Bond Girl (29 page)

“Try please. He's in a pissy mood and I have to go up his office in Midtown at noon for a meeting. Is there any way you can get it to me in time? I'm drowning. I've got a new boss, a new client that hates me, and I'm about a week away from ending up in an asylum.”

“I'll try my best. I'll send you whatever I have around eleven, okay?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”

“Damn right you do!” he yelled as I ran back to my desk.

I rang up our chief economist's office, reaching his plucky secretary. By some kind of finance miracle, he was free for a lunch meeting and his secretary offered to order the car. I pulled up our internal analytical system and began to upload graphs and bar charts. I summoned everything Chick had ever taught me, threw it all into a few additional charts, making sure that both the X and Y axes were labeled properly and that the colors would be easily distinguishable from one another. One thing I had learned from the bankers was to never underestimate the importance of color coordination. I saved the file, uploaded it onto an e-mail, and looked at the clock.

Ten thirty.

I checked my e-mail. There was a file from the repo desk. I uploaded it on to a spreadsheet, and waited for the file from the structured notes desk. At 11:02 I received an e-mail with the subject line, “You owe me.” I dumped that data into a spreadsheet, sent the whole thing to the copy center with the subject header, “Life or death, need ten copies. Pick up in 20 minutes.”

Send.

I stopped by the trading desk to find out how they were positioned before sprinting up to the copy center to grab my books, still warm from the machines.

“Where are you heading?” Drew asked as I grabbed my bag.

“AKS. He wanted me to bring Bob up there for a lunch meeting . . .” As soon as I said the L-word, I froze.

Lunch.

Shit.

I had forgotten to order the steaks. I grabbed a
Zagat's Guide
from my desk and typed the number into my phone memory as I ran off the floor holding a stack of pitch books under my arm like a football. Then I punched in the digits for AKS.

Mercifully, Rick's secretary answered on the first ring. I fished a pen from the bottom of my purse and, as she dictated, I scribbled the order on the back of the opposite hand.

I lost service while I rode the elevator, so I had to wait until I reached the lobby to dial the number for the Palm.

“Hi, yes, I need to place an order for delivery and I should've called sooner and I know it's short notice but if this food is late, I'm dead.”

“We'll try our best,” the man said. I saw Bob, our Very Important Economist, waiting impatiently at the bottom of the escalator. I tried to wave but I couldn't with the books occupying one hand and the phone in the other, especially since I needed to be able to read the order off the back of my hand carrying the books. I wobbled off the escalator, nodded in Bob's direction, and ran up to the car dispatcher's desk. I threw the
Zagat's
and my books on the counter and repeated the lunch order into my phone.

“Six strips medium rare, two medium strips, two orders of fries, a dozen bottles of Pellegrino, two Caesar salads, and one shrimp cocktail.” The car dispatcher looked at me inquiringly.

“Confirmation number 9912,” I said.

“What's that about 9912?” the Palm guy asked.

“No, that wasn't for you, sorry. Did you get the order?”

“Your car's out front, with instructions to wait,” the car dispatcher said. I nodded and mouthed a thank-you to the dispatcher, grabbed the pitch books off the counter, and sprinted back toward Bob. I dumped the books in his hands, which he didn't appreciate, and pushed through the revolving doors without saying a word.

“Credit card number?” the Palm guy asked. The phone was lodged between my ear and my shoulder.

“Car 9912!” I yelled to yet another dispatcher waiting on the curb.

“Okay, 9912, next four digits?”

“No, what? That's not for you, sorry. Hold on one second. That's not the card number.” I slid into the backseat of the car and Bob climbed in behind me, still holding my presentations, and not hiding the fact that he didn't consider serving as my lackey a part of his job description.

I dug my American Express card out of my wallet and read off the number.

The driver turned and looked at us. “Where to?”

“Fifty-Eighth and Sixth.”

The Palm guy asked, “What about fifty-eight?”

