by Rick Pullen
“You know me too well,” Geneva said, looking back to her friend.
“But I could never get you to come out of the closet.” Ellen Elizabeth grinned.
“You’re the one who put me there, remember?”
They both laughed, and Geneva thought back to their sophomore year, when Ellen Elizabeth labeled her a closet nudist. If she wasn’t sneaking up to the roof of the dorm for the perfect tan, Geneva was prancing around their room in the buff. She was frequently found at her desk, stark naked, or laid out naked on her dorm bunk with her thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, reading her economics text. And since men were restricted on her floor to visiting hours, Geneva was never worried about them getting a cheap thrill.
She had grown up a child of the diplomatic service and frequented nude and topless beaches with her family around the world. She and her brother swam nude together in the Mediterranean with their mother and thought nothing of it.
“You weren’t a real nudist—” Ellen Elizabeth said.
“Just a closet one,” they both chimed in, finishing a line they had laughed at over for years. Ellen Elizabeth dabbed her napkin to her lips. “So you’re coming on Thursday?”
“Yes, but Harv has to make a quick run to Wyoming. His scheduler screwed up his calendar and booked him for a campaign fund-raiser for one of his colleagues on the same day as your party. He’s still trying to take over the Senate Republican Campaign Committee, so he can’t miss this trip. I’m afraid he’ll have to bail on you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault for trying to put a party together at the end of August. I’ve never tried this before, when Congress is out of session. But I thought with the party conventions this year, there would be plenty of members in town to put a little soiree together. I figured I’d have no competition.”
“Most members, I think, prefer Washington over their backwater districts,” Geneva said. “The power heats their blood. Harv’s no different. He’d much rather enjoy the trappings of Washington than spend a month back home. Normally, we go to the Cape or Canada or the Outer Banks this time of year. But no, this year I’m stuck here. Harv is spending his days on the telephone raising money for fellow senators or attending fund-raisers in preparation for the convention.”
“You’re really unhappy.”
“Right now Wyoming for a day sounds better than being trapped in this swamp.”
They both laughed, but Geneva could tell from Ellen Elizabeth’s strained expression that she understood there was nothing funny about it. Friends, she thought, sometimes communicate true feelings in such strange, indirect ways.
Ellen Elizabeth interrupted Geneva’s train of thought and continued her own. “I started out with three congressmen and two senators.
I’m down to one of each. But I’ve got some pretty good administration officials.” She sighed.
“It will still be a great party.” Now it was Geneva’s turn to offer comfort. Strange how Ellen Elizabeth was anxious about the next few days while she was fretful about the rest of her life. This time she reached out and squeezed her college roommate’s hand, thankful for one true friend in this town. “I can’t wait to see the fireworks between Congressman Joy and that reporter, Beck Rikki,” Geneva said.
“Oh? They have issues?” Ellen Elizabeth put down her champagne glass and brushed strands of blonde hair out of her face. She looked up at Geneva.
“You hadn’t heard?” Geneva said. “A while back, Rikki wrote a story about one of Joy’s pet projects he’d stuffed in the appropriations bill. It was buried in the Post-Examiner, but the local paper in Nebraska picked it up and splashed it on its front page. The publicity in his district forced Joy to withdraw his amendment. He was mad as hell. This was a favor to some big contributor.”
“Oops. I need to change my seating chart. I had them sitting together.”
Geneva paused. She had an idea. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table and holding her water glass in both hands. “Ellen Elizabeth, would you seat me next to Rikki? I’ve never met him. I’ve read some of his articles and heard a little about him. I’d like to take his measure.”
“You’re doing me a huge favor, Jen.”
Geneva took a sip of her water and wondered if it was the other way around. Maybe Mr. Rikki could prove useful. Maybe a newspaper reporter was what she needed to help her with her Pentagon problem. Maybe, she thought, she could find her way out of this mess.
10
The next morning Geneva arrived at the lower Manhattan office of her investment banker nearly fifteen minutes early to give herself enough time to deal with lobby security and wait for the creaking elevators as they gasped to reach the twenty-seventh floor. She hated to be late for appointments. She needed a few moments beforehand to mentally prep herself.
A receptionist escorted Geneva into one of the investment bank’s smaller conference rooms. The only light came from a window overlooking the Hudson River. Steel-rimmed photographs of partners and favored clients ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange covered the dark gray walls. Other photos showed the partners with celebrities and politicians. Geneva shivered. The room made her cold.
“Geneva, good to see you,” boomed George Bernstein, offering his hand as he entered the room. He and Geneva had been meeting for nearly a decade, beginning back when he was in his fifties and actually ran the place. A tall, younger man stepped into the room. Bernstein turned toward him. “You remember Keith Crocker, our young associate.”
“Of course,” Geneva replied. “We had a very pleasant lunch the last time I was here.” She shook his hand.
“We’ve decided to make him chief analyst on your account.”
Geneva studied Crocker more closely: in his midtwenties, sandy blond hair, slender, and a bit gangly. Not bad looking, she thought, especially if she were fifteen years younger.
“How’s the writing coming?” Geneva asked him. At their last lunch meeting, they talked for a nearly an hour about literature. Crocker was a poet and wannabe novelist.
