The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  Jon had anticipated that very objection. “Then you’ll be relieved to know that we’re lending my future partner, Geoffrey Gorman, formerly of Wolfe Gorman Equities, $12 million at exorbitant interest. He pays it back with either cash or….” The rest of Jon’s explanation got lost in joyous laughter, ending in agreements to meet at the Fleisher and Sons’ office at three o’clock.

  “You weren’t joking about a tight deadline, Jon, but I’ll have it on hand,” Ben assured him. “Should I aim for twelve or for six today? You should only pay half up front, even if you trusted him.”

  “I don’t.” Jon didn’t quite spit. “Six.” Geoff nodded.

  “Can he have a notary on hand as well?” Geoff interrupted before Jon hung up. “We have the buy/sell agreement already—it just needs some numbers filled in and witness signatures.”

  “Not a problem,” Ben assured Jon when he relayed the request. “I’ll have my house lawyer join us too.”

  “Let’s go tell Edgar!” The men met each other’s eyes in horror. “Oh, Lord, what has Edgar been doing out there?”

  Creating fear and havoc, that’s what Edgar was doing. Geoff and Jon had plotted right through the opening of the morning meeting, and when they burst out of the office, Edgar was in full cry.

  “We’ll be discussing severance packages individually—”

  “No, we won’t.” Geoff hulked forward, once again the charging bull. Had he found some missing piece of himself in the prospect of being free of Edgar? Jon strode to Geoff’s side, declaring a united front.

  “Right—it’s an ordinary trading day until you hear differently from me and Geoff.” Jon met everyone’s eyes in a quick cast around the room, seeing everything from relief to fear to outrage—Kate’s, but she’d either get over it or she wouldn’t. He turned the gimlet glare on Edgar, who recoiled visibly.

  “Edgar, please join us in the office to discuss the transfer—I’ve met your deadline.” Geoff had expanded into twice the space he’d used in every other morning meeting, standing tall and triumphant, not sitting amongst the staff. “Carry on, folks.” He waved them off to work. “Come along, Edgar.” He held out a hand, flipping one jerky “come here,” and the man who’d had everyone under his thumb and sometimes kneeling at his feet came reluctantly. Jon kept his satisfaction under wraps; this was not yet a done deal, and he wouldn’t antagonize the man unnecessarily. He’d save his gloating for the minute after the notary’s seal embossed Edgar’s signature on the contracts.

  “You must have called in every favor in town.” Edgar planted his butt in the guest chair next to Jon’s.

  “Only what I needed to.” Geoff sat behind his desk and surveyed his soon to be ex-partner. “I have the funds, and now it’s a matter of meeting with the banker and getting things signed. We’ll use the buy/sell agreement we drew up in the beginning for this eventuality, and you can be wallowing in folding green by tonight.”

  “What if I changed my mind?” Edgar’s pouchy face grew crafty. “Maybe I don’t really want to sell or liquidate.”

  “You want to sell,” Jon interjected. “Or you’ll liquidate anyway, because you’ll have no investors left.” Starting with Jessica Hogenboom and spreading to everyone she knew, which was everyone. “Kiss all those management fees goodbye. Sell assets with money left on the table.”

  “What the hell are you doing in here, Hogenboom?” Edgar rounded on him.

  Edgar didn’t need to know too much in advance, Jon thought, and apparently Geoff agreed. “Jon’s here because I want him here.”

  With one last sour look, Edgar turned back to Geoff. “So, you’ve come up with the fourteen million bucks?”

  “Twelve!” Geoff came halfway out of his chair, blazing. “You said twelve!”

  “Oh, really?” Edgar returned silkily. “I said fourteen, and you have no way to prove otherwise. I know you want me gone, and that’s what it will take: fourteen.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair to study his nails.

  “You said twelve, Edgar!” Geoff flicked a glance at Jon that said, I’ve got two million—are you still in?

  “Fourteen.” Edgar buffed his thumb against a cuticle.

  “Don’t screw with him, Edgar.” Both unwilling partners stared at Jon. “You said twelve. Everyone heard the screaming through the door Monday.” Jon grinned at Edgar, but in the way of sharks. “Let’s ask.” He rose from the chair, ready to shout the question out the door. “But you’ll take ten.”

