Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I think there is some mistake.’

  I shake my head. ‘No mistake, just one condition.’

  ‘One condition?’ She looks dubious. I look her up and down. Nah, she must be kidding.

  ‘The condition is that you show it to the wanker who runs the place next door.’

  Beside me, Paula Hayes can’t stop laughing.

  * * *

  I’M SITTING in traffic on Piccadilly, my little convoy half way to the bank, caught in another snarl-up that just goes to show how ineffective the congestion charge has been in clearing the riff-raff off the streets of London. It may surprise you to know that I’m a huge supporter of the Green agenda. I want road pricing, congestion charging and higher petrol prices, and all as soon as possible. Drive the poor off the roads. Motoring should be the privilege of the rich. And as for air travel, even more so. Half the problem at airports is all the tourists going on holiday, the vast fungible masses moving around the world, taking their lager swilling, fish-and-chip habits to ruin beautiful places. Why can’t they just stay at home and lie on the sofa watching day-time TV, ThickTalk with Jessy Swinger, or the latest reality zoo-show?

  By the time I get to the bank I’m in a foul mood.

  I’m worried that some people are starting to think I’m nuts. Or maybe I just think they do. Maybe I’m paranoid. It could be the drugs. And I think I’m getting predictable. In investment banking, predictable is dangerous. It means you’re losing your edge. The other day I was chairing a Management Committee – I had nothing better to do – and we were discussing what to do with operations staff who have been at Grossbank for twenty-five years. Fire them, I hear you say, but you’re wrong. Back office staff who stay in one place are good news. They give you continuity while all the hot shot front office revenue-generators come and go through the revolving doors.

  Anyway, someone suggested we give them classy watches – Rolex or Patek, say – and someone else suggested we send them on holiday with their wives – a couple of weeks in a villa in Spain. Can you believe that I’m dealing with this stuff? Such is the burden of leadership.

  Anyway, I said bullshit, we should hire a stretch limo full of hookers and champagne and send them off for a night on the town. At least they’d remember it – well, maybe. Paul Ryan objected.

  ‘Come on, Dave, we can’t do that. We’re a respectable firm.’

  I looked at him and replied, ‘Yes we can. We’re Grossbank, and we can do anything.’ And do you know what? They all mouthed the words in time with me. Predictable, or what?

  If I don’t re-invent myself soon, I’m toast.

  Today I’m due to be briefed by some young guys who are working on a pitch for a major piece of business in the Middle East. We want to win the mandate for the stock market flotation of a state-owned oil producer controlled by the Sultan of Dahar. I’m doing this one personally, to show the bank’s commitment to the business. Or at least I’ll be wheeled in to perform some ceremonial, and with any luck as the Senior Resource on the deal, I won’t blow it – what investment bankers call a ‘blue on blue’ – by getting the name of the company wrong or thinking it’s a hotel business or a ball-bearing manufacturer.

  The team are led by one of our young Turks, a Brit called Mike Hanlan, only five years out of university – a Cambridge rowing blue – and are all high-testosterone, pumped-up types except for a bookish, young woman with glasses, short sandy hair and freckles, who looks like she should be a librarian rather than an investment banker. Even sitting down she’s very tall – I guess over six feet – and somehow looks out of place with the guys. She’s slightly stooped, the way tall people sometimes are when they are too conscious of their height. There’s an undercurrent of tension in the room as I come in. We run through the presentation, I make appropriate noises, and she says very little, though whenever there’s some additional follow-up work to do, it seems to get pushed her way. When we’re done, I push back my chair and stare at them.

  ‘Good effort, guys, but you’ve forgotten one thing.’

  Hanlan’s immediately on the defensive. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The human element.’

  Still they look dumbly back at me.

  ‘The Sultan’s got notorious… appetites.’

  ‘Appetites?’

  I nod and gaze across at the librarian. I bet she doesn’t get laid that often. Maybe not at all. ‘When he comes over to London for the presentations, he’s going to want… entertaining. That’s where we have an opportunity to distinguish ourselves from the competition.’ I stare at her, poker-faced.

