My cell rang again. This time it was a red alert: TURN ON FNN!!!
My gaze shifted to the television. I started reading the closed captioning, the several-second delay from the audio giving me some time to catch up.
“More devastating news,” said Bell. “My source tells me that, earlier today, the credit department of a major trader held up a trade with Saxton Silvers because of concerns about the firm’s financial health. My source also tells me that perhaps as soon as tomorrow Saxton Silvers could be on a no-trade status that will continue until the firm solves its liquidity problems. All I can say, folks, is that compared to tomorrow, today could look like a good day for Saxton Silvers and its shareholders.”
“Mallory is very serious about a divorce,” said Andrea.
I heard her, but I was still numb from Bell’s words.
“She already has a lawyer,” said Andrea.
That got my attention, but my phone rang. It was Eric Volke. I apologized to Andrea and stepped away from the bar to take the call.
“We’re sunk,” said Eric.
“I heard. Wasn’t Bell supposed to stop spreading rumors after you let him interview me?”
“He says they’re not rumors. He stands by his source.”
“Maybe Stuart should go back on the air.”
“It doesn’t matter what the CEO or anyone else says at this point. Once a statement like that is out there—that Saxton Silvers can’t follow through on a trade—the firm is dead. Chuck Bell killed us.”
“Bell and his source,” I said.
“Fucking shorts,” said Eric.
“What’s going to happen?”
“I’m meeting with Treasury and the Fed tonight. The vibe I’m getting is that they’re going to give us until Sunday to find a merger partner.”
“Sunday?” I said, incredulous. “That’s crazy.”
“We either get it done, or we’ll be in bankruptcy court on Monday.”
Things were moving too fast, and Eric’s use of the B-word really had my head spinning. Just two days earlier, it would have shocked me less if Bill Gates had called me to debug his computer.
“It’s all hands on deck tonight,” said Eric. “Your Green Division is one of the few that is completely untouched by subprime. I’ll need your most current numbers and six-month pro formas. How soon can you be here?”
I checked my watch. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
“Sooner,” he said, and the call ended.
Andrea approached. “Is everything okay?”
“Something’s come up. I have to go into the office.”
“I’m sure it’s important. But let me leave you with this thought: Use me. I think I can help with Mallory.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
I was having my doubts. I was still hoping that Mallory would cool down and change her mind, but it struck me as odd that Andrea—someone I hardly knew—would track me down and come to my aid, especially if it was true that Mallory had already hired a divorce lawyer.
“Is there anything you want me to tell her?” asked Andrea.
Alarms were ringing in my head. Something told me not to trust Andrea, and I always went with my instinct.
“Yeah,” I said, “there is.”
“What?”
“Tell her it’s another beautiful day in paradise.”
20
I KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE MINUTE I SMELLED TODAY’S assortment of executive-suite flowers. A pair of Saxton Silvers security guards met me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, and their expressions could have taken the bloom right off the Sexy Rexy Floribunda roses.
“I can take it from here, guys,” I said. “I know my way to Mr. Volke’s office.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cantella. We have our orders.”
“Oooh-kay.”
Security knocked on the closed door and Eric let me inside. He was not alone. I recognized Sonya, of course, but not the two men standing beside her. Eric made the introductions, but I noted that he didn’t look me in the eye as he spoke.
“This is FBI Agent Malcolm Spear and Agent Carl O’Neil,” said Eric. “Mr. Spear is a supervisory special agent, and Mr. O’Neil works in the Computer Fraud Division of the bureau’s Manhattan field office.”
These were not the same agents who’d come by my building that morning to check out the fire in the elevator. O’Neil was by far the younger man, but Spear had the look of an ex-Marine, and as we shook hands I decided I would rather face O’Neil in a bar fight.
“I assume this is about my identity theft.”
“Have a seat, Michael,” said Eric.
“Is the news not good?”
“Please. Have a seat.”
I took the leather armchair facing the agents, who seated themselves on the couch. Eric went behind his desk, and I found Sonya’s positioning very interesting. She took the chair that was on the opposite side of the coffee table from me, closer to the FBI.
“At the outset,” said Sonya, “let me make it clear that I’m here strictly as general counsel to Saxton Silvers. I don’t represent anyone in his individual capacity.”
“You mean me?” I said, trying not to sound too facetious.
She nodded.
I glanced at the FBI. “I’m guessing you don’t represent me either.”
“That’s correct,” said Agent Spear.
It wasn’t intentional, but a nervous chuckle escaped as my gaze shifted in Eric’s direction. “Should I have a lawyer?”
“That’s certainly your right,” said Agent Spear.
“Am I being accused of something?”
“No,” said the agent.
Sonya started to speak but hesitated. Then, without words, Eric seemed to give her the green light.
“I would suggest that you merely listen,” she said. “Eric and I wanted you to know what the FBI investigation has uncovered, but we thought it would be best for you to hear it straight from Agent Spear.”
My throat tightened, which was probably a good thing. I was getting the distinct impression that I shouldn’t even try to talk.
“Okay, I’m all ears.”
