The Futures(20)

He paused. “You can all relax, you know. Christ. Loosen up, people.”

Someone laughed, then another person. Someone started clapping.

“See, that’s what I want.” Kleinman smiled. “We’re smarter and faster and better than the other guys. I’m not saying this isn’t serious—you all know people who will lose their jobs, people whose companies might even go under. But if you keep doing what you’re doing, you can sleep at night knowing that your future at Spire is secure.

“So. That begs the question: Why am I taking up your very valuable time? Right now there’s a helicopter sitting on the roof of this building that will take me to Teterboro, where I’m getting on a plane to DC. I’m joining the government advisory team until we get through this crisis. I got the call early this morning, and I wasn’t given much time to decide. But it was clear to me what I had to do.”

Kleinman glanced around the silent room for reactions.

“This means that for the next few weeks or the next few months, or however long this takes to settle down, I’m handing over the reins to Michael Casey. Michael will lead you through this just as well as I could myself. And we didn’t get to where we are today by caving under pressure. So don’t fuck this up.” Another small wave of laughter, and he smiled again. “I’ll see you all on the other side.”

Kleinman stood up. The rest of the executives followed suit, nodding at him crisply, ready to do battle. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his secretary chasing him with a pen and one last piece of paper to sign. Everyone started to file out. Only Michael remained seated. Running his hands over the finely grained wood of the table, and smiling to himself.





Chapter 4


Julia



I’d taken to having the news on in the background while I got ready for work to dispel the constant quiet. Since he’d started working on this WestCorp deal, Evan had been out the door before my alarm had even gone off, every day for weeks.

I was clicking through channels while I brushed my teeth and stopped on CNBC as it returned from a commercial. I sat down on the futon, the minty toothpaste tingling in my mouth. It was Monday morning, and a situation that had looked uncertain before the weekend had exploded into full-blown apocalyptic chaos. Weeks earlier, Evan had explained to me how the housing slump would actually help Spire’s position on this WestCorp deal—the further the market sunk, the more Spire eventually stood to gain—but at that moment, even he seemed worried about how fast it was happening. We had watched the news the previous night: Enormous firms shuttering, thousands of people losing their jobs, billions of dollars vanishing overnight. Friends of ours saddled with apartment leases they could no longer afford. I knew I shouldn’t enjoy it too much, but I couldn’t help it: part of me felt a weird thrill at our positions suddenly flipping. I was employed while they were adrift.

Evan had been pacing in front of the TV the previous night, Sunday night, worrying about what might happen. This panic was new; I’d never known him like this. “But Spire’s going to be fine, right?” I said. That’s what he’d been saying to me all along. “They’re not going to fire you. Right?”

“They’re not going to fire you,” I’d said with more conviction earlier that summer, before either of us had started work. We were standing in the Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue, the afternoon sun flaring through the windows. I was drinking a Pellegrino and watching Evan in the mirror in the fitting area.

He laughed. “I hope not.”

“So why worry whether they’re returnable? You’ll be wearing these for years.”

He adjusted his tie. “Habit, I guess.”

“You look great. I think you should get both.”

He’d never owned a suit before. That morning in early July, he had been looking up the address for a discount retailer downtown. “You still have all of your signing bonus?” I’d asked, and he nodded. “Okay. Come with me.” There was a Brooks Brothers near our apartment. He’d guffawed at the price tag on the suit I pointed out, but I pushed him toward the dressing room. “Could you help us?” I asked a salesman. “He’s probably a forty-two long. He needs one in blue and one in gray. And some shirts and ties.” When the salesman went to get his pincushion, Evan looked at the price again, whistled, and wondered out loud whether he could return them.

But I think he knew, even then, even if they were nicer than what he needed, that he looked too good not to keep them. When he stood on the raised block to let the salesman adjust the hem of his pants, it was like a time-fuzzed image snapping back into focus. I could appreciate just how handsome he was, as I had at the beginning. His sandy brown hair, his light blue eyes. Wearing the trappings of adulthood like a natural. Our gazes met in the mirror, and he smiled at me.

“I’m glad you made me get them,” Evan said. We were walking back to the apartment, a bag with his new shirts and ties swinging from one hand. He’d pick up the altered suits in a few days. He kissed me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I was proud of him. Really, I was. He was a boy from the middle of nowhere who had gotten himself to Yale. He was working at the most famous hedge fund in New York, leaving for work every morning in his finely made suits. He’d said it to me more than once that summer. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I knew he meant it as a compliment. But Evan was always better at taking direction from others than he was at taking direction from himself. It could have been anyone prodding him to get a better suit, and his gratitude would have come out sounding the same. My being the prodder was only incidental.