The Darlings (3 page)

“I'm sure there will be some folks here glad to see him gone as attorney general,” Paul said drily. Over the past few years, Bill Robertson had become an increasingly controversial figure in New York politics. Though his own father and brother had made fortunes in finance, Robertson had garnered a reputation as the so-called Watchdog of Wall Street. He had tripled the resources of his white-collar crime division, and had successfully prosecuted several high-profile financiers for various securities-based scandals, everything from insider trading to market timing to tax fraud. He had made enemies along the way. Wall Streeters saw him as a turncoat. Attorneys and politicians christened him a power-hungry megalomaniac. He was routinely flogged in the press for his antics in court (his rodentlike features lent themselves particularly well to caricature), which some saw as nothing more than grandstanding and obvious campaigning. And still, his power grew. When Robertson was in the room, everyone, even men like Carter Darling, took notice.

Mayor Bloomberg was standing twenty feet away, slightly apart from a cluster of very serious-looking men. Leaning in on his left was a woman in a strapless black evening gown. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she was nodding at whatever he was saying, her arms crossed at her chest. She had a razor-sharp jawline and cheekbones, all angles assembled in the most striking way.

Unlike most of the women at the party, this woman wore no jewelry and almost no makeup except for a sweep of crimson lipstick. Still, she was drawing attention. To her left, a few young men in tuxedos chatted among themselves. They seemed to be on call; every few seconds, their heads would rise slightly as if to check on the mayor and the woman with the red lipstick. Paul wondered if they were her staff or his.

“Who's the woman he's talking to?” Paul asked. Though she was well out of earshot, she looked up like a deer, sensing that she was being watched. For a brief second she locked eyes with Carter. To Paul's surprise she nodded at him in acknowledgment before turning back to her conversation. “Oh, you know her?”

“That's Jane Hewitt.” Carter said, sounding grim. “She runs the New York office of the SEC. We've met through Harvard College fund-raising.”

“Ah. More adversary than friend?”

Carter let out a dry chuckle. “A little of both, I suppose. There was an article in today's paper saying she's on the short list to be the next commissioner. That's why everyone seems to be staring at her.”

Carter himself was staring. Paul shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the SEC and turned to find a surface on which to place his empty glass.

“Speaking of the SEC,” Paul said, clearing his throat, “That lawyer keeps calling around. David Levin. I've pushed back, but he's . . . well, he's persistent.”

Carter grunted. He signaled a passing waiter with two fingers. “Probably some low-level staff attorney trying to impress his boss. What's he after now?”

“I'm not entirely sure. He's been asking questions about some of our outside managers. RCM, mostly. Just the stuff I mentioned to you last week.”

“Well, call him back, but don't give him anything you don't need to.” Carter handed the waiter his glass. “Another round,” he said. The waiter seemed to know what he meant. Paul was certain it was his customary ginger ale out of a wineglass. Though he hardly ever drank alcohol, Carter liked to give the impression he was having fun.

“Tell him we're running a business here,” Carter said gruffly. If they want more stuff from us, they need a subpoena. Period. We don't have the time to pansy around sending them shit.”

Paul began to say something, but thought better of it. “Sure,” he said instead. “I'll take care of it.”

Carter nodded, which meant the conversation was over.

From across the room, Merrill waved. She was listening to Lily, who was midstory. When Lily finished gesticulating animatedly, Merrill clapped her hands and beamed at her sister with a smile that was equal parts encouragement, indulgence, amusement. Paul had seen that scene countless times before. Though Lily was more classically assembled, Paul found Merrill's innate, unstudied gracefulness endlessly appealing. There were moments when it took the wind out of him, how unfathomably lucky he was to be her husband.

“She looks beautiful, doesn't she?” Carter said, his voice tender with pride. “All my girls do tonight.”

“I'm a lucky man, sir.”

“We both are. It's been a tough fall, but we have plenty to be thankful for in our family.”

“Indeed. I know I do.”

Carter patted Paul on the shoulder, acknowledging Paul's gratitude. He had told Paul to stop thanking him for the job, but Paul continued to do so, in quiet ways.

The band had stopped playing, and the crowd had begun to trickle out in groups of two and four. Carter pointed toward Ines and Merrill and said, “Should we get the girls to the after-party?”

