The Futures(32)

“Not an asshole. I get it.”

“Well. You’re nice, Evan. You’re not like those other guys, you know?”

Guilt twinged in my chest occasionally during those hours we spent talking, sometimes till the end of her shift. Hours I should have been spending with Julia. I worried Julia could smell the bar on me when I got home, stale beer and smoky whiskey clinging to my shirt before I stuffed it into the laundry pile. I found myself daydreaming about Maria. It reminded me of high school—a girl waiting by your locker after the last bell. Consistent pleasures: the same familiar face, day in and day out.

Maria drew a Guinness for me. “What’s going on tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“You guys are all worked up. All of you.”

“Oh. It’s the market. This could be the end for a lot of companies.”

“Okay, but you’ll be fine, though.”

“But that’s the thing. Nobody knows. There’s never been anything like this. Nobody knows what could happen to Spire.”

“Well, I don’t mean Spire. I mean you. Say you get fired, go bankrupt, whatever. You aren’t going to have a problem getting a job. I mean, look at you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that.” She laughed. “I mean you’re smart, you’re polite, you look like a guy anyone could trust. You fit right in. Guys like you don’t stay unemployed for long.”

Someone was waving her down. She rested her hand on mine before she walked away. Maria was good at her job. “Don’t worry too much about it, Evan. You’re just one of those people. It’s all going to work out, you know?”

“Evan. Come on in.”

This was the following evening, Tuesday night. It was the first time Michael’s door had been open and unguarded in almost two days.

“Is this an okay time?” Michael was typing fast, glancing over his shoulder at a chart, ignoring the blinking messages on his phone. His office looked like a war zone.

“Fine, fine. I sent Wanda home. What do you have there?”

“The WestCorp models. They’re almost finished, but I need to check an assumption with you before running it.”

“What is it?”

I took a deep breath. “The exports to the Chinese market. I wasn’t sure what tariffs they’re subject to and how much that’s going to affect us. I’ve done some research, and there’s a lot of variation in the taxes on lumber exported to China, so I thought I’d go with a rough average, something like—”

“Zero.”

“Pardon?”

“Your number is zero. The WestCorp exports won’t be subject to any tariffs or taxes. Is that all?”

“Well—yes. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Good.” Michael turned back to his computer. I started toward the door, but I couldn’t help myself. It had been puzzling me for so long. And it still didn’t quite make sense.

“Michael, just want to be sure—no tariffs or taxes at all for these exports, none? It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of—”

He spun in his chair and stared at me, anger flaring in his eyes. “No,” he said sharply. “No tariffs. None. Put that in the model and run it. E-mail me the numbers when you have them. Then go home.”

Back at my desk, as I plugged the last numbers into the model, I felt a hot flush spread under my collar. I shouldn’t have questioned Michael like that. In all my research, I’d never seen a scenario in which the trade barriers had been dropped completely. But he was the boss after all. Maybe I hadn’t looked hard enough.

After the model was finished, I checked everything over slowly. The papers were still warm in my hands when I walked over to Michael’s office, a stupid-big grin stuck to my face. Assuming we took even a conservative position on WestCorp, the money we stood to make was staggering. I had to read it twice, three times to be sure. This kind of good news ought to be delivered in person. When I got there, the door was nearly closed. Michael was on the phone. I almost didn’t recognize him—his voice was strange, different. It quieted. I edged a little closer.

Then Michael spoke again. Another language. It sounded familiar.

Then I remembered: in his usual overly ambitious way, Arthur had decided to take up a new language junior year, even though he already spoke French and Spanish. He stayed up late every night, practicing his tones and inflections. This was the fluent version of those efforts. Michael was speaking Mandarin.

A prickle ran up my spine. Odd. Michael had always asked one of the third-year analysts, a Princeton grad who spoke flawless Mandarin, to translate on conference calls with the Chinese. Michael never spoke on those calls, not once.

It went silent again. I was about to leave the model in the in-box on Wanda’s desk, but I hesitated. I’d e-mail it instead. Better not to have evidence that I’d been hanging around. Overhearing things that I strongly suspected I wasn’t supposed to overhear.

The apartment was dark when I got home. It was early for me, just past eleven, but Julia was already asleep.

I sat on the futon and opened my computer. I found myself typing Michael Casey’s name in the search bar. Strangely, it had never occurred to me before, to do this. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. Maybe an explanation for what I’d overheard. The creepy feeling that I couldn’t shake.