“No, NO. That's not for you either.”

“You're confusing me, miss. Can we go over the order again?” I held my hand over the mouthpiece of my phone and repeated the AKS address to the driver. I turned my attention back to the lunch order, well aware of the fact that if I screwed up lunch, it wouldn't matter how much information I brought with me to the meeting. I'd be dead.

“Okay, let's confirm,” I said. I reviewed my hand and mentally crossed off each item as the Palm guy read the order back to me. “That's right. I need it in twenty-five minutes.
Please.”

He must have heard the panic in my voice because I thought I heard a note of compassion in his voice as the Palm guy assured me, “We'll try, miss. We'll really try.”

I hung up, panting. Bob shoved the books into my lap. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm so, so, so sorry. Today has just been a mess and this meeting popped up last minute and I wasn't really prepared. But now I am. I think.”

“Well, pull it together before we get up there. Rick is an important client. I've known him for years. I don't usually attend meetings with salespeople so out of sorts. It's not the Cromwell way.”

I laughed to myself
. Let me tell you a thing or two about the Cromwell way . . .

We arrived at the AKS office and I literally ran into two delivery guys in the lobby. They were holding large cardboard boxes and plastic bags, waiting to check in at the security desk. “Follow me,” I said, leading the way.

Rick met us in the hallway outside the conference room. He greeted Bob warmly—like they were about to start a round of golf—before turning to me.

“Alex, how are you?” he asked as he kissed me on my cheek, letting his lips linger a little longer than was necessary. “Do you have everything I asked for?”

“I do,” I said triumphantly.

“We'll see,” he said, sounding none too pleased. “Right this way, everyone is waiting in the conference room.”

We followed him into a large room containing a massive mahogany table surrounded by buttery leather chairs. A large flat-screen TV dominated one wall. I placed the food in the middle of the table and set up the waters on a side console by an ice bucket and crystal glasses. Rick and his colleagues attacked the food, piling their plates high. Bob and I sat at the head of the table, without so much as a glass of tap water. This wasn't a lunch meeting for
us
. We were here to work.

I sat back in my chair and listened intently as we flipped through the data I'd collected and Bob walked us through the collapse of the financial markets. It scared me. If Bob was right, things were a lot worse than I had thought. Bob fielded questions for over an hour once he had finished, and I took notes so that I would have something smart and different to tell my other clients when I called them later. As much as this meeting was for Rick and his minions, it was for me, too. I had been extremely lucky to gain access to Bob who, as Very Important Economist, was in high demand throughout the company and, increasingly, around the world. When the caucus had concluded, we shook hands with the AKS traders and strategists, and Rick walked us back to the elevators. I looked at my watch, 2:30.
That was a long-ass lunch meeting.

“Thanks, Bob,” Rick said genuinely as he shook his hand. “It was really a pleasure to hear your views on the current situation.”

“No problem, Rick. Great to see you. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.”

Bob stepped into the elevator and I turned to say good-bye to my tormentor.

“Let me know if you have any questions on any of the material I brought for you. Thanks again for the meeting. I'm glad it was productive,” I said.

“It was.” He leaned in close to me and whispered in a low tone, “It was quite the feather in your cap getting Bob up here on such short notice. What
did
you have to promise him to get him to agree?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing; I just told him that you were the client and he jumped at the chance to come see you guys.” Sucking up is a skill I have mastered.

“You always have an answer, Alex. It's really amazing.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” I said sarcastically.

Rick glanced at the Very Important Economist, still standing in the elevator, and said, “You go on down, Bob. Alex will meet you in a minute. I just want to give her a few last-minute instructions before you guys head back downtown.” He leaned in the elevator car, punched the Close Doors button, and turned to face me as my final safeguard vanished.

