Seo-yun appreciated his offer. But how could she explain that the life he’d envisioned was so completely normal that it seemed like something he’d pulled off the shelf at IKEA? It was an impulse-free, fun-deficient life devoid of imagination; there was no space for wildness, for eccentricity, or for originality. It made her throat feel tight. Seo-yun withdrew her hand. “I like the Helvetica.”
“Really?”
She put her hands on her hips in a clear signal that she was serious and nodded. “I’ve got to do some work.”
He scoffed. “The markets are closed.”
“I’ve been put on a special case.”
“You make it sound like you’re an FBI agent or something.”
She smiled condescendingly. “I can neither confirm nor deny. Top secret.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” He stood and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “I was kidding.” He put his face close to her neck and took a deep inhale. “Wow. You smell good.”
Seo-yun unlocked his fingers from around her waist and walked into the bedroom and opened her computer.
Criminals weren’t particularly trustworthy. That much was clear to Bryan. After all, they made their living breaking rules, taking what wasn’t theirs, and betraying people’s trust. A religious person might say that criminals were evil, but that seemed a bit of a stretch. He wasn’t evil. Maybe shameful was a better word. Then again, maybe it wasn’t just criminals; maybe no one was trustworthy. If you bought into capitalism as an economic system, a system designed to fuck over the majority of the populace for the benefit of the few, then you were putting your faith in something that was created to rip you off if you didn’t rip the other guy off first. American society was based on this kind of opportunistic treachery and deceit.
Bryan figured that if he could rip off his employer, then it stood to reason that his coconspirator, an assistant bank manager named Leighton, might just as easily rip him off. But what choice did he have? He had to trust someone. He had to move the money out of an electronically traceable account and put it into a place where an injunction or bank order couldn’t find it and freeze it. But once you move from digital money to analog money it’s vulnerable to theft. It was so much money anyone would be tempted. What’s the world coming to when an embezzler gets embezzled?
Despite the name, Grand Cayman was a small island, and George Town was what passed for a big city on a small island. Most of the businesses were on South Church Street, the main tourist strip that ran along the waterfront. The Jamaican conch delivery had taken place at a private dock on the other side of the island, and Bryan had managed to catch a ride with the truck driver who was delivering the contraband to restaurants in George Town—not that the chefs knew the conch had been illegally harvested. They just knew it was fresh.
Bryan sat at a table in a restaurant waiting for his Cayman contact. The restaurant was, oddly enough, across the street from a Harley-Davidson dealership. Why would someone buy a motorcycle on a small island? The restaurant was nice, not too fancy, but tastefully decorated with pictures of boats and a large taxidermy fish of some kind mounted above the bar. Best of all, it was filled with tourists from a cruise ship. No one would know Bryan and his contact; no one would even remember they were here.
Bryan was hungry, so he ordered conch fritters and a pint of Caybrew lager while he waited. This would be the moment of truth. Would his man show up? If he’d gotten burned, he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d heard that criminals want to get caught, that they want to be punished because it makes living with the guilt easier. But Bryan didn’t want to get punished. Fuck that. He had a few thousand dollars in his backpack. What were his options? Become a drifter? A homeless beach bum? Get a job waiting tables? Maybe he could save up and buy a Harley. Then he could ride around the island, letting the wind sting his skin and the sun bake his brain until he went totally insane and rode off a cliff.
Leighton arrived a few minutes late. Bryan remembered him from the one time they’d met: a skinny guy with light brown skin, close-cropped hair, and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing crisply pressed slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt—the kind that annoyed Bryan, the kind with the little animal embroidered on the chest. Leighton extended his hand and Bryan shook it. He wasn’t sure how to act in this situation. Were they business partners meeting for the first time? Were they old friends? Was anyone watching?
Leighton slid into the chair opposite Bryan and handed him a manila envelope. Bryan noticed that Leighton’s hands were shaking. He didn’t know if it was reassuring that his contact was as nervous as he was or if it meant something was about to go south.
Leighton took the napkin and dabbed his forehead. “Did you have a good journey?”
“It’s been interesting.”
Bryan opened the envelope and saw a set of keys, a couple of documents, and a new passport. The passport was bright red with a regal-looking crest embossed in the center, framed by a lion and unicorn. “Is that a unicorn?”
Leighton nodded. “Part of the British royal family crest, I believe.”
Bryan noticed that it was a British and Cayman Islands passport. “Does this make me a British citizen?”
Leighton mopped his forehead again. “Absolutely.”
Bryan grinned. “How did that happen?”
“We are allowed to issue emergency passports here. You just have to know the right people.”
“And be willing to pay.”