Paul hesitated. “I think we may head home,” he said finally. “It's my fault; I'm a little tired tonight. Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Ines wants me to go out to East Hampton with her and get the house ready. I'll be on my cell, if you need me, or call me at the house. Ines gets testy when I take too many work calls on what she considers to be ‘family time.' I've been doing a lot of that lately, so I'm a bit in the doghouse.”

“Understood. I'm sure nothing will come up that I can't handle.”

“Good man. You're coming out Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

The men shook hands. “All right, son. Be there in time for the game. The Lions need all the fans they can get this year. Tennessee's going to give us a run for our money. I'm counting on you.”

Paul stood outside the Waldorf for a few minutes before Merrill emerged. He watched as she said good-bye to a couple he didn't know, and from the way she lingered at the hotel entrance, he could tell she was about to stand him up.

“Shall we walk home?” Paul said when she finally slid beside him. He extended the crook of his elbow to her.

“I think I'm going to stop in quickly at the after-party,” Merrill said. She busied herself with her fur coat and stared at the ground, knowing she was disappointing him. “I'm sorry! Lily convinced me. I'll only stay for a drink.”

“Okay,” he said. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised.

“Why don't we walk together, though?” she offered quickly. “The party is just up the street; it's on your way home. These shoes are actually pretty comfortable.” She laughed as she lifted the hem of her evening gown, the cold night air pricking at her exposed toes. Her toenails were painted a deep vermilion red. Her fingernails were short and unpolished. Merrill never got manicures; she claimed she couldn't sit still for that long without using her hands.

“That can't be possible,” Paul said, shaking his head, “but I can carry you the five blocks.”

She laughed. “It'll feel warmer if we start walking.” She burrowed into his side. Feeling her head against his shoulder bolstered his spirits a bit. They started up Park Avenue together, moving as briskly as her dress would allow. Paul noticed when a man passing in the opposite direction checked Merrill out; it gave him a small burst of pride and he hugged her closer to him.

Even at night, Paul loved this walk. After so many years in New York, midtown Manhattan still felt like the epicenter of the world. The steel buildings glowed with life. Outside, sleek black town cars lined the curbs while young bankers and lawyers stood in the lobbies, awaiting the delivery of their dinners. In their offices, the deals that would make tomorrow's papers were being negotiated; large sums of money were changing hands; wealth was being created. It was reassuring to see the lights still on.

They walked quietly together for a few blocks, their feet falling in rhythm on the sidewalk. “Your mom did a great job tonight, I thought,” Paul said, after a time. “Good crowd.”

“She really did. It was so hard this year, with everything that's going on. It was strange, didn't you think, to have so many people missing?” Merrill shivered involuntarily, pulling her fur tight to her body.

“I certainly noticed Mack not being there.”

“You know who else wasn't there? Morty. I was surprised. He was supposed to be at Mom and Dad's table.”

“He probably got stuck at work. It's been rocky lately. RCM's had a lot of redemption requests.”

“He's spending Thanksgiving with us,” Merrill said softly. She drew to a stop on the corner as the light began to flash Don't Walk. “I worry about him sometimes. Julianne is apparently off skiing with her friends in Aspen.” She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly. “Can you imagine us not spending Thanksgiving together? I mean, for God's sake. It's a family holiday. She should at least pretend to enjoy her husband's company.”

“Well, I suppose second marriages can be different.” Paul said, as diplomatically as possible. An image of Julianne in a white bikini and mesh sarong popped into his mind, which he tried to dismiss. This happened anytime anyone mentioned Julianne; it was what she was wearing the first time Paul met her. Julianne had a tight body but she was still just a little too old for most of her wardrobe. Her hair was thick and slightly too orange and when she smiled, Paul got a distinct sense that someone was about to be conned out of something.

“We have such a good thing, you and me,” he said. “I'm so lucky.”

Merrill laughed. “I'm no trophy wife, that's for sure.”

“You're my only wife,” he said. “Only one I'll ever have.”

She smiled. Before the light changed, she drew close to him, her lips lingering at his ear. “I'm the lucky one,” she whispered.