  She blushes and the others nudge each other and try not to laugh. Finally she takes a deep breath and fixes me with an icy stare. I like her more this way. At least she has guts. ‘Exactly what sort of entertainment do you have in mind, Mister Hart?’

  I look straight back at her, equally icy. ‘Whatever it takes.’ I turn and look at the guys. ‘We do this for the firm.’ They are nodding their agreement now, enjoying this unexpected turn of events. ‘We’re committed.’ I turn to Hanlan. ‘Aren’t we, Mike?’

  He gives an emphatic ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We want to win and we’ll go the extra mile – or more…’

  She looks as if she’s about to burst into tears. I put on a puzzled look.

  ‘You seem upset. What’s the problem?’

  Far from crying, she’s bursting with anger. I like her more and more. ‘Mister Hart, I will not be used as some piece of corporate meat for the sake of winning this or any other business.’

  Hanlan can’t resist. ‘But it’s for the firm. Think of the fees, the bonus…’

  I nod my agreement. ‘Exactly. And besides, it’s not as if it’s you who’s being asked to make the sacrifice.’

  She looks up, puzzled.

  ‘The Sultan’s gay. It’s Mike here who’ll be going the extra mile.’ I get up, smiling, and slap Hanlan on the shoulder. ‘Way to go, Mike. I’ll let you know when and where you’re needed.’

  He’s staring at me, suddenly rather pale. I turn to the others. ‘We may need more of you than just Mike. Depends what the Sultan wants on the night. I’ll find out and let you know. Think of yourselves as Team Harem, and remember, you’re doing this for Grossbank. Think of the bonus, guys.’

  I leave the room with an unaccustomed spring in my step. Christ, I’m good. The only question now is whether to get Dan Harriman to black up and tie a sheet around his head in a hotel suite in Mayfair, so we can film Mike and the guys doing the dance of the seven veils for the Christmas party.

  * * *

  HERMAN LOVES me. ‘Herman the German’ recently celebrated his 50th birthday, and he is by far the youngest Chairman ever of Grossbank. He is slim, trim, works out daily, dresses snappily, and has a pretty wife and a young family. Apparently he even goes to church. He’s been my biggest supporter at Grossbank, flying air cover whenever I stuck my neck out, defending me against the politics of the fossils on the board, who would have stopped the investment banking initiative that has turned into its main profit driver. I’ve often told him that he and I are joined at the hip. Well, the wallet anyway.

  Naturally enough, in the finest traditions of investment banking, as the next step in my inevitable career progression, I’m going to knife him. I think he rather likes the idea of me joining him on the main board of the bank, which would be a first for a non-German. What he doesn’t have in mind is that I should join the board as Chairman.

  I could be patient, wait my turn, serve my time, be a good corporate trooper and eventually prosper. Or I could go for it now. Guess which I’m going to do. I don’t believe in patience, and I don’t believe in give and take. I believe in take and take. Preferably immediately.

  In order to help me raise my profile in Germany, Herman has suggested that I make a major policy announcement on behalf of the bank at the annual assembly of German University business and finance students. In the past this has been a bit of a poisoned chalice. Big busine
ss leaders have been invited to give keynote speeches in front of up to five thousand students, only to be heckled, sprayed with paint, hit with eggs, and all the other fun stuff that spoilt radical children do before they grow up. This year it’s taking place at the University of Freiburg, in the so-called Auditorium Maximum, or AudiMax, and the place will be packed.

  The initiative that Herman wants me to announce is that the board have decided to set up the Grossbank Foundation. The Foundation will receive one per cent of the net profits of the bank, to be used to build up an endowment fund to support charitable causes not just in Germany but everywhere the bank operates. In these days of corporate social responsibility, the bank is going to do its bit. And if one per cent doesn’t sound like much, it is a multiple of what most financial services firms give to good causes (unlike the bonus pool, which is the ultimate good cause, and which typically gets ten to fifteen per cent).

  Freiburg is a picturesque town in the Southwest corner of Germany, near to where Germany, France and Switzerland meet, and it has a convenient airfield just big enough to take a Grossbank private jet, which Two Livers and I fly out in with a couple of bodyguards on the Saturday afternoon before my speech.