He blushed. “I’ve still got a long way to go.”
“We call him our resident poet laureate,” Bernstein said, his grin flapping across his fleshy face. She could not help but notice the turned-up corners of his cardboard smile. He was a slippery bore, and as far as she could tell, not even much of a stockbroker. She understood she was being downgraded by the firm and handed off to the farm team.
As they sat, bankers Robert Gettlin and Peter Lamarca joined the meeting—all familiar faces. All but Crocker were dressed in expensive Italian or Savile Row suits.
Geneva distributed a summary of government contracts she was bidding on. It included two small cybersecurity proposals and Serodynne’s multibillion-dollar contract submission for the unmanned aerial vehicles. They walked through the numbers.
She could do this over the telephone, but her career as a lobbyist had taught her the importance of face time. She wanted to personally explain how government contracts worked and assure them Serodynne was in a healthy financial position. She needed to snow these investment bankers, which wouldn’t be easy. One wrong word could cost her company tens of millions of dollars in the stock market. It was imperative Serodynne’s stock price not fall right now, yet one sniff of a problem could send company shares tumbling.
On the Acela train the night before, Geneva had formulated the beginnings of a plan to ensure Serodynne won the Pentagon contract. Her first step would be convincing these bankers Serodynne was about to win its biggest contract ever.
“So,” Crocker said, “your stock is trading at nearly thirty-two percent over its balance sheet valuation in anticipation of Serodynne winning the drone contract later this year. What if it doesn’t happen?”
“It’s not a drone contract,” she explained, slipping into her lobbyist spiel. “It’s a proposal to build unmanned aerial vehicles. Drones have preset flight patterns. Unmanned aerial vehicles are actively piloted by an air force pilot, but from the grou
nd. In fact, it usually requires two pilots. The first one is at the runway from where the aircraft takes off and lands. That pilot then hands over control of the aircraft to a pilot in North Dakota, who handles the craft while it’s in flight.” “Okay, but what if you fail to get the contract?”
“We don’t anticipate that.” She shifted into lobbyist warp drive. “We obviously have what we believe to be the inside track on this. Our delivery record and capacity are better than Lamurr’s. Our R & D folks work hand in glove with the Pentagon, and our knowledge base means we can move quickly. Lamurr couldn’t possibly gear up to deliver on the fast-track schedule the Pentagon is demanding. The air force generals and the contracting office know this, but they have to consider more than one bidder, and Lamurr would be stupid not to bid. We are quite confident in our chances to win the contract.”
Geneva saw this same technique successfully employed on the Sunday morning political talk shows. When asked a question, she would ignore it and go straight into her canned speech. It worked for powerful politicians. Why not for her?
She studied Crocker. The strategy seemed to be working.
She shifted the focus of the conversation from Serodynne’s finances to Lamurr, making her competitor out to be nothing more than convenient window dressing for Serodynne’s future world domination of the drone market—or as Geneva reminded them, unmanned aerial vehicles.
“And what about private commercial contracts?” Crocker asked.
“As you know, that’s not my area. But I’m told we have several pending with four Fortune 500 companies and two European firms. We are even talking with the Chinese on some more basic technology and have been in constant contact with clients in Brazil. We also just started talks with the Saudis. These contracts could be worth hundreds of millions, maybe even billions, to our company.”
Crocker continued. “Your last quarterly earnings statement was down from expectations. If you don’t win this Pentagon contract, your next quarter will look even worse. What are you doing to prepare should you lose the Pentagon contract to Lamurr?” His glance locked onto hers.
Geneva pivoted toward the other partners and then thought better of it and stared directly into Crocker’s eyes. He knew something about the investigation. In an instant, he had turned the tables on her. Was she wrong about him?
“How do you . . .” She trailed off, her mind racing. He couldn’t know. The FBI wouldn’t go near an investment bank for fear of spooking the market. What was he after?
“How do I—” Crocker paused. “What?”
“How could you . . .” Words escaped her. Slow down. Be deliberate and pull it together, she told herself. “How do you create such expectations? We are profitable. We are growing. We have no doubt we will win the contract. The Street is fickle with its forecasts.”
She again looked over at the partners. Bernstein glanced at his watch and motioned to Crocker. “Well, as you can see, Keith here has been doing his homework. He’s a tough questioner.”
“Perfectly legitimate questions,” Geneva said. “Anyone for lunch today? Any takers? My treat.”
The senior partners demurred; two had early afternoon tee times, and the other had lunch plans. But Crocker accepted. She slipped her sheets of numbers into her slim leather briefcase and said her perfunctory good-byes to the partners. They seemed most eager to get to their golf games and early afternoon cocktails.
She had managed to put Crocker in his place in front of the partners. Apparently his promotion to chief analyst had given him the balls to show off his knowledge. She liked that. But she had come too close to inadvertently blurting out her secret. She needed to be more careful. Crocker might be a minor leaguer, but he also might be a deceptively good player. She would need to watch herself—and him—over lunch.