As they passed the Delphic headquarters, Paul looked up at his office. The Seagram Building was a colossal steel structure that shimmered bronze, even at night. At the time it was built, it was the most expensive skyscraper in the world. The solidness of it gave Paul a strange sense of confidence, as though the weight of the building assured him that his job would be there in the morning.
I'm still here
, he thought to himself, pulling his wife closer.

“Here's where I leave you,” Merrill said, when they reached the corner of Sixty-second Street.

Paul pulled her in for a quick kiss. Their lips lingered on each other's, soft and familiar. She tasted like chocolate cake, and he could smell the faint trace of champagne on her breath. “Please come home soon,” he said. “I miss my wife.”

Merrill smiled. “I will,” she said, and kissed him again on the cheek. “Just one drink, I promise.”

His eyes followed her. Just before she turned the corner, she looked back at him and gave him a little wave. The collar of her coat was up, obscuring her elegant, slender neck from view. He loved that neck. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out her BlackBerry and held it up to her ear as she disappeared into the night air.

As Paul made his way uptown, the offices gave way to residential buildings. The sidewalks grew quiet, populated only by couples walking their dogs or coming home from a late dinner. The temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up, ruffling the awnings overhead and the branches of the trees. By the time Paul reached home, his nose was raspberry red. He sprinted the last block, straight through the lobby, and pulled off his tie while he was still in the elevator. Too tired to do anything else, he stripped off his suit and crawled into bed without brushing his teeth. When Merrill crawled in beside him a few hours later, he was already in a deep and dreamless sleep.

WEDNESDAY, 6:23 A.M.

F
or once, the morning news was focused on something other than the turmoil in the markets. Traffic reports streamed in, along with lighter fare about holiday weight gain and teaching kids the true meaning of Thanksgiving. The local channels were all focused on the winter storm that was approaching the Northeast. It had moved quickly up the Florida coastline and was threatening to clog roads and delay flights from Washington, D.C., to New Hampshire.

While the coffee was brewing, Paul flipped aimlessly through the channels. He paused on CNBC in the hopes of a market update. The
Squawk Box
anchors were discussing the debut of Papa Smurf, the newest balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade. They were dressed casually, in turtlenecks. After the footage of the balloons stopped, one commentator said with a bland smile, “Everyone needs a holiday right now, don't you think? I know Wall Street does.” Paul raised his mug.
Cheers to that
, he thought. He was fighting a mild hangover from the night before, and his temples were pulsing. Even a scotch or two got him drunk these days, and he wasn't used to staying out late on a Tuesday. The other anchors nodded in concurrence and then went to black as Paul clicked off the screen.

“It's gotten chilly out there, Mr. Ross,” said Raymond, as he opened the lobby door for Paul. He was wearing a navy overcoat atop his doorman's uniform, and black leather gloves. Raymond was a beefy Irishman, with light blue eyes and fingers like salamis. The kind of man who seemed to thrive in cold climates. If Raymond was wearing a coat, it was cold.

Raymond's ruddy cheeks glowed as he made this pronouncement. He always liked to comment on the weather. “That coat's not going to do it for ya this morning, I don't think.” He said, nodding at Paul's Barbour jacket.

“Thanks, Raymond,” Paul said. He paused just inside the lobby, zipping up. “Still early. Hoping it'll warm up a bit.”

“You and Mrs. Ross taking off for the holiday?”

“We are. Driving out to East Hampton first thing in the morning. Are you working tomorrow?”

Raymond shook his head. “No sir. You couldn't pay me enough to work on Thanksgiving. They pay us double, you know, so some of the boys like to take the holiday shift. But nothing more important than family. Not for me, sir.”

“Couldn't agree with you more, Raymond. Nothing more important than family.”

Paul turned up his collar and walked out onto Park Avenue. The
Wall Street Journal
was tucked beneath his arm. He felt bleary-eyed, and the air hit him like a punch. It wasn't yet 7:30 a.m. and the sun was still lingering behind the buildings to the east. For a moment, he thought about returning upstairs for a scarf. He checked his watch and decided against it.

“Have a good holiday,” he called over his shoulder to Raymond, his breath hanging heavy in the morning chill.