“Okay, listen up,” Rick said, a fake smile plastered on his smug face. “You can make this easy on yourself if you want to. You know that. But if you continue to be a bitch, I'm going to treat you like one. You've been covering me for one day so far.
One day
. How much longer do you think you can handle me like this? When Chick was here I had to play nice, out of respect for him. But Chick's gone. It's a whole new ball game now.”

He left me standing alone in the hallway, wondering how the hell I had ended up there.

We got back to the office at 3:00, and I spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing everything I had missed while I was in Midtown. When 5:30 rolled around and everyone made their daily trek down to the bar, I jumped to join them. As I chased after Drew and Reese, my brain finally was able to focus on what had happened.

Chick was gone. He wasn't coming back. What did that mean for me?

Everyone from our desk was at the tables set up on the sidewalk outside the restaurant next door to the Cromwell building. The place was unusually crowded, even for a sweltering day in June. This was our new normal: drinks after work. Every single day. On days when no one got let go, we drank to celebrate that. On days when our friends were fired, we drank to lament that. Today was a Tuesday, so we drank. We were out every night, all of us drinking to relieve the pressure and pretend somehow it would all be okay. Lately, no matter how much we drank, it wasn't enough.

Tonight the usual bucket of beers and plate of sliders were in the middle of the table; no one was touching the burgers. Which said a lot.

“This is bullshit. Now we have to start over with Darth of all people?” Drew said.

“What happens now?” Patty asked as she stuffed a lime into the neck of her Corona.

“I'm fucked.” I was not in the mood to mince words. “Darth hates me, you guys. I don't even know why—it's not like I ever had anything to do with him, but he absolutely hates me. He's going to fire me, mark my words.” I looked around the table at Reese, Marchetti, Drew, and Patty. None of them had any idea what I was talking about.

“You're losing it, sugar. Stop overreacting. You've got Rick now. You're untouchable,” Reese said.

“If Rick is supposed to be what saves me, then I'm really screwed. The only reason Rick wanted me to cover him was so that he could make my life a living hell. By the way, he's succeeding.”

“What are you talking about?” Marchetti asked. I hadn't had a chance to tell anyone about what was going on with Rick, but Drew knew some of it since he sat next to me all day.

“No. She's right. That guy is toxic. He hit on her and told her he would do a ton of trades with her if she went out with him. Now he's using business as leverage to try to make her sleep with him.”

“Thanks for explaining, Drew.”

“No problem, killer.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Patty cried. I couldn't tell if she was outraged on my behalf or simply offended that I hadn't confided in her. “Why don't you just tell Darth you want off the account?”

“I can't tell Darth I want off the account. If I give up AKS, I'm admitting that I can't handle him. It would be career suicide. I'm hoping he gets tired of being such a huge asshole and loosens up. He can't go on like this forever. Can he?”

Reese seemed to think about it for a minute, his brow furrowed while he looked up at the clear blue sky. “Yes, he can. That guy's a dick, always has been and always will be. He loves making the Street beg for his business. He'll fuck you either way and have fun doing it.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”

“Just telling you how it is, sugar. I'm sorry. I wish it weren't true, but he's one of the biggest pricks I've ever met in this business, and I've been doing this a long time.”

Oh shit.

“Reese, did you call Chick last night?” I asked.

“Yeah, I did. He's pissed off, obviously. Sounds like he got caught up in some political bullshit. Upper management is scrambling to control the damage on the floor, and I guess Chick didn't suck up to them as much as Darth did. So the powers that be fired him and moved Darth into our group. Just another day on the Street.”

“Is he okay, though?” I worried about Chick being out of work in this economy. He was an expensive hire. It wasn't going to be easy for him to find another place to work anytime soon.

“He'll be fine. He's a smart guy. As soon as things settle down someone will hire him and be very lucky to get him. Hell, hopefully he can get a job in management somewhere and hire us all out of this hellhole. This place is a sinking ship,” Reese said.

I sighed. I hoped he was right. I scanned the faces of my friends sitting at the table and sensed they were all thinking the same thing.