Discretion (23 page)

“I’ve just decided these things are good for me,” Bob says.

I nod in agreement. “They are. Much like managing an insane amount of other people’s money in a volatile market.”

We both laugh and I pick up my coffee cup from the stone ledge. I offer my cup to Bob in cheers and he clanks with a tumbler, filled with two inches of bourbon sloshing about. I do a double take at the glass and he notices.

“Thought I would have one last drink before I jump off the ledge,” he says. A substantial swig goes down his throat.

I can’t help laughing. “So why are you smoking my cigar?”

“Well, I was just going to jump, but then I thought I should at least say goodbye to you and since you weren’t in your office I waited a minute, figuring you were in the bathroom and would be right back. And so, when you didn’t return, I thought to have a cigar and smoke it out here. Kinda like a commemorative ceremony. A little bourbon and a fantastic cigar. Can’t go out in a better way.”

“This isn’t high enough, Bob. I’m not sure this fall will kill you,” I say, struggling to get the words out while laughing.

“Oh, it won’t. I’m not planning to die from the fall.” He shakes his head and finishes the glass of bourbon. “My plan is to fall right in the center of those fucking flowers you see there.” He leans over the edge a little to point to them with his chubby index finger. “Then it will just maim me and I’ll be able to collect disability until I’m dead. I’ll technically be still employed, so I’ll get the company benefits and the works.” He takes a puff and starts laughing a little with me. “And I’ll get a lot of sympathy to boot. Should be great. I wonder why I didn’t think this shit up years ago.”

“The flaw in your plan…”

“Yes?”

“Is that you may not live long enough to really take advantage.”

He agrees with a head nod and grins back at me. “True. But I figure I’ll live until at least next year if I’m resting comfortably in the hospital, hopped up on painkillers. Who knows? I might even get a hot nurse to help me pass the time.”

“Could be an intern.”

“Mmm. I like your thinking. Twenty? No, twenty-one. That’s a good age.”

“You dirty old man.”

“I’m not that old.” He puffs a minute in silence. “But yes, you have identified me correctly. Now, what are you doing out here?”

“Trying to keep from going clinically insane.”

“You passed that a while ago,” he says, as if stating a known fact printed in a report somewhere.

“How so?”

“When you accepted the job as a PM, you just self-diagnosed.”

“So why are you drinking on the job, if I may ask?”

“I’m resigning.”

“You can’t.”

“Bullshit. This job is going to kill me. I’ve got to get out. Been at this too many years, my friend.” He flicks the cigar, staring into space.

I turn toward him to make eye contact. “Don’t. You can do this.”

“It’s not that. I want to quit. I’ve been at this many years and I’m spent. Done. Finished. No more gas in the tank, at least not the kind the company wants. Besides, I’ve got more money than I can spend, three houses—two I want and one that I don’t. A plane of my own that I don’t take enough trips in and kids I barely know anymore. Enough.”

I concede he’s right and wish him well. We talk about the market and the tremendous amount of disinformation available to investors today. He gives me a bear hug before walking back in and I return to my office moments later, to see that I have seventy-six minutes of time left—more than enough to finish what I must get done. The news today, to be announced after the close, will send a few important equities down, with little to be done about it since volume of aftermarket trading is low—a significant reason I neglect the aftermarket hours.

The stroll back to my desk is short and uneventful. I attack my to-do list intently and put my personal life out of mind. The pep talk with Bob and a fantastic cigar, combined with a few breaths of freshly polluted air, does my mind some good.

Finish trades for the day. Email. Return calls. Review questions for the TV interview later on. A strange pang settles in—doubt.

I’ve known it before, years ago on the boat that day and not a moment since.

But now, a sense that Christel is keeping information from me about this source of Jackson’s, who may be able to bring the missing link—the key witness that takes the ring by storm. And she’s silent with the details, which she must know.

Christel disclosed the source is a he, yet she waited to tell me.

I’ve never had a reason to doubt her. Until now.

