Discretion (11 page)

“Good morning, Beth,” I say on answering my desk phone. She refers to herself as a cool fat chick. Her personality is a starburst of positive energy with a sense of humor.

“You always know it’s me. Am I that predictable?”

“Must be. Did you have a fun weekend?” I multitask by reviewing reports. My quotes system comes alive on the trio of twenty-five inch LED screens, a sea of red and green on a black background. Stocks. Commodities. Options. Christel is redefining the term ‘angel investing.’

“Yeah, it was okay,” she says. “We did see a movie. Had a dinner date, that type of stuff. Nothing like your life, player.” She laughs a little, snorting at the end. She’s thirty and engaged but in no rush to the altar. Her fiancé is an analyst and they work together. They are from Austin, Texas and return every chance they can.

“Now, now. I’m not like that anymore. I’ve settled down.”

She giggles. “Really? You lived up to your name of Casanova when you were…”

“I know. I’ve got to get moving, but you’ve got a lead on Pfizer for me, right?”

A moment of silence passes. “How did you know that?”

“Must be my lucky day.”

“Can you tell me how my marriage will turn out?”

She thinks it will last forever. Divorced, five years.

How can I tell her that? I won’t have any friends if I tell people the truth. “Sorry. Not at liberty to say; you know how it is.”

“Oh, well. Have you got a minute to go over the report?”

“A minute for you.”

She highlights the important details and it’s useful information, but nothing I don’t know. I thank her for her time and end the call.

It’s difficult to focus with details about Jackson’s email clouding my mind. Visions of those dead bodies keep coming to view, as if it’s my own haunting past. Hard to believe that after all these years, a trail exists, however crazy it may be. Could all just be a waste of time, if no evidence exists to put the guilty behind bars.

The Monday morning debrief is at eight in the main conference room. A meeting such as this should be before market hours, but the higher-ups grant beauty rest to the weary. The portfolio managers like myself and several investment consultants, the politically correct title for sales rep, will attend along with the analyst team and one or two people from research.

The conference room is a two-minute walk from my office, consisting of glass walls along the south side; the entry way double doors are glass except for a minimalist gold frame. The SCG logo is etched on both doors. I join a dozen people in the room, taking the seat next to Bob Garafola, my old mentor.

I turn the leather chair and shake his hand. Short, dark hair compliments his five foot eight inch lanky frame. He wears brown slacks and a starched white shirt with a solid tie like the old Catholic he is—strict on rituals, loose on morals. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney. He looks about fifty, but I can’t remember his age.

“So Colin, what happened this weekend?”

“Sorry, Bob, I wanted to be there. I had plans by the time you called.”

“You missed a fun evening. We were out until around three, I think.” A sinful grin forms on his face.

“You sound unsure on the time, so you must’ve had a wonderful evening.”

“Yeah, we had a good time. Daniel is making plans for next weekend. You’re coming, right?”

“I could be.”

Bob has been a portfolio manager for ten years and was my mentor when I got promoted to the position. He was an ass when I met him, which made sense. He was trying to quit smoking and having a hard go of it. One of the team members actually lit a cigarette for him in a meeting. She didn’t last long at the company, but did all of us a big favor that day. He and I became friends not long after. As a joke one time, when he got a little more hammered than normal on a Friday night, I suggested an AA meeting. Bob politely said
fuck you
, and didn’t talk to me for a week.

He wants to change departments and posted for an investment consultant position. Stress is getting to him.

The performance standards at SCG push every employee, making burnout high and stress a killer. It takes nearly a lifetime of impeccable work to reach the portfolio manager level, and a few years or less to crumble under pressure.

I lean toward him. “So I hear they have an opening for an IC.”

A peculiar look forms on Bob’s face. “Who told you?” His words were barely audible.

“That’s not important. But we have to talk later.”

“No!” he says, a whisper that is like a scream. “Who told you?”

“The board told me.” I shrug. “You know it’s public.”

He sighs. “I didn’t think you’d check…are you looking?”

I restrain from laughing but it does little good. “Not a chance.”

