The Futures(73)

I walked back to my side of the floor, scanning faces and computer screens and conversations for clues. The floor was emptier than usual, but the lunch hour would explain that. A muted TV flashed silently in the lobby. Two analysts tossed a Nerf football back and forth from their opposing desks. The wind outside had picked up, and when I stood at the windows at the edge of the building, I could see black umbrellas popping up like mushrooms on the street far below. The last of the lingering snow would be gone by the afternoon.

At my desk, I hit the space bar a few times to wake my computer. I watched Roger nodding his head to the music in his earbuds, typing with emphatic keystrokes, looking perfectly normal, exactly like he looked every day.

But I knew, even if I didn’t know what: something was wrong.

That night was supposed to be the Spire holiday party, an extravagant dinner at the Waldorf or the Pierre followed by a long night of drinking. It had been canceled this year. The recession made it impossible, both financially and optically. The secretaries felt bad for us, so they improvised. Tinsel was strung in the hallways, and miniature Christmas trees and menorahs decorated their desks. Around 6:00 p.m., someone went around offering beer and Champagne. There was a scrappy, festive mood that night. The year from hell was nearly over.

But I was restless. That afternoon, like something out of a dream, I found myself back at Michael’s door, arm raised and fist clenched, ready to knock. Stop, I thought, and I shook my head. Whatever it was, Michael could handle it. I stayed at my desk the rest of the day, willing my mind to focus, trying not to obsess about things I couldn’t control.

Roger was drinking a beer. He’d stolen the Nerf football from the other analysts and was tossing it up and down with one hand. He was in the middle of a running monologue about what to order for dinner.

“Hey, Evan,” Roger said, chucking the Nerf at my chest. It bounced to the floor before I had time to catch it. “Listen. We need to decide. Italian or Chinese?” He burped. “Let’s get more beer, too. We can expense it, right? Anyway…”

Roger may have hated me, but he liked an audience more. He sounded out every mundane thought that passed through his head, narrating every part of his life. I was used to it by then. I let it wash over me without really listening.

“Y’know, though, there’s a new Vietnamese place I think we should try, too. Shit—what’s it called?” He sat down at his computer, his cheeks ruddy from the beer. “You know, the one on Forty-fifth. Or is it—”

I heard a ping from Roger’s computer, the sound of an e-mail arriving. He clicked, his monologue trailing off, then he went silent. His eyes were scanning the screen. I heard the same ping sounding on the computers around me, like a chorus of chirping birds.

“Holy shit,” Roger said. “Holy shit.”

“What is it?” I tilted back in my chair, tossing the Nerf from one hand to the other.

Roger’s face went pale. “Check your e-mail. Right now.”

The message came with a bright red exclamation point. A news alert. I double-clicked to open it. My stomach plummeted as I read the headline:

SPIRE UNDER SCRUTINY



Evidence of bribery sparks investigation



No, I thought. No, no, this can’t be happening. But of course it was happening. It was the exact fear I’d been trying to suppress all day. I clicked through and began to read the article:

Federal authorities have initiated an investigation into whether Spire Management, a New York City–based hedge fund, bribed the Chinese government to obtain favorable terms on lumber imports.

The investigation was launched after the Observer contacted authorities for comment on Spire’s practices in China. The paper learned, through confidential sources within the company, that Spire Management has bribed highly placed Chinese government officials in order to arrange for tax-free imports of lumber to China from several Canadian companies. Spire has taken an aggressive position on these companies, which includes the conglomerate Pacific WestCorp, and stands to profit significantly from their growth.

A review of WestCorp’s most recent quarterly statement shows that exports to China have increased substantially over the third quarter, and the company expects continuing significant growth in the next fiscal year…

The byline at the top of the story stood out in big, bold letters. Adam McCard.

Roger was staring at me when I finished reading. The floor had gone silent while everyone read the news. The only sound was of the building’s joints, creaking in the high wind.

“Did you know about this?” Roger asked, in a charged whisper.

Was I being paranoid again, or were people murmuring as I passed? A numb panic spread through my body: my limbs had gone leaden, but my mind was racing faster and faster. I speedwalked over to Michael’s office. All the e-mails and phone calls back and forth with WestCorp. The delivery to Chan in Las Vegas. Security footage from the cameras in the hallways at the Venetian. Chan’s cackling demands. The $20,000 in cash, still sitting in my sock drawer. There were a thousand different trip wires suddenly lying in wait.

Wanda was back at her desk. Her fingers flew across the keyboard; ten different lines blinked red on the phone. A half-eaten salad lay forgotten at her elbow.

“I need to talk to him,” I said.

She looked bewildered for a second, then laughed. “Are you kidding?”