Spear spoke in a patented FBI monotone that made things sound even more serious. “There has been a major development in our tracking of the funds from your Saxton Silvers personal investment accounts to the Cayman Islands and beyond.”
“Congratulations. I guess it’s true that the post-nine-eleven world of bank secrecy is not as secret as it once was.”
Eric caught my eye. I was talking too much.
Spear continued. “This is what the FBI knows. Your investments were liquidated and the cash in your accounts was then immediately transferred into a custodial account in the name of your late wife, Ivy Layton. Your funds were commingled with hers, and the entire amount—about thirteen million—was wire-transferred from the custodial account to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands.”
He paused, and I sure hoped there was more. “No offense,” I said, “but my tech guy told me everything you just said about ten minutes after I discovered my account balances were at zero.”
“Understood,” said Spear. “Here’s where it gets interesting. The minute your thirteen million hit the Cayman account, it was used as collateral for twenty-six million in short positions on Saxton Silvers stock obtained through various sources.”
It was as if someone had kicked the chair out from under me. “Excuse me?”
“With the dramatic decline in Saxton Silvers stock this morning, you can in essence pay back your twenty-six-million dollar loan with thirteen million dollars’ worth of stock. If the rumors continue and force Saxton Silvers into bankruptcy—reducing its stock value to zero—you borrowed twenty-six million and can pay it off for nothing. That’s a pretty hefty profit in a couple of days.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“So,” he said, “the question is this: Who controls the Cayman account?”
“You’re asking me?”
&nb
sp; “There are several layers of transactions involved, a number of different special-purpose vehicles,” he said. That was Wall Street–speak for offshore shell corporations.
“Then you need to find out who’s behind the shell game,” I said.
Glances were exchanged around the room, but no one was making eye contact with me.
“Eric?” I said. “You don’t think I control it, do you?”
Eric was again massaging that sore spot between his eyes, migraine central.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t me,” I said.
Spear cleared his throat, and I braced myself. “Your general counsel tells us that you went on FNN today.”
“At Eric’s request.”
“How do you think that went?” asked Spear.
Part of me wanted to tell him to call the treasurer at Papa’s condo association and ask him. “Not so well,” I said.
“That depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“I would imagine that the short sellers in control of your money in that secret Cayman Islands account were quite pleased with the way your interview went with Mr. Bell. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I had to take a breath, control my anger. “I didn’t bet against my own firm and then go on television to fan the flames, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Spear copped a laserlike stare. “Would you be willing to take a polygraph exam on that?”
I should have taken a moment to consider the question. Instead, I looked right at Eric and said, “If that’s what it takes to get the people in this room to believe me, then yes, I would.”
Spear was about to say something, but Eric interrupted.
“Michael, you should talk to a lawyer.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Eric leaned forward, his hands atop his desk. “It’s like Sonya said. She doesn’t represent you. Her only client is this institution. Go talk to a lawyer.”
I didn’t know what to say, but soon enough I realized that I had best not say anything.
“All right,” I said, rising. “I will talk to my lawyer.”
And then I walked out—and realized I didn’t have one.
The security guards escorted me back to the elevator, rode down with me, and walked me out to the street. This was getting annoying. I spotted a taxi and speared my hand into the night air. My iPhone chirped, and of course I immediately stopped in my tracks to check it. They should have called this thing “iPavlov.” Was there anything more powerful?
It was a text message. I didn’t recognize the sender, but the words cut to my core: It’s a crime to burn money.
I collected myself and texted back in rapid fire: Who are you?
He’d sent the next text before getting my reply: That makes you Wall Street fucks serial offenders.
I knew it was the guy from Sal’s Place last fall, but I needed more. Who are you, and what do you want?
The cab I’d hailed pulled away. The driver was ticked, but I wasn’t about to risk losing this connection in a moving vehicle.
His reply read, You promised not to turn me in.
I had to think for a moment, then I recalled the strange conversation with this guy at Sal’s Place. I had indeed made that promise after watching him burn the hundred-dollar bill. I kept my reply short: So?
His reply came so quickly I could almost feel the anger: Stay away from the FBI. STAY AWAY!!!
I would have bet serious money that the conversation was over, but to my surprise, one last message popped up.
That’s the thing about revenge, the text read, you never know when they’re going to call it even.
An ambulance flew by me on Seventh Avenue, siren blaring. I was oblivious to it, numbed by the words I was reading.
I pulled myself together and speed-dialed Eric Volke.
21
I SPOKE TO ERIC FROM THE BACKSEAT OF A TAXI. GOING BACK INSIDE Saxton Silvers headquarters seemed like a bad idea. If the warning not to talk to the FBI meant anything, it was clear that someone was watching me pretty closely.
“Eric,” I said, “I think Sonya’s car must be bugged.”
That was the only conclusion I could reach; it was the one way that guy could have known what the lawyer from Cool Cash had told me about revenge. I laid it all out for Eric, telling him about that morning’s conversation in the seeming privacy of Sonya’s car, about the strange guy who’d burned money in front of me at Sal’s Place last fall, about the latest text. And then I put it all together.