11
The elevator was crowded and again seemed to take forever. Finally, Geneva and Keith emerged and walked across the street to a steak house where they had dined the last time she was here. Dark, with white silken-edged waiters and black cotton tablecloths, it operated like Wall Street: an arrogance of efficiency, subtle discretion, a touch of boisterous banter, and always, always expensive. It reminded her of many of Washington’s exclusive haunts, places she had come to despise. But at least here the tables were deliberately placed far apart, affording each diner a sense of privacy for doing deals. Geneva liked that and thought it would grant her the opportunity to size up Crocker. They were certainly friendly, but how much could she trust him? She had a notion of a plan she had formulated on the train yesterday, and she needed an investment banker’s help to pull it off. Could Crocker meet her needs?
This was their third lunch together, and they had talked by phone often about investment matters. Through these phone conversations, Geneva felt they had formed a friendly enough bond. She certainly understood the importance of relationships and worked them daily on Capitol Hill and along the long, scuffed corridors of the federal bureaucracy. Building them with investment bankers was really no different.
It took only a few questions about Crocker’s writing to send him on a circuitous detour about his quest to get published and the crazy demands of book publishers and literary agents. She could tell her encouragement endeared her to him.
She had wined and dined the entire investment team up until six months ago. Since then, they had ducked out, leaving lunch up to Crocker. Bernstein and his cronies talked nonstop finance and the latest news of that day’s market. Even though she had a degree in economics and could keep up with the dialogue, she grew weary of money matters after the first five minutes. She appreciated that Crocker had a life beyond lower Manhattan.
“Keith, you don’t strike me as your typical type A investment banker. You’re not like the others on Wall Street.”
“ You noticed?”
He laughed. She smiled.
“Between you and me,” he said, “this job is my means to an end. Once I make a killing, I’m out of here. I’ll move to South Carolina or Florida, or maybe I’ll have enough money to buy a shack on a Caribbean island somewhere and start my writing career.”
“Not going to do the starving artist thing? Pay your dues as a waiter so you can stay up late at night and write?”
“That sounds more like an actor. And why should I? It’s a new world out there. I’ve got my plan, and I’ve got ready access to money. Real money. That’s why I’m here. The partners know I’m not willing to put in the hours to make partner in ten years. They keep me because they need someone with my brains who can analyze the information from five different angles and not just sell crap investments to unsuspecting clients.”
“You sound like you’ve got this all figured out.”
“I wish. The firm’s money is in sales, not my area of expertise,” he continued. “But they need good analytics to keep their clients from fleeing to the competition. Most of the firm is nothing but salesmen who analyzed common stocks twenty-five years ago. All of the firms are looking for bright kids like me who can dissect the new creative derivative investments, which are nothing more than stocks on steroids. But in the end, it’s still all about selling and what gives the firm the highest commissions, and I don’t fit that mold. They know that. They’ll use me for a few years, and I hope, I’ll use them.”
“Sounds a little cynical, but it also sounds as if the only way your job’s in jeopardy is if you quit.”
Keith smiled. “You might say that.”
She ordered cabernet. He ordered a Bud. Not a sophisticated drink, she thought, not even an import or a microbrew. She glanced at his pinstripe suit. Strictly off the rack. But he was young. He would change as his bank account did if he stuck around. They all did.
“Just how much do you want out?” she asked.
“I’m twenty-six. If I could work just one big deal, I could retire with two or three million by the time I’m thirty—that’s all I want.” “You have a nest egg?”
“Not much. I just got started last year. I’ve got abo
ut thirty-five thousand in a money market, and another twenty in stocks that I can leverage into about one hundred twenty on a sure trade using stock options. I’m still analyzing companies, looking for that one sweet deal where I can make a killing.”
“Sounds risky.”
“If I want to quit in three or four years, I have to take big risks. If I fail, I start over. I’m young enough. I’m smart enough to minimize the risks. That’s why I haven’t made my move yet—I’m still looking. And please, don’t say anything back at the office.”
“I thought you discussed it with Bernstein.”
“Not that part. He only knows I don’t want to go for partner and I won’t be around forever. I don’t want anyone piggybacking on my great investment—when I find it. Remember, I need to make a killing to get out of here.”
She assured him their conversation would go no farther than their table and then ordered a second round to go with their entrees. He’d ordered a rib eye. Geneva chose the steak salad. They talked about investment banking, and she kept subtly shifting the conversation back to what he really wanted out of life.
She hesitated and took another bite of salad. They had a good relationship, but was that enough? For god’s sake, they had known each other for only eight months. Yet, he had confided in her about his plan and even his personal finances. When he became wealthy, no doubt he would be more circumspect. Yet, they were friendly confidants, she assured herself.
She flirted with him, complimenting him on his independence and his desire for a different life. She liked his inquisitive mind. He smiled, and his eyes drifted down to her chest.
Wow, she thought. Is he interested? I wonder if he’s got the balls to hit on me. She felt a faint shiver dance through her body. No, she told herself. He’s too young.
She probed deeper into his personal life. How would his dad react to Keith checking out of Wall Street? Hadn’t he just split with his girlfriend of three months? He said he lived simply to save money to invest, and he was up every morning at five o’clock and wrote for two hours before he showered and shaved.