C
hristel guides me and never gives reason to distrust. Always timely. Always accurate. And gives to me what I want most. It’s her insight, her foreknowledge I cannot live without. I’m not sure I would even know how to go on. I don’t much want to, either. Her knowledge of the future is essential for my work; so many good causes would suffer without her guidance. She gives with rare demand from me—often acts of charity, which I willfully give in exchange.

Not everyone can say they make other people millions. Not everyone can make a difference like this. Christel’s wisdom allows me to accomplish more in an hour at my computer than what many hardworking people will do in a lifetime. It’s not fair, but I suppose that is life.

My mind drifts to the source, and the mystery around this person and Christel—why does she keep him a secret, yet divulge some information…so to whet my appetite? I can’t help wonder how many are looking for the missing people who left, hidden by the cunning effort of the source, while family or friends are left in wonder of what ever happened.

A tap at my door startles me and Jennifer Trigueiro stands outside my office, peering in through the glass with papers in her hand. I wave her in, as my heart slows to the normal rhythm. She needs signatures for new accounts and trade confirmations.

Graced in a black and white form-fitting dress that holds to her hips and heels to match, she marches as if on a mission and takes a seat across from me.

“The favorite chair again,” I say.

“Yes, it’s my favorite.” She pauses a moment. “So am I the only one who’s been in this chair lately?”

I decide to ignore that question. I know where it goes and it could mean trouble. I return a grin and sign the documents. She waits in silence, her mind churning on the question and three other tasks she needs to do, among them if she turned off the porch lights this morning or if the cat got fed.

“So how’s Felix?” I say.

She is startled by the question. “Uh. He’s good. Getting fat again.” She laughs. “We have to put him back on that diet he was on last year.” She sniffs and continues, “Joe wants to get rid of him, insisting that he’s too expensive.”

He’s a doctor and he’s cheap. What do you expect?

I laugh and slide the forms to her with my signature affixed. “He’s your cat.”

She shrugs. “Well, he’s our cat now. I don’t understand why Joe has a problem with him. It’s not that much money.”

Sweetie, he’s going along with the wedding costs because he’s not paying for much of it, trust me.

“He’s being frugal,” I say, proposing peace.

“Are you defending him?” She smirks.

“No. Just stating the facts. He sees the cat as yours, and he doesn’t want to pay for an eight hundred dollar diet for a cat. A second time.”

She sighs while smiling a little. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

“Flamboyant, yet sophisticated.”

She smiles as if she’s flattered. “Sounds like a wine review.”

“You’re ninety points, Jennifer. Full bodied.” I joke, only to realize the mistake after the words part my lips. I must have a subliminal sickness that loves to prolong what I know is bad for me. Her mind makes no secret of her internal conflict over me; she allows herself to entertain ideas. She gets an emotional connection from me she longs for—a dangerous place for both parties.

Jennifer wants someone to listen. Not offer advice or tell her what to do or how crazy she is. Just accept and say nothing. She knows most of the things she frets about are unhealthy, but she wants to explain them, to better understand herself.

She stands, grabs the stack of papers and waves quickly on her way out. I exhale in relief, a breath that lingers past comfortable.

The clock shows I have a few minutes before I need to leave for the conference room and the interview. Little can be done by sitting around, worrying about the world around me, which, despite influence and money, I cannot control. I call research on a few reports and leave a message. It will take but a minute to answer my questions, or so I suspect. Minor annoyance, save for tomorrow.

A text message arrives from Marisa, who has an update on plans for the evening. She won’t be around for dinner, but is going out with a college friend who needs to go drinking. I tell her not to have as much as last night and that I will see her late. It figures for another long night, between Jamal and then going to see Jackson so I can get my facts straight. Hard to say whether he will let me in on his little secret. And I need to work out. Maybe I can get up early and go for a run tomorrow. Should have time for a good five-mile run to start Wednesday.

