Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(70)

“My report. What else could it be?”

“Did they say anything?”

“They asked if anyone worked on the report with me. They asked about you.”

I don’t say anything. My silence is a more effective prompt for information than smacking him across the back of the head.

“Obviously I told them you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I don’t feel relief. I don’t care enough to feel it. “I’m sorry, Freddie.”

“It’s okay. This whole thing has stressed me out so much, I’m just glad it’s over. It feels good to be outside the building.”

“Now you can go sell your story to the papers.”

“I don’t think so. They made it clear that would be a very bad idea. There were two lawyers as part of my escort who made it clear about nine different ways that if I violate my confidentiality agreement, they’ll make life very difficult for me.”

“Jesus, Freddie. I’m sorry. Have you talked to Rebecca?” I’m also curious for an update on her generally.

“Not in a while. Not about this. I think she backed away from the story.” He exhales right into the phone receiver and it sounds like a train in a tunnel. “It’s like they’re selling vacation property they know is sitting right over a fault line, and not only do they not disclose that to the buyers, they won’t even acknowledge it themselves.” He pauses again. “Well, if something happens now, I’ll have a clear conscience.”

I see my boss enter the trading floor and his eyes are searching and they land on me and he nods and starts in my direction. “Freddie, I have to go. Let’s get together soon. I’m buying the pizza and Pepsi.”

Joe Sansone has a bald head and the rest of his body seems to match the bald roundness the way a dog will sometimes match its owner. He has bright blue eyes that are the only attractive feature in an otherwise mass of unattractiveness that reminds me of Howard Stern even though he looks nothing like Howard Stern except for the eyes.

“Hiya, Nick.”

“Joe.” He’s got an oversized smile, that phony son of a bitch. He’s going to try for a friendly execution.

“You have a minute to talk right now?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go downstairs around the corner, get an iced tea. It’s almost noon. Maybe something stronger.” Impossibly, the smile gets bigger and more fake.

“What’s wrong with right here?”

“I have a few private things I need to discuss with you. It’ll be better there. Come on, I’m buying.”

I look over his shoulder to check for the thick-necked security guards. There are none. “Fine.”

We take the elevator downstairs and walk all the way to the Bull & Bear at the Waldorf. A little too fancy for an execution. We sit at the bar and get two beers. A few other people have come for an early lunch but the restaurant is quiet. Nothing is said between us. When we’ve each had some of our beer, I decide I won’t be the first to say anything. I can sit in silence longer than he can.

“Nick, I’ll just come right out and say it.” He’s still forcing his smile and I want to knock it off his face. I wonder if I look as angry as I feel. “You’re doing a great job and I want to keep you. I want to make sure the firm keeps you.”

I’m washed over with confusion. “What do you mean, Joe?”

“I got approval from upstairs. I’m prepared to offer you a two-year deal at three point five million per year. Guaranteed. Seven million bucks to commit to twenty-four months.” He slaps me on the arm.

I try not to look so shocked. I put my face in my beer for as long a sip as I can do. It occurs to me that the timing of this and Freddie’s firing is suspicious. “Thanks, Joe. You really went to bat for me, huh?”

“Hey, I’m always supporting you, Nick.” He’s so fluid with his false pleasantness. “So what do you say? I can show you where to sign this afternoon.” Still a salesman trying to close a deal.

“It’s a two-year commit. I can’t sign without running it by the wife.”

“Give her a call. I can step outside if you want a moment.”

“She’s traveling with her parents for a few days.” Now I’m the one fluid with falseness. “Can it wait a few days?”

He shrugs.

“It’s a great offer, Joe. Thank you. I just need a few days.”

“No problem. A few days.”

We finish our beers and get another round, and Joe seems to have something else on his mind that he’s trying to get to. “You a golfer, Nick?”

“Time to time. I like it but I’m not a fanatic.”

“Me too. I’ll tell you, Dale Brown is a fanatic. He’s out on the course whenever he can be. A few times a week probably.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely a nut. You ever golf with him?”

Joe looks over with a casualness that doesn’t ring true. This feels like the area he’s tried to get to and the source of all his falseness. “Once, about five years ago.”

“Five years? Not since then?” He seems disappointed with my answer and tries to think of something else to cover his reaction. “We need to get you back out there.”