The firm has an open-door policy on posting to other positions and movement is encouraged. Most departments have a visitor’s day. The boss insists everyone needs to know how the process works.

The chatter in the room quiets down; the lights dim and the projector mounted to the ceiling comes to life with a brightly colored background and a 3D Seaton Capital Group logo in the middle.

“Showtime,” I whisper.

I spin the chair and drink a soda. Jennifer, my director, gives an update with Anton Ricciardelli from compliance. Then my introduction, followed by standard applause. Bob gives me an attaboy pat on the back. I take my place at the front, facing my peers with years of experience beyond my own.

I speak on the specifics of three different client accounts, giving detail to the management process, the technical analysis for the specific holdings, but also for the trends, combined with a fundamental outlook and interaction with the client.

The returns are staggering. From the passing thoughts of those in the room, the presentation is of little help, though encouraging that a teammate is producing this. They simply cannot match the performance I generate day in and day out, which is a fair assessment. Christel is a resource so valuable I cannot explain with mere words—only dollar signs will suffice.

Most of the PMs are forced to use conservative strategies to limit risk. Because of Christel, I can take more risk, because I know the outcome in advance and no one understands how I have a godlike ability to detect short-term price fluctuation. Divine inspiration.

“So what does the devil on your shoulder tell you is the right move this morning?” Teddy Plemons says from the back. The room fills with laughter, including his hefty gut. He’s not kidding in the least.

A few of the guys decided awhile back that I made a pact with the devil. It’s an inside joke among PMs.

“Bullish on financials. Bearish on miners but not enough to get excited. No one is dumb enough to write significant options on them now. Expect a four to six percent move by the sector and start with lower-priced securities.” I answer questions on specifics and give a price range for each. Doubting expressions among the group are consistent, as negative economic data weighs in. The news this morning focuses around weak manufacturing data and credit tension in Europe.

The meeting adjourns and I leave with Bob at my side. We walk in silence, not because Bob has nothing to say, but he wants to be private. He doesn’t wait a moment after my office door closes.

“You’re crazy, you know that, right?” he says, taking a seat in front of my desk. I look at the screens for alerts, and then return my attention to Bob. I grin at him and set my tablet down on several reports.

“Why? Because I act on my instincts? Everyone has them, including you, Bob. And you’re right more often than you think. You need to trust yourself. Don’t let fear hold you back.”

“Easy for you to say. There’s no one in the company who can match you.” He sits back and crosses his arms, as if a lecture is about to begin.

“You know that you can count on me. I’m always here.”

He thinks you are too busy.

We stare at each other a moment. “We’re all busy, Bob. Try me sometime…Or better yet, try yourself. You’ll be amazed at what you can do.”

He had a poor experience a year ago with Eugene Mason, a client account that went south. When the thing blew up and resulted in a dispute, the firm took care of the client and didn’t hold anything against Bob, considering he followed policy. But the transaction destroyed his self-confidence. Six weeks ago, he decided he wants to watch his grandkids grow up. And work less. Changing departments is the only solution.

Perhaps I should suggest he quit smoking, while he’s in the mindset.

He sighs, from the angst of his heart. He loves his job, but cannot bear the emotional strain much longer.

“So how does she like the Tiffany necklace, Bob?” I say, changing the subject to put his mind on positive things.

He manages a smile, but it’s short-lived. “She loves it. Just loves it. Raves it’s the nicest piece of jewelry she’s ever owned.”

I can’t help smiling like a goof. The man makes millions and he’s too cheap to buy his wife fine jewelry. So what if it cost sixty grand? “Glad she’s happy with it. And how have you been?”

“Much better, thanks to you.”

“I didn’t know I could be such a great therapist.”

“Sublime, my friend. Sublime. She hasn’t had a greater orgasm…”

I wave my hands in exasperation for him to stop talking at once. “Bob, Bob.” I sigh. “I don’t want to know the details. But I’m glad things are…much improved.” My fingers make a steeple near my mouth.