  We are met by the local branch manager, who has cars waiting to take us to our hotel. He wants to take us to dinner, but I explain that I’m tired and need to rehearse my speech, and if he doesn’t mind, I’d appreciate an early night. As soon as he’s gone, I get out my little black book, make a couple of calls, and leave Two Livers in the hotel bar, claiming I’m going to get my head down. Which in a manner of speaking I am.

  It is only the next morning, Sunday, when the hammering on the door of my hotel room finally wakes me, that I wonder if it was an indulgence too far. As I struggle to open my eyes, I can hear the sound of people moaning and sighing, at least one man and several women. It’s typical of the fake pleasure sounds I associate with the kind of nights I’m used to having on these trips. But then I freak out – it’s morning, and who the hell is having sex in my room? I open my eyes. Phew. It’s the Pay TV. I must have left the porn channel on full volume all night. I wonder what the people in the neighbouring rooms made of it. They probably think I’m a stud, which of course I am, though not to that extent. But what about the people banging on the door now?

  I look around. The real girls have gone, but there are empty bottles scattered around my suite, and traces of white powder on the dressing table and the bedside cabinet. Shit.

  I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my hands are shaking and I have dark circles round my eyes. Even my crow’s feet have crow’s feet. Why didn’t I press my Stop button? I think I know the answer to that one. I don’t have a Stop button. At least that’s what I keep telling myself, so it isn’t my fault. I’m a victim too. I look about ten years older than the normal ten years older than my actual age which I generally look. I try to speak, to ask who is at the door, but my mouth is dry and tastes horrible.

  I flick the remote control and silence the mega sex scene on the TV screen.

  ‘Dave, open up. It’s me.’ It’s Two Livers. Damn. ‘I’m here with Doktor Heinze.’ Heinze’s the branch manager. He’s not a real doctor, just a nerd with a PhD, so he won’t be much use. ‘It’s time we left for the conference.’

  I need to do something fast, otherwise the bodyguards will kick the door down to see what’s happening. I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths to fight back a wave of nausea, and yell back, ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ll see you downstairs.’

  I’ve been here before, and have a pretty good routine. First an ice cold shower that gets my heart racing, and one day might actually kill me, but in the meantime wakes me up and partially clears my head. Teeth, shave and dress, and twenty minutes later I join them in the lobby, where Heinze is fretting that we’re going to be late.

  Two Livers knows at once. She sends Heinze out to the car and takes me on one side. ‘Dave, what did you do last night?’

  I’m wearing sunglasses to hide my eyes. ‘Not enough. If I had I’d still be flying. I feel like shit.’

  ‘You look like shit. You going to be able to keep it together?’

  I take off my sunglasses and give her a sideways look. She winces. ‘When have I ever let you down?’

  * * *

  IT’S ELEVEN o’clock on Sunday morning and the AudiMax lecture theatre is full with the conference delegates, mostly students and academics from all over Germany, but with a sprinkling of government ministers and business leader types, and of course the press. I don’t know quite what the building’s capacity is, but thousands of not particularly welcoming faces are staring at me as I ascend to the podium. Where do these kids come from? They have beards and long hair, and wear blue jeans and T-shirts. Has nobody told them the sixties are over?

  Two Livers and I are seated with the other panel members at the back of the stage, looking out at the audience. I’m clutching my speech, which I still haven’t read, because my head is spinning and I keep getting hit by waves of nausea. I have a horrible feeling I’m going to throw up mid-way through. I’m sweating profusely, my shirt is sticking to my back beneath my jacket, and I keep wiping my face with my handkerchief. I definitely overdid it last night. I feel as if every pore of my body is oozing a toxic mixture of alcohol, cocaine and Viagra. I imagine it being sucked up into the air conditioning and circulated around the conference room among the delegates. Christ. This audience is bad enough already.

  I’m introduced by a grey-haired professor of economics, and as I sway towards the lectern I drop a handful of papers. Fuck it, I toss the lot away. Two Livers looks worried – she’s been there before when I go off message – but all I’m focussing on is getting to the lectern and grabbing hold of it with both hands so I can keep myself upright.

