The Futures(19)

“Leave it off,” I said, when Julia went to turn on the lights in our apartment. I kicked the door closed and pushed her up against the wall. She tasted like sweet white wine, and that made me even harder, knowing that she was drunk. She snaked her fingers through my hair. She was yanking loose my tie, unbuttoning my shirt, unbuckling my belt. I hitched up her dress and we had sex against the living room wall, her legs wrapped around me. “Oh, God, Evan,” she said, her fingertips digging into my scalp, our bodies slamming into the wall. “Oh, my God.”

We collapsed on the bed afterward. We hadn’t had sex like that in a long time. Later, I realized that I never told Julia what happened at work. It was the whole reason I’d been trying to get her attention, but when I finally had it, I’d completely forgotten about it.

The blue binder from Michael was waiting right where I’d left it the night before. I’d woken up without an alarm that morning, showered, and gone straight to the office. While I was waiting for my computer to warm up, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open and shut, considering whether to call Arthur. Maybe I was making too big a deal about our fight. But it wasn’t even 10:00 a.m., and Arthur liked to sleep late. I put the phone back in my pocket and opened the binder.

It contained a massive sheaf of information about the state of the North American lumber markets: quarterly reports, stock trends, charts and graphs of historical data, analyst predictions for the coming years. The recommendation was unanimously bleak. The rest of 2008 into 2009 and 2010 and beyond was terrible. In our conversation the night before, Michael had hinted about a new source of demand, but what new source of demand? I couldn’t see it. My optimism started to evaporate. Suddenly someone was paying attention to my work. This might be the thing that exposed me as a fraud once and for all.

Roger sauntered in later. “Whatcha working on there, Peck?” he drawled.

“Just something for Michael,” I said. The last thing Michael had told me was to keep quiet about this new assignment, for the time being. Roger stared for a beat before he sat down. He made a point, later that day, of not inviting me to lunch. He didn’t say good-bye that night, either. But I didn’t care. I was going to have bigger problems than Roger if I didn’t figure this out fast.

It was only at the very end of the day, when the office had emptied again, that I finally saw it. The page was headlined BRITISH COLUMBIA PRODUCERS—PACIFIC WESTCORP. The number I’d been focusing on was “Growth Forecast 2009.” It was a useful indicator, and for the most part that number had been negative, often double-digit negative. Flat at the very best. But Pacific WestCorp was predicting 200 percent growth for the next fiscal year.

Two hundred percent growth. I reached for a highlighter.

There was a line in fine print that broke out the predicted revenue for 2009 in terms of North American versus international markets. Nearly all of next year’s revenue for Pacific WestCorp was predicted to come from international markets. And below that was an analyst’s note: Pacific WestCorp predicts exports to China in FY 2009 will increase tenfold, to $500 million CAD.

I sighed in relief, letting the yellow highlighter bleed through the paper. But a series of questions sprang to life in the back of my mind, like popcorn popping in the microwave. Why weren’t these predictions making news all over the Street? Why wasn’t everyone lining up behind this company? If this held true, it would be the easiest decision anyone ever had to make—Pacific WestCorp was going to make a fortune. But the answers sprang up, too, like echoes to the popping questions. Investors were often skittish about exports to China. It was a risky game, and the taxes and tariffs and unpredictable barriers to entry were enough to dissuade most people. There were far saner ways to make money. The Chinese didn’t always play by the same rules as we did, and that was a dangerous proposition when hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake.

“China,” Michael had said with a smile, just before the elevator door closed.

*

As the market sunk deeper, the numbers that had been hovering in the back of my mind started to loop obsessively: my student loans and my share of the rent on one side, the comforting and hefty regularity of my paychecks on the other. I couldn’t admit my worry aloud. No one at work talked much about the crisis as it escalated. It was too big to put words to; too abstract, too unknown, but mostly too frightening.

But, finally, on the morning of Monday, September 15, our CEO, David Kleinman, summoned the entire office to the fortieth-floor boardroom before the markets opened. Lehman was about to go under, and Merrill was on the edge. What Michael had been talking about was finally here, the water lapping at our doorstep.

Roger hummed the death march as we walked up the fire stairs. “A hundred bucks says at least ten people go home today,” he said.

“Jesus, Roger, don’t say that.”

“Is that a bet?”

“Hell, no. If I’m fired, I’m gonna need all the money I can get.”

“You’re not getting fired, teacher’s pet.”

We continued trudging. I’d been wondering when Roger was going to say something. There was no way he hadn’t noticed my increased tempo, the early mornings and late nights and busy weekends, all of it because of the budding WestCorp deal. But he’d kept his mouth shut over the previous month, concealing what was almost certainly jealousy.

Kleinman walked into the boardroom. “Everyone here?” he asked. His bald pate shone under the lights. Michael, to his right, nodded at him. “Good,” Kleinman continued. “The reason I’ve called you here this morning—well, you know the reason. It’s a shitstorm out there, and today’s only going to get worse. Now, let me make this clear from the start. Spire is healthy and profitable, and we are well equipped to weather this. No one is being let go. I repeat, no one is being let go. Not today, not for the foreseeable future.”