  “Twelve! All right! Twelve!” The panic shaking Edgar’s jowls was blood in the water to Jon—the predator did not want to stop. He glared down at his prey.

  “Ten, Edgar, because if you hold out for twelve, you may well end up with six, less lawyers’ fees.” Having gripped his quarry by the throat, Jon had no urge to let go. “Depending on how forgiving your wife is.”

  “You leave my wife out of this!”

  “I will, but the journalist who starts writing what he thinks is a standard two-inch story about change in ownership could find out there’s a bigger scoop. He won’t be so gentle.” Jon paused to let that horror sink in before he took his next bite. “The price of Geoff’s and my utter ignorance of your wife’s private phone number, and why a reporter might want it, is two million bucks. For that much, we’ll even throw in not sharing it with former employees.”

  “Don’t let that door hit you in the ass on your way out, Hogenboom.” Edgar’s face had regained some color. “You can’t share what you don’t have.” He sat up straighter, facing Geoff, whose dropped jaw did not bode well for strength in negotiation.

  “But I—” Jon chopped his words off—admitting to the guilty knowledge of what Dwight had programmed into both their phones would be a step backward. “I can get it in less than an hour.”

  “Bullshit.” Edgar stared steadily into Geoff’s eyes, and Geoff’s certainty was faltering visibly. “Scram.”

  Jon could not let the intimidation undo their gains. “My mother is Jessica Hogenboom, Edgar. Friends of the Opera, friends of this museum and that, boards of ‘you name it, she’s on it.’ If she doesn’t have Mrs. Wolfe’s phone number in her Rolodex, it will take her two, possibly three calls to find someone who does. Shall we take bets?” He whipped his phone out, ready to make good the threat.

  “For $2 million, I’ll take Jessica Hogenboom in three calls.” Geoff had to croak his bet out, but at least he’d found his spine.

  His mother didn’t even have to call back—Edgar just needed to believe she would. Jon brought up her number. “For two million bucks, I’ll take Jessica Hogenboom in one call. Edgar, what about you?” Jon put the phone to his ear. Edgar didn’t make a prediction, though he could have won betting no calls at all. “Hello, Mother, I’m in a meeting, but do you have the number for Edgar Wolfe’s wife? Sorry, I’m drawing a blank”—as if he’d ever known—“on her first name.”

  “Of course, I have it here.” Jessica paused, letting Jon imagine her turning to the correct page in her fat address book. “Francine Wolfe, 646-555-0181. You’re busy; tell me later, darling.”

  So that was her first name; Jon had never heard it. He made a quick scribbling motion to Geoff, who wrote the number Jon repeated. “Thank you.” He hung up the call. “She’ll be very interested, won’t she, Edgar?” Jon made no move to sit down. “I should have asked years ago.”

  “All right. Ten it is.” Edgar had lost enough color that he might hit the floor if another teaspoonful of blood left his head. “I want it today.”

  “What you’ll get is five today and five after all the paperwork removing your name has cleared the Securities and Exchange Commision.” Geoff had expanded visibly with each digit he’d written. “You create trouble in any way and it will only keep cash out of your pocket.”

  No worse threat existed for this man, Jon thought. Edgar hunched into the chair; apparently he agreed. “We’ll see you here at four o’clock.” Naming a time that gave a window to transact his business with Jon, Geoff called the l
ast moments of his association with Edgar by handing him a note with Fleisher and Sons’ address. “We’ll walk you to the front door—if you stay here for the day, I can’t answer for what the staff will do.”

  “Kate does have a way with a stapler.” Jon took one of Edgar’s arms, Geoff the other, to escort him past the hostile eyes that grew wide with wonder during their slow journey across the trading floor.

  “See you at four.” Geoff opened the door for his former partner, and the two men watched Edgar until the elevator swallowed him.

  It might be him dodging flying office supplies when the news came out, Jon thought, and prepared to duck when they turned to face the remains of the firm.

  “Made any money today?” Geoff inquired, his arm now draped over Jon’s shoulders. “Can’t be a slacker and still work for Gorman Hogenboom Equities.”