He chuckles and shifts in the black leather chair, and then adjusts his tie to the center of his shirt. “Colin, we had seen three different counselors and none of them identified the root of the problem. The disconnect. None got it, but you did.” He shakes his head while keeping his eyes on me. “I haven’t a clue how you did it, but you made a miracle.”

“Happy to help.”

My desk phone rings, breaking the conversation.

“I won’t keep you, Chief.” Bob leaves, closing the office door behind him.

I
stretch out my feet on the desk and with my headset in place, the thin and narrow boom microphone reaches just past my cheek.

William Seaton calling.

Fantastic timing. I answer on the second ring. “This is Colin.”

“Colin, my man. Your new nickname is Superman and it’s official. So how does it feel?” William Seaton says.

“Profitable.”

“As it should. In fact, the sell-off we had a few weeks ago recorded some of your best performances year-to-date. Way to play the bear in the right spot.”

I can’t help noticing the pride in his tone. “Well, no pressure to keep beating myself, right? No pressure at all.” We both laugh—to unwind, I think. Everyone in the business knows a portfolio manager is only as good as the last quarter.

“I know you can do it, Superman. I have the utmost confidence in your ability. The team, the company, is supporting you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me for what you’ve earned. There’s no grace or mercy in this business. Everyone is fighting for position and we have to pull the weight…but you’re pulling more than your own. Which is why you must be Superman. No rational explanation exists.”

“This is true. No margin for error with other people’s money. Especially the nonprofits.”

“Indeed. It’s refreshing that you care about the clients. I bet that plays a part in your work,” he says, and pauses a moment. “Look, I won’t hold you back, Superman. Oh, and don’t be shy if you need anything. My door is always open. Should you decide on a date to marry that lovely lady in research, let me know what you need. I’ll see it done.”

“I know that, sir, and thank you.”

“That reminds me, a crate of Padróns arrived that you’ll like. I’ll have Elsa deliver a box to your office.”

“Appreciate the gesture.”

I hang up the phone and go to the workstation. Thirty active positions show on my screen, a euphoria of millions of dollars changing hands on the exchange with the passing seconds. It’s a rush that never dies. To me, it lives, breathes, and eats.

Christel, show me next week’s prices.

Next Friday’s closing prices appear on my screen. Most of the moves are small, less than one percent. The largest mover is Amazon, gaining seven percent. I change screens and place a block trade for ten point five million dollars. The next-best performer is Freeport-McMoran, with a future move of just over four percent. Another block trade across the portfolio. Two trades later, twenty million in total and the hour passes. I finish my ice-cold coffee to celebrate.

Elsa sets a box of Padrón Millennium cigars on the edge of my desk with a small black notecard on top, bearing the Seaton Capital Group seal. I nod in thanks and she leaves as quietly as she came. Without a doubt, word will spread regarding the delivery and colleagues will show up at lunchtime to set them on fire—it’s widely known that I share Seaton’s gifts.

With a moment to breathe, I can ponder what is next. My office is quiet. The busyness outside keeps me alert, but can’t rob my tranquility. A few minutes escape, and then my iPhone vibrates and Marisa’s smiling face is on display.

“Well, hello, my bombshell.”

She laughs. “You’re funny. Are we still on for lunch?”

“I forgot to tell you that…” I pause for a moment while checking the calendar, just to make sure. “I’m meeting Jamal.” My voice tries to hide the excitement, but frankly there is no use—Marisa knows I’m elated.

“Why even try?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why even try to schedule lunch like we do in the mornings? Jamal isn’t going to be having sex with you tonight, right?”

No sense in restraining my laughter, so I let go. “Not what I had in mind, no. I’ve yet to see the appeal in that.”

“Yeah. It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. More hype than anything. Maybe I should try women instead.”

“You’re terrible. Now you’re teasing me.”

She cackles loudly. “Don’t go getting any ideas. And no, you can’t videotape it. So what time are you home tonight?”

“Normal for a Monday. Softball is tomorrow night. The poker game is Friday night…”

“You’re playing cards on Friday? You didn’t tell me…”