It had been two months since Paul had started at Delphic, almost to the day. He had only just begun to find a rhythm. It was hard to feel settled; the markets undulated so wildly that even seasoned professionals felt unhinged. Every day began with a quiet hush, like horses lined up at the gate, pawing nervously at the dust. Though everyone was polite and apologetically busy, no one at Delphic had the time to show Paul much more than the men's room. Paul had never filled a general counsel role and Delphic had never had a general counsel, so the job was largely a project of mutual invention.

Paul's only form of orientation had happened at the same time as his interview. When Carter had called Paul into his office, Howary's doors had been closed less than two weeks. From the window behind Carter's desk, Paul had watched the flow of dark suits on their pilgrimage down Park Avenue. For years, he had gone to work just two blocks north; a part of him couldn't entirely believe that it was over. The surreality of sitting in a leather armchair in his father-in-law's office, resumé in hand, implicitly begging for employment, made the situation almost bearable.

Carter started off the meeting graciously, almost apologetically, as if Paul were doing him a favor by showing up. He gestured for him to sit, then pressed an intercom button and asked for coffee. “I appreciate you coming down, Paul,” he said. “Do you want anything to eat?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“I was glad to get Merrill's call. It's been a crazy quarter, and we could really use another hand on deck.”

“I appreciate you thinking of me, sir.”

The door opened and a woman came in, wheeling a silver cart. After they had helped themselves to coffee, Carter thanked her and she disappeared wordlessly back into the hallway. Once the door was closed, he said, “So here's the thing. My job used to be eighty percent offense, twenty percent defense. Now, it's completely inverted. I barely have time to respond to all my preexisting clients, much less go out and get new ones. Everyone wants to redeem out. If they aren't pulling their money, they're thinking about it. They want to talk about it. Investor Relations has turned into a triage center.”

Paul nodded soberly. “How many people do you have in the IR department?”

“A couple top guys. But it doesn't really matter.” Carter shook his head. “I've had relationships with a lot of these folks for years. Some of my clients have been with me since JPMorgan. They don't want their hand held by some pretty Investor Relations girl wearing a nice suit. They want to talk to me, or to Alain, or at least someone who works directly for me or Alain.”

“How far down are you?” Paul asked.

Carter began to clean his glasses. Paul wondered if he wasn't supposed to be asking questions.

Still cleaning, Carter said, “Good question. Some of the funds are doing better than others. We're divided into five main funds, each with a different tilt. An inside manager here at Delphic oversees each of the funds. Alain oversees all the inside managers. As you know, we're a fund of funds, so our inside managers aren't directly managing the assets under their control: They're hand selecting outside managers. Only one of our funds, the Frederick Fund, is a single-manager strat. That means a single outside manager holds primarily all of its assets; in this case, its RCM, Morty Reis's fund. Our other funds are generally subdivided among multiple outside managers, between three and ten depending on the fund and the timing. Some of the outside managers are doing fine, a few are doing abysmally, and one I'm going to get rid of in”—Carter stopped to glance at his Patek Philippe watch—“about twenty-five minutes.”

He placed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “We'll discuss details later,” he said, nodding quickly. It was clear he felt almost as awkward about this interview as Paul did. “I don't keep a big staff here at Delphic. We've been resisting the idea of getting a general counsel for years. For a few years we had a CFO with a law degree so he wore both hats, so to speak. But we lost him a year ago, and we've been on autopilot since then, relying on outside counsel when we need it. But with the markets the way they are, it's just too risky for us not to have someone in-house. Candidly, it would be of particular use to me to have someone whom I can put in front of clients as my proxy. If they can't see me, they can see my son-in-law. See what I'm saying?”

“I'm not a pretty Investor Relations girl wearing a nice suit.”

Carter chuckled. “Don't sell yourself short, Paul. You deserve this job. But you're also great with people, and right now there are a lot of folks who need seeing. When things calm down, we'll get you back into more of a traditional GC role if that's what you want. But for the moment, I'd like it if you could come help me out with the client side of the business. You don't ski, do you, son?”

“No, sir. Last winter in Vail was my first time.”

“Was it?” Carter's left eyebrow rose in slight amusement. “Didn't show.”