Leighton turned his palms up. “Of course.”
Bryan opened the passport and saw his face grinning back from the photo. It was a photo he’d had taken at the FedEx store in midtown and had sent to Leighton a few months ago. Then he looked at his new name. “Cuffy Ebanks?”
“It’s a common name.”
“Cuffy?”
“Ebanks is common. But this name will not raise any eyebrows. You’ll be one of us.”
Bryan let the name roll around in his brain for a moment.
Cuffy. It did have a kind of breezy, offhand quality. He wondered if a new name would change his life. Maybe he would become friendlier, transform into a jovial rum-sodden sailor named Cuffy, a fun-loving guy who skipped around the islands skinny-dipping with beautiful women and eating fresh fish all day.
Leighton leaned in and said, “There are the keys and a prepaid one-year lease as you requested. Everything in your new name. There is also a driver’s license, and you have a healthy account at Butterfield Bank with a Visa card to match. Everything is handled like you asked. I noted the expenses on the spreadsheet.”
“Thanks. Excellent work.”
“Everything else is waiting for you in the condo.” The conch fritters arrived and Leighton raised an eyebrow. “You like conch?”
Bryan didn’t honestly know if he liked it or not, so he popped one into his mouth and chewed. It was delicious. Maybe Cuffy liked conch fritters; maybe they were his favorite food. “You want one?”
Leighton shook his head and fidgeted with his silverware. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Grand Cayman.”
Bryan washed the conch down with his cold beer. “After this, it’s probably better that you and I don’t know each other.”
Leighton smiled. “True.”
“Did you take your commission?”
“I am all paid for. Thank you.”
“And you’re happy?”
“Extremely happy for the opportunity to serve you. If you need anything in the future, don’t hesitate to reach out.” With that Leighton stood and extended his hand. “Have a pleasurable life.”
Bryan shook his hand and watched Leighton go out the door. Bryan wiped his palm on his napkin. That had to be the clammiest handshake he’d ever encountered. Why was Leighton so nervous?
Bryan ordered a second Caybrew. He didn’t know what, but something felt a little off. He decided on a plan B, just in case. That was something his father had always teased him about: The financial markets could crash tomorrow, and then what’re you going to do? Bryan had laughed at the time, told his dad he’d teach math at a community college or something noble like that. But this time, his father was right.
The first thing was to try out his new identity and credit card. He paid for lunch at the restaurant as Cuffy Ebanks. The card was not declined. Bryan then took a cab to the airport and rented a midsize car with a large trunk. He found an internet café and searched on Airbnb for a safe house. He wanted to be outside George Town and booked a little cottage on Seven Mile Beach. Even if he didn’t use it, having a place to lie low gave him a boost of confidence.
He didn’t know why he felt so skittish. Maybe the paranoia was all in his head; maybe it was because he was so close to the finish line. But then he remembered a favorite saying: “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
The condo was a new building with amenities like central air and a gated ground-floor parking garage, but it was built in the style of older island architecture, like a vintage mansion, with wide verandas and balconies on every level. It was well located, near the center of town, not far from the restaurant where he’d met Leighton. Bryan parked the car in the garage. As he got out he took a look around. There were only a couple of cars, but he couldn’t help feeling he was being watched. It was a strange sensation. Something he’d never felt before.
He went up to the second floor, found his front door, and slid the key into the lock.
The condo was decorated in pastel pinks and seafoam greens, colors that accentuated the vibrant blue of the water across the street. Bryan thought about how he might furnish the place. Get some rattan furniture with tropical print cushions. Maybe buy a Rousseau and hang it in the living room.
Bryan opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony. He could see George Town, a cruise ship in the harbor, the ocean beyond. Bryan had to admit that it was nice—he was sure Cuffy would’ve liked to stay a while—but putting down roots was not part of the plan. He’d stay in George Town only for a few days, pick up the money, and get off the island. The condo was another misdirection, just in case they somehow tracked him to the Caymans and found this address, which the police or whoever could stake out until his lease expired. By then, he’d be long gone.
He found the money neatly stacked in twelve nylon duffel bags in the bedroom closet. He knelt down and began unzipping them. It was all there: brick upon brick upon brick of currency, enough to build a wall to keep the world away. It was a miracle, really. He was surprised that he didn’t feel like dumping it all out on the floor and rolling in it. After all this time spent juggling numbers, building a maze of digits connected to digits—all of it ephemeral, the ghost in the machine—it had never seemed real. Now it did. He didn’t even feel like counting it. There was just too much.
It took him six trips, but he eventually got everything down the elevator and into his rental car.