The iPhone buzzes again, this time to remind me of my appointment down the hall. I lock my computer and walk down to the conference room, where the television crew is scrambling to get ready.

Two large green screens are set up on tripods for the backdrop and two canister lights sit on tall black stands, beaming on a single chair. It looks hot under those lights, especially since I’m wearing a suit. One cameraman is a few feet away from the table and the conference chairs have been pushed to the opposite side to make room. He stands and points directly at the chair, waiting for me. Two helping hands, a young energetic woman, who looks a bit frazzled, and a middle-aged man, who is taking the stress with ease, are waiting for me.

He introduces himself, but I forget his name almost immediately. The energetic woman has me sit and starts my makeup, with paper napkins in my shirt collar. Another woman from behind adjusts my hair and in a few beleaguered minutes of prep, I get instructions for the interview. More like a crash course. I play along. The SCG staff walking by slow down or stop to watch.

This interview will be pre-recorded for Wednesday’s edition of
Squawk Box
, at six thirty
A.M.
EST on CNBC and will focus on the health of the economy and upcoming opportunities in the market.

The cues start for the countdown by hand signal. The young woman puts in an earpiece for me and sound checks start. It’s working.

Within moments, Joe Kernen, the co-anchor, comes on the line and we exchange pleasantries. He jokingly asks about how uninvolved I am with my wedding, which generates more of a laugh than warranted from me. I’m surprised he remembers or even mentions it. Must have come up via email. Nerves play a role before the broadcast, so talking about anything is a great idea.

He informs me he has six questions for the interview and runs through them quickly with me.

The questions center around the overall health of the economy, though he is most concerned about which sectors of the market I favor and where I see strength and weakness; nothing unusual for an interview of an investment manager. He will ask about earnings estimates for several equities I have minimal holdings in, though the estimates I will give are reiteration of what SCG analysts put into a report. He will also ask my opinion on a handful of stocks which are widely traded at the present time, as it garners up the television ratings to cover them.
Squawk Box
hopes something I say will cause the video to go viral on the Internet, and generate a considerable amount of attention to the show, as well as the network.

Then the lights brighten and the countdown reaches zero.

“Our guest is Colin Wyle, senior portfolio manager at Seaton Capital Group, based in Phoenix, Arizona. Good day to you, Colin, and thanks for being on the show. I, for one, am eager to hear about your strategy in this market.”

He goes on for a minute about the latest headlines: Europe’s debt debacle and the political mess, coupled with US inflation and mixed economic data around the world, and finally asks, what do I make of all this noise?

“It’s largely based on the fundamentals, Joe. The politics are out of our hands. Europe is no doubt a mess and I’ve elected to largely avoid that area of the market until I can get a better feel for where it’s heading. Thankfully, there is a substantial amount of growth overseas and here at home. And fantastic balance sheets with solid cash flows,” I say.

“What are your favorites and any forecasts?”

“I like several players in the building materials arena, since they were hard hit and are faring better than the homebuilders at this point. They didn’t get into the debt situation that the builders got themselves into and didn’t have the inventory problems either, so the valuation there is attractive and the margins are showing progressive improvement. Another is consumer staples. Although many of the players in that sector have hit new fifty-two week highs over the past three months, I think there is more room to grow given the expansion overseas with the growing population of consumers around the world.”

He asks for several specific recommendations, which I provide for each of the sectors named, and then he asks for price targets and earnings estimates. I deliberately give a lower price than what each stock will deliver.

“Rumor has it you also like financials,” Joe says.

“Limited, but yes. The balance sheets are an issue for the financials right now, as many of the assets are loosely valued and we have a hard time believing the numbers. Overall, the sector is largely undervalued in a few places, and opportunity exists, for sure. But those positions will have to be longer term, looking out several years before the real profits are realized.”

“So what’s your call for the S&P this year?” he asks, deviating from the script, but it’s not unexpected.

I tell him my estimate, which is again, lower than the actual figure by a few percentage points.