  The only things Jon had to dodge were overexuberant embraces and jubilant kisses—the cheering went on a long time. Jon and Geoff got passed from hug to backslap to embrace, spiced with congratulations and predictions of record profits.

  “Nyah nyah!” Kate singsonged, depositing a smooch on Jon’s cheek. “Your hours just got longer than mi-ine!”

  “Nyah nyah,” he caroled back, “and you might make more money than me-e!” She giggled, and well she should; bonuses were based on profits, and he’d have his hands full with administrative matters, not trading, for a long time. Executive compensation was one of a hundred issues he and Geoff would have to hammer out.

  One detail could stand as Geoff had announced it, though. For 51 percent of the firm at a 16 percent discount, Jon would take second billing.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  HITTING Send on the fourth e-mail of the day, Ricky made a tick mark on the list of firms where he’d sent his résumé. Calling former Wolfe-Gormanites, looking for names in the HR office, names on the trading floors, and any help he could get had netted an impressive list of contacts and more than a few shouts of, “Way to go, Ricky!”

  What it hadn’t garnered was an offer, though he’d arranged several interviews, all at firms smaller than his recent employer. Finance was a big industry, but an even bigger pool of people wanted to be part of it. That phone felt like a part of his head by now—he’d made so many calls over the last two weeks.

  Ricky hoped the phone would start ringing, but all the same it was a shock. Then the voice was familiar, but the words were gibberish.

  “This is Jonathan Hogenboom from Gorman Hogenboom Equities; I’d like to speak with Ricardo Santeramo.”

  “Jon? Gorman Hogenboom? What the hell? Is this some kind of joke?” Ricky managed not to pull the phone away from his head to stare at the earpiece.

  “Come on, Ricky, I’m still getting used to it myself. Play along, okay?” All ceremony disappeared in that plaint, and the formal voice returned. “Mr. Santeramo, please.”

  Was this for real? Could he dare to hope someone had finally…. Okay, he could play along, and maybe Jon would even share some of what he’d been smoking. “Speaking. What can I do for you, Mr. Hogenboom?” He didn’t stumble over the name—Ricky wanted points for that.

  “I’m calling on behalf of Gorman Hogenboom Equities, formerly Wolfe Gorman Equities. We have an open position on a senior trading desk and understand that you’re qualified and might be interested.”

  Might be interested? Seven different responses, starting with, “Are you kidding?’ and merging into “Yes!” all collided with “What the hell happened?” in Ricky’s throat. He nodded, belatedly recognizing that Jon couldn’t hear his head rattle. “I’d certainly discuss it.” And I’d be even happier to discuss it if it didn’t all sound too good to be true.

  “We’d like to fill this vacancy quickly, as we have a substantial amount of new capital coming in. Would you care to discuss it over dinner tonight?” Geoff hadn’t lured any new money to the firm in at least three years—definitely too good to be true.

  “It sounds like we have a great deal to talk about.” Ricky managed to translate I leave you unguarded for a week and you turn the place upside down? into business-ese. “Eight o’clock at Allegra?”

  “The Brasserie.” That snap of finality stung—no pleasure with the business at all, aside from the food. “I’ve already reserved a table.”

  Putting the personalized touches to yet another query letter could wait until tomorrow, Ricky decided, and if all went well, it might never be needed. Still, he shouldn’t have pushed—if Jon wanted Ricky back as a trader, it would be so much easier to woo him back as a lover. Thinking about how to dress for what he knew was an interview but wished desperately was a date, Ricky ran his hand over the subtle salmon checks on the tie Jon had abandoned the last time he’d been here. Wearing it was too bold a statement; he chose the blue and gray paisley that Jon had given him and grown accustomed to seeing. I’m yours, it would say, but not so loudly that Jon would bolt. One talisman was not enough; his inner jacket pocket should be safe enough for the mermaid’s purse. Ricky held it a moment, remembering.

  THE fork stopped, poised before Jon’s lips, as more of the remarkable tale tumbled from him, more engrossing even than the excellent fare. “So there we were, escorting Edgar out the door with the promise of large quantities of his favorite substance at four o’clock, the threat of the staff pelting him with staplers if he hung around, and his computer waiting patiently for us to unlock his secrets.” Jon took a bite of the moules, spattering a bit of the white wine broth in his enjoyment of the story.

