Pineapple Street(23)
At the bank he had quickly distinguished himself, not with his work, but by nicknaming himself the “Rock Star” and arranging lunches with all the division heads—Malcolm’s and Brice’s bosses. Rumor had it that he’d been thrown out of Deerfield for setting off fireworks, but his father, a big shot in private equity, still got him into Dartmouth. The thing was, the kid was a complete zero. He left a deal book on a plane—an offense that would render anyone else unceremoniously fired, and he was barely reprimanded. He took an Ambien on a flight and was still visibly drunk from it when they walked into their meeting in Dubai. Malcolm had once caught Chuck staring at himself in the mirror of the men’s room, smoothing his hair and smiling like a psychopath.
Brice and Malcolm agreed the kid was a total liability and hated that they were saddled with him on the team. They were stuck in the middle of a nepotism sandwich, their bosses pleased to have a Vanderbeer on the roster, but privately happy not to manage him directly.
Darley had laughed at Brice’s stories and ordered a second drink. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon, a million times more fun than most gatherings with her husband’s colleagues, and it made her hopeful. Maybe they could spend more time together with Brice’s family. Maybe they could even consider moving out to Greenwich. She wondered if she had been wearing blinders, always feeling like Brooklyn was the best home for them, like Brooklyn was more liberal and diverse than the suburbs.
They were finishing lunch when a microphone squealed and a sunburned man in a pale-yellow polo took the stage. “Good afternoon, golfers. We’re about to get going with the brief program here in just a few minutes.”
“Oh, sorry guys,” Brice apologized. “It’s going to be annoying to listen to this. Maybe we can finish up and go hang out by the pool for a bit.”
“What’s going on?” Darley asked.
“Oh, it’s Caddy Appreciation Day, so they’re doing an awards ceremony.”
“Caddy Appreciation Day?”
“Yeah, they invite all the caddies to join them for lunch and give out funny prizes.”
“Oh.” Understanding washed over Darley. One by one the Black men at each table got up to receive awards, shaking hands with the man in yellow before returning to their seats. They weren’t members of the club at all. They worked there. The club was just as white as her own.
* * *
When Malcolm got home from the airport it was almost lunchtime. He walked into the apartment, dropped his laptop on the counter, and poured himself three fingers of Tanqueray without uttering a word.
“Hey, love.” Darley came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle. His button-down shirt was creased, and he smelled slightly of sweat after two nights on planes. Malcolm didn’t say anything, and Darley pressed her face against his back, felt him swallow and shudder slightly. “What happened?”
“Some absolute bullshit is what happened,” Malcolm replied quietly. He put his glass in the sink and let Darley lead him into the living room to talk.
* * *
—
Thirty-six hours earlier Malcolm had flown to Rio to make the final board presentation to Azul, a Brazilian airline based outside of S?o Paulo. The presentation would be followed by a signing with American Airlines, whereby they would purchase 10 percent of Azul, giving them a stronger foothold in South America. When Malcolm arrived at JFK and reviewed his flight itinerary he sighed. The plane was a 767-300ER, an old model with narrow flatbeds, no seat-back TV, and, worst of all, no wi-fi. It was annoying that the route he’d flown dozens of times in the past year had the worst planes. He said hello to the check-in agent, who asked after Darley and the kids. The flight attendant working the business-class cabin gave his shoulder a little squeeze hello. Malcolm spent so much time at JFK he basically considered the flight attendants, lounge attendants, and gate agents his colleagues.
As the plane lined up on runway 31L, Malcolm listened to the twin engines spooling up, and in spite of himself, he felt his heart skip happily, even after all this time. He took a final glance at his in-box, then at the wallpaper on his phone—Darley and the kids at the U.S. Open—and powered it off for the flight. But when he landed ten hours later and turned his phone back on, his whole world changed.
Malcolm had called it from day one that Chuck Vanderbeer would be a disaster; he just hadn’t realized that the self-proclaimed Rock Star of Deutsche Bank Aviation Group would also pull him down as he crashed and burned. Chuck worked side by side with Malcolm, Brice, and their team putting together deals, pitching mergers between international airlines, privy to the most sensitive financial information about these companies and their futures. He then, unknown to anyone in his professional life, spent his nights drinking at the bar at Papillon in Midtown and bragging to bored young women about the deals he was landing. Unfortunately, the woman who seemed utterly fascinated by the Rock Star’s tales of banking derring-do happened to be a financial reporter for CNBC and produced a story about the likely investment by American Airlines in Azul. As soon as the story hit cable news, Azul killed the deal and left Deutsche Bank holding the bag.
Malcolm had more than three hundred emails, a dozen frantic voicemails, and sixty-five text messages, mostly from Brice. He staggered down the jetway in Rio, scrolling through message after message. The deal he had worked on for nearly a year was dead. The American Airlines management team hadn’t even bothered boarding their connecting flight from Miami. Any chance Malcolm had at damage control was long gone. Both Chuck and Malcolm were fired, Chuck for leaking the story and Malcolm for standing too close to the little fool.