He couldn't tell if Carter was being serious. Paul had spent the entire vacation with his knees turned into an uncontrollable pizza wedge, hoping not to run into his wife. All of the Darlings were expert skiers. Every President's Day weekend, the family spent four days together out in Vail or Gstaad or Whistler. Paul had been able to plead his way out of the trip in years prior, claiming one work obligation or another, but the previous year, Merrill had insisted. When she found out that he had never set foot on a ski slope in his life, she surprised him by arranging for a private instructor—a peppy woman named Linda—to babysit him all weekend. It was one of those misguided presents, simultaneously thoughtful and completely thoughtless. Generous and hopelessly emasculating.

“I started alpine skiing at the age of six,” Carter announced. He had told Paul this before but Paul smiled encouragingly anyway. Carter always seemed to relax when he talked about one of his sports. “I still enjoy it, but telemarking is my true love. Do you know what telemarking is, Paul?”

“No, sir.”

“I like to think of it as a blend of cross-country and alpine skiing. The binding of the boot attaches only at the toe, so your heel can come up off the ski. You get the rush of downhill, but with the flexibility of cross-county. Best of both worlds, I think. The boots allow you to really feel the mountain, to work with it.” Carter's eyes grew soft and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “I think good investors tend to be good skiers,” he said. He leaned in, as though he were sharing a trade secret. “They stay on their toes. They react fast. Even if that means changing course on a hairpin.”

Paul shifted in his chair, trying not to look bemused. “Given my performance in Vail, sir, I'm not sure that bodes well for me.”

“Ahh, we'll make a skier of you yet, Paul,” Carter said solemnly. “Point is: These markets require agility. If we're going to survive, we're going to have to stay flexible.”

“Indeed.” Paul concurred, wondering if he was in over his head. It was a done deal now. Maybe it had always been, and everyone but Paul had the prescience to understand that.

“It's going to be hectic around here for a while. You'll have to hit the ground running.”

“I understand.”

“Take a day or so to think it over, if you like. Come back to me when you're ready and we'll talk compensation. And Paul?”

“Yes, sir?” Paul said, jumping to his feet.

“Call me Carter, for chrissake. I was just going to say, think up a title for yourself while you're at it. General Counsel, SVP; don't care what it is, as long as you don't come off sounding like a member of the Windsor family.”

In his first few weeks of work, Paul was surprised to discover how big an operation Delphic actually was. He felt as though he had opened the back of a giant clock: The bullpen computers buzzed, the conference rooms sparkled, secretaries slipped quietly up and down the halls like well-oiled gears. Even the day before Thanksgiving it hummed along like a machine. As Paul swiped in through the large glass doors, a rush of filtered air and kinetic energy hit him. The lights were on and a few associates sped past him down the hall. Paul was surprised to see so many people at work. He nodded to Ida, Carter's secretary, who was talking into her headset. She signaled him over with one hand, like an air traffic controller bringing him in for a landing, and he waited in front of her cube as she wrapped up her call. The firm's mascot, a gleaming bronze lion, stared at him with unmoving eyes from across the hallway. The statue stood perpetual guard over Carter's office, a gift from Carter's lawyer, Sol Penzell.

“Terry's out today,” Ida said crisply, when she hung up. She gave Paul an efficient smile. “I'm filling in for her. Anything you need, you just give a shout.”

“Thanks, Ida,” he said. “I appreciate it.” He turned toward his office. His was the next door down from Carter's. Paul still found the proximity vaguely unnerving.

“Oh, Paul,” Ida called. “A woman from the SEC named Alexa Mason called for you. She said it was urgent.”

“Alexa Mason?” Paul stopped and turned around, his hand still on the door handle. “This early? Did she say what about?”

“She left a voice mail. She said she's working with David Levin. She told me to say that.”

Paul nodded. “Thanks, Ida. I'll get back to her.”

“Do you need her number?” Ida asked, but Paul had already shut the door.

In the safety of his office, Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His shoulder blades rose and fell gently against the wall. The message light on his phone flashed an insistent red. It elevated his heart rate just to look at it.

I'm not ready to talk to anyone at the SEC
, he thought.
Even Alexa.

He sat down at his desk and, after a minute, turned the phone to face the wall so that he couldn't see the light.

By noon, Paul had worked his way through a stack of agreements that needed his sign-off. Since most of the senior management was out of the office, he had kicked off his loafers and was sitting crossed-legged on his desk chair. He had forgotten Alexa's call, or, at least, pushed it to the recesses of his mind.