  Popping a morsel of the medium rare steak au poivre into his mouth, Ricky motioned “tell more” with his fork. He would have liked to throw a stapler—or a chair—at Edgar’s retreating back.

  “And by the time he had a large check in his hand and the wits to demand the computer, he’d signed his name several times! The lawyer, bless his wizened, black heart, broke the sad, sad news.” Jon sat up straight, pulled some imaginary glasses down his nose, and intoned, “‘Mr. Wolfe, that computer contains proprietary information belonging to a financial firm you are no longer a part of and have no right to. It would be most improper for Mr. Gorman to release it’.”

  “Hah! And how did Edgar take the news?” Anything to make that bastard squirm! The heavenly frite Ricky stabbed with his fork had to stand in for the old perv.

  “Badly, of course.” Jon winkled another mussel from its shell, capturing it with his fork and a bit of crusty bread. “Geoff promised to copy off the personal files, easy enough to do; Dwight had actually already taken care of it. I could have handed over the CD-ROM right there, but making him wait for the bike messenger the next day was all part of the fun, besides giving away the secret of his address. And the coughing up of his password, but we’d already figured it out.” Jon ate the bit of sauce-soaked bread with closed eyes.

  “He is a secretive guy—that must have hurt.” Ricky stabbed another pommes frite. “What did you find?” This sharing of food and stories felt comfortable, familiar, almost like a date—Ricky stopped listening a moment, thinking instead of how terribly long it had been since he’d watched Jon over a table and how much he missed it.

  “The personal files probably won’t be as interesting as the business files, aside from a rather astonishing collection of porn. We needed to figure out what he was doing to run the place on a day-to-day basis, who’s handling payroll, how the bonuses are figured, hell, even where to send the rent checks and does the rent cover lights and water? Just the basics have kept me occupied for a week.” Jon sipped his Vouvray, then set the wineglass down with a ting. “And we’re setting up Gorman Hogenboom as the successor entity to Wolfe Gorman, so I’m going to be extremely busy with Geoff, the lawyers, and the SEC for the foreseeable future, which effectively puts us short three traders. You’d consider coming back, Ricky?”

  “As if there was any doubt?” Ricky wanted to believe that the invitation on Jon’s face asked him all the way back into Jon’s life, but that was more than he could expect tonight. “Do I e
ven need to change my password?”

  “I already changed it when I changed Edgar’s, but he hadn’t swept you out of the system, and neither did I.” Jon patted his lips with the snowy linen. “You do understand, Ricky, that some of your old ways have to go?” He set the napkin down by his plate. “You have to hedge your positions to a standard that I consider adequate, even if it means giving up a couple of points.”

  “I will do it your way, Jon.” The doubt in his new boss’s voice hurt him.

  “I wasn’t sure about that. Because, Ricky, this changes the dynamic between us. I need to know that if I ask you to do something, it gets done. I’m not the part-time boyfriend—I’m the boss.”

  Meeting Jon’s eyes was harder than it should be—this did change things. Ricky’d bulldozed Jon into doing things he had doubts about, into accepting situations he’d found repugnant, and Jon had already said no more to that. Ricky didn’t doubt for a moment that Jon would say the same on a professional level.

  “My last boss liked blowjobs before trading started. Could I volunteer for full-time exclusive duty on that?” Wrong thing to say—the shutters came down behind Jon’s eyes.

  “That’s another thing: the couch is already gone from the washroom. The analysts had an ‘Afternoon of Long Knives’ with it.” Jon dug in his wallet for a credit card, which he laid on the tablecloth. “Stuffing went everywhere.” That came with a wry laugh. “So no.” Another cloud passed over Jon’s face. “I’m already tainted as an Edgar-sympathizer in some eyes—Liu refused to discuss returning. Ben took Logan on, and that leaves me short two analysts, as well.” The waiter scooped up the card discreetly.

  That was fine with Ricky—having Logan around would undermine his strategy. “I imagine the fugitives from Araucaria want to fill those slots. Some of their layoffs have to be really high quality.” Ricky sat back and carefully didn’t let any of his other thoughts out, save one. “Have you asked Dr. Iggy about them? You have hired him already, haven’t you?”