He went back upstairs to the condo still feeling strange, like something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps having all this cash was freaking him out. He looked out over the balcony, down at the street below. There was a guy sitting in a yellow Jeep reading a magazine. Was he watching him?
Even though a light rain had begun to fall, Bryan left the balcony door open and the lights on. He went down to the garage and, making sure to go in the opposite direction from the Jeep, quietly drove to the little beach cottage on the outskirts of town.
The music was so loud it rattled his teeth.
A muscular man named Brandon shouted into a microphone, urging those in the room to visualize the body they wanted. Neal tried to visualize himself as some kind of elite athlete, a gymnast maybe, with bulging muscles and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, but with the music thumping and disco lights pulsing and all that encouragement, it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than pedaling as fast as he could. Perhaps that was the point. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he cranked up the resistance, following Brandon’s admonitions, trusting that “You’re not going to die!” and “You got this!” were more than just reassurances, that they were some kind of prophecy, that he had some kind of control over his life as long as he kept pedaling.
Ever since the breakup with Bart, Neal would leave the office and take a spin class or a yoga class or go to a public talk or a wine tasting—something healthy or with personal growth possibilities—anything to avoid going back to his apartment. As if sweat or exhaustion or the endorphin rush would somehow erase the heartache he felt. Doing things and being active kept him from feeling sorry for himself. At least temporarily.
A cab deposited him at the corner of Twenty-Fourth and Tenth, and Neal shuffled down the block toward his building with a feeling of dread, which was strange because his apartment was in a well-maintained walk-up and the space was adorable. He liked his neighbors. The landlord was friendly and attentive. It was all kinds of perfect. Dread is a strange feeling.
He entered his apartment and put his bag down on the couch Bart had made him buy. He sighed. He’d blown thousands of dollars on this masterpiece of design, which Bart had wanted more than anything else, in the hope that they would turn it into some kind of sex platform, an extension of the bedroom, so that their lust could erupt in every room. At the very least Bart could give him a hand job while they sat on the three-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric. But that didn’t happen, and like the dream of being some kind of ripped and muscular athlete, it was just a fantasy. Instead of wanting hot sex, Bart sat on the couch watching baseball games and drinking beer. Not that there was anything wrong with being a sports fan. Who doesn’t like sports? But after a few months of hearing Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez talk about the good old days, Neal began to feel that Bart was more interested in the Mets than in their relationship. As it turned out, he wasn’t wrong. After two years together, Bart departed for sportier shores, shacking up with a lumbersexual rock-climbing instructor in Brooklyn.
Neal kicked off his shoes and shuffled into the bedroom. He hung up his jacket,
draped his pants over the end of the bed, and tossed his sweaty clothes into the hamper. He pulled on an old T-shirt and some house pants. He didn’t feel comfortable walking around his apartment naked, not like the amateur astronomer who lived across the street and spent his evenings naked at his window looking through a telescope.
Neal opened the drawer where he kept the take-out menus and spread them on the little bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. Noodle bowls, tacos, maybe something healthy like grilled salmon—none of it appealed to him. Eventually he settled on an order of sushi rolls. He cracked a beer—his favorite, a Bell’s Oarsman—and opened his laptop.
Neal had asked compliance and the HR department to send him everything they had on LeBlanc and he had gotten a printout of LeBlanc’s email traffic from the IT department. He’d asked for saved and deleted emails and the stack was bigger than he’d imagined.
LeBlanc had all the typical credentials: a membership in Alpha Kappa Psi, an MBA from Carnegie Mellon, an internship with Goldman Sachs; his first job was on the currency risk management team at JPMorgan. This was where LeBlanc made a name for himself. He had become, if the clipping from the Wall Street Journal was to be believed, an expert on something called passive currency hedging.
The intercom buzzed, and though Neal knew it was the delivery from the Japanese restaurant, he felt a spark in his stomach, as if Bart was back.
He paid for the sushi and sat back down. He opened the bag and saw that they’d forgotten to include chopsticks. Neal didn’t like eating with his fingers when he was working. Was there anything worse than smearing condiments on your keyboard? Having to navigate sticky keys, the laptop heating up and smelling like nam pla? Neal went to the kitchen and got a fork and knife. He wasn’t happy about it. Eating sushi with cutlery was depressing, deflating in an odd way, as if he was letting himself down.
He shoved a bite of California roll in his mouth and read the list of perks LeBlanc had negotiated when he was hired. The six-figure salary plus commission was standard for someone with his experience; the car and driver, the accounts at trendy restaurants, and the private tailor were perks that only the top executives received. They must’ve really wanted him, because they approved these perks—although oddly enough there was no record that LeBlanc had ever used them. Maybe he just wanted to see what he could get.
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