  There’s some desultory applause, then silence. I look around the hall. Oh, fuck, now I have to say something. Why am I here?

  ‘Focus.’ Who said that? It was me. Damn. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Deep breath. ‘Distinguished professors, ministers, ladies and gentlemen – focus is the new word in banking.’ In the front row, some of the beardos are yawning ostentatiously, nudging each other. ‘Focus not only on our core business, but on our core values. What do we stand for as a firm?’ If only I knew. The beardos are definitely twitching. Stand by for a slow hand clap. In my mind’s eye some numbers are floating around in the air. There’s something I have to announce, but I’m suddenly so tired, so profoundly, utterly, deeply fatigued in a way that only an all night orgy or running six marathons can achieve. I feel as if I could fall asleep standing up. Would anyone notice? Probably – this isn’t one of those dull, academic conferences where people nod politely and the audience quietly dozes off. This is more like the Roman arena. These guys want blood. If only I had an idiot board in front of me as a prompt. Another deep breath. ‘That’s why today I have a major announcement to make on behalf of Grossbank. An announcement that will help shape the future course not only of our business, but of the communities in which we operate.’ Some of it’s coming back to me now. It’s just the figures I can’t remember. ‘Yes, Grossbank is big business. But big business can have a heart as well as a head. And big business can give back to society as well as drawing benefit from it.’ One point zero comes to mind, or is it zero point one? Or one and zero? ‘I’m proud to announce the establishment of a new Foundation, the Grossbank Foundation, that will manage a major new endowment fund supporting charitable and social causes both in Germany and throughout the world. The bank will fund this new Foundation by contributing a portion of its net profits each year.’ The beardos are getting ready for something. It must be an ambush. I can see things being passed from hand to hand in the first couple of rows. Eggs? Tomatoes? Paint bombs? ‘That percentage will be…’ Think, Hart, think. Oh, damn. If in doubt, go large. ‘…ten per cent of all net profits of Grossbank worldwide. We’ll be doing this with immediate effect, and we’re doing it because we want to change the wor
ld we live and work in. For our own sake, and for our children.’

  There’s a stunned silence in the room. Everyone is looking at me. The professors, the panellists on the podium, Two Livers, even the beardos, are all open-mouthed. I glance down to check my flies aren’t undone. What have I said? All I want to do is get off this podium, run to the men’s room and throw up. Never again will I mix drink and drugs and hookers the night before a major speech. Well, not unless I’m really bored.

  And then the applause starts. I look up and the beardos are all standing, and they are shouting at the tops of their voices, clapping and cheering like they want to raise the roof, and then some of them start chanting, ‘GROSSBANK… GROSSBANK… GROSSBANK…’

  The grey-haired economics professor wants them to quieten down, but they won’t, so I take it as my cue to leave, waving to the audience, manage to step down from the podium without falling over, and Two Livers takes me by the arm and helps me out to the car, where she tells the driver to get us to the airport as fast as he can.

  Only when I’m sitting in the car and we’ve put a full ten minutes between us and the conference hall does she turn to me, still shaking her head, eyes full of disbelief.

  ‘Christ, Dave, what have you done?’

  I turn to her and try to work out what’s going on. My brain still isn’t fully engaged. ‘I’ve no idea. What have I done?’

  * * *

  ‘DON’T YOU know the difference between one point zero and ten? There is a small matter of a decimal point. What kind of banker are you?’ It’s a good question. Herman is shouting so loud the words are distorted on the speakerphone. Two Livers and I are back in the office in London, and there’s a full scale crisis underway.

  I’ve goofed. Sure, Grossbank wanted to be generous, and one per cent was huge compared to most firms, but ten per cent is ridiculous. It’s Sunday night, and the board has been assembled in Germany to work out what to do next. The news of Grossbank’s initiative has shocked the worldwide business community. The impact on shareholders – and therefore the share price – is too awful to contemplate. When our shares start trading again tomorrow, the world believes they will go into free-fall. So do I. No business can give so much of its profits away and not expect the market to react. And who do we think we are, anyway? Our job is to make profits, to pay dividends to shareholders. We’re a business, not a charity.