“That firebomb in the elevator came after I met Sonya and Stanley Brewer outside the FBI field office. I think it was intended to convey the same message that was made explicit in the text: Don’t go to the FBI. I want to set up another meeting with Agent Spear, but obviously it has to be secret.”
“No,” said Eric.
“What?”
“The guy warned you not to go to the FBI. We don’t know what kind of nut job we’re dealing with. Send me the text message. I’ll take care of it. You stick with your plan. Get a lawyer. I’ll deal with the FBI.”
“Thanks,” I said. Nothing more I could say.
The cab let me off on Eighth Avenue. Two minutes later I was in Papa’s room at the Days Inn. He and Nana had an “Internet special” that was barely big enough for the king-size bed I was sitting on.
“Hey, check this out,” he said, grinning as he emerged from the bathroom. “Little bottles of shampoo and conditioner. And they’re free. I love this place.”
It was a tongue-in-cheek remark, Papa’s way of saying, Don’t even think of pulling out your wallet and trying to move us over to the Ritz.
Nana took her turn in the bathroom. When we were alone, Papa sat beside me on the edge of the mattress. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You look really stressed. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
I was suddenly twelve years old again, back in my little bedroom in rural Illinois with the best listener on earth. He couldn’t possibly relate to the whole story, but merely sharing the gist of it made me feel better. Some things never changed.
Papa considered my words, then asked, “What is the one thing that would help you the most right now?”
“A lawyer, I guess. Sort of a legal jack-of-all-trades. I definitely need someone who can deal with the FBI, and if Mallory is serious, it looks like I’ll need a divorce lawyer, too.”
“How much does someone like that cost?”
I drew a breath. “A decent criminal defense lawyer in a white-collar criminal investigation like this is probably going to ask for a hundred grand up front.”
Papa’s jaw dropped, but he seemed to put the figure aside.
“Have you thought about calling your brother?”
He meant my half brother. At the time of my birth, Papa’s only daughter had been an unmarried junior at DePaul University. Two years later she married a man who was not my biological father. My half brother and half sister came along in rapid succession. I was six when our mother lost control of her car on the Kennedy Expressway in an ice storm. She was killed instantly. My stepfather—funny, but he was just “Daddy” to me before Mom died—got engaged to a woman who promptly announced that three kids in their instant family was one too many. It was then that I moved to a small town north of Chicago to live with Nana and Papa.
“I haven’t spoken to Kevin in years,” I said.
It had been four years, to be exact—since Ivy’s disappearance, when Kevin turned into an asshole.
“Maybe that should change,” said Papa. “He is family. And he practices right here in the city.”
“Please don’t push this. I don’t need another complication—especially family.”
“You’re right. Let’s you and I talk this out for a minute. It sounds to me like someone is setting you up to look like the bad guy.”
“The financial assassin of my own firm,” I said.
“So let’s think logically. Any succes
sful man naturally has enemies. Who are yours?”
I shook my head slowly, thinking. “I am head of the firm’s Green Division. That doesn’t make Big Oil too happy.”
“Yeah, right. And come June I’m going to muscle out a bunch of twenty-year-old stars and become a starting pitcher for the Chicago Cubs. Come on, think. There has to be someone you stepped on or maybe even squashed—not on purpose, of course—on your way to the top.”
The bathroom door opened. Nana stepped out, clad in the same bathrobe she’d owned when I was in college. A silk cap preserved last Saturday’s trip to the beauty parlor. She’d gone every week, worn the same hairstyle, for as long as I could remember.
“Bedtime, boys,” she said.
I rose and gave her a kiss. Papa walked me to the door. Nana had her hearing aid out, so we didn’t have to worry about her overhearing.
“Where you sleeping tonight?” he asked.
“I thought I would check at the desk and see if they had any vacancies.”
He gave me a hug and whispered in my ear: “Call Mallory.”
I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do, but I told him I would, said good night, and rode the elevator down to the front desk. The hotel was completely booked—it must have been the little bottles of free shampoo—so it was on to plan B for sleeping arrangements. Some of Papa’s optimism must have rubbed off on me. I called Mallory, and when she didn’t pick up, I hesitated before leaving a message on the answering machine. Then I found myself sounding more like my grandfather than myself, saying the things I probably should have said more often in my marriage to Mallory.
“I just wanted to let you know that I love you,” I said. “Please, let’s talk in the morning.”
Five minutes later I was in the backseat of another taxi headed up Eighth Avenue. There were two hotels on the West Side that got so much business from Saxton Silvers that they almost had to accommodate me, even if I did show up without a reservation. The cab was one of thousands in the city that had gone high-tech. A touch-screen monitor embedded into the bulkhead bombarded me with ads for credit cards and refinancing opportunities. Strapped into my seat, I felt like Alex undergoing aversion therapy in A Clockwork Orange. The ads stopped, and Taxi TV switched to actual television programming. I was hoping for the Food Network or maybe Lucy and Ricky. Naturally, I got a five-minute snippet from Bell Ringer. I suddenly had a change of plans.
James Grippando Page 11