15

Later that week, Sharkey calls after Philip as he is crossing the plaza, heading for his office. ‘Time for a coffee, Philip, Just to shoot the breeze? Let’s go upstairs, quieter there.’

‘Yeah, why not? This can wait.’ He indicates the bulky file under his arm.

Sharkey is at his charming best. At meetings both men take up a professional manner, but Philip has been steering clear of him, apart from the occasional drink with others; then they are both polite, for Mammon’s sake.

They sit at one of the corner seats in the executive lounge. Sharkey sets the pitch. He was only thinking to himself the other day how quickly time passes. ‘What was the name of that pub in London where I came across Kevin and yourself?’

‘The White Hart.’

‘I often think the early days were the best days. You know, when we were raising the bar and the Big Guns were calling us buccaneers, and laughing at us in The Moira over their gins and tonic.’

He changes tack: the progress his own children are making – Conor, doing his articles with PricewaterhouseCoopers, and Vicki, about to be apprenticed to Mahon & Quinn – mostly family law. His youngest, he says with a shake of his head: ‘He’s, well, considering his options. Young people today – for the life of me – I just can’t … oh, I won’t go there.’ The office rumour is that the lad has failed his law exams for the second time and has gone to live with Sharkey’s estranged wife and her partner. And that he is prowling around Ranelagh village peddling hash.

Sharkey leans back and sweeps the lounge with his eyes. ‘A step up from Andrew Street, wouldn’t you say?’

‘A giant leap, Aengus.’

Three Asian men in business suits and carrying briefcases come and sit at a side table. With them is one of the bankers from Treasury; a glint from a gold cufflink shows when he raises a manicured hand in greeting. He is smiling broadly at the Asians, but beneath the table his shining shoes have a restless life of their own.

Sharkey stirs his coffee and says in a low voice: ‘Conrad contacts, would you believe? He put them on to Treasury.’

‘My goodness.’

Then with put-on sympathy, Sharkey says: ‘Poor Kevin. So sorry for him. Like yourself, he was one of our brightest and best. What a shame! Will need to take it easy from now on.’

‘Oh, I’m very glad to say there’s been a big improvement. No reason why he shouldn’t be back. Sure, half the country is suffering from blood pressure. The doctors are very pleased.’

‘Still,’ says Sharkey, and his face grows solemn, ‘when these things, like blood pressure … and then the added complication – diabetes on top of that. Writing on the wall.’

‘You know, time was when such ailments were … as you say, danger signals. But now …’ he raises his arms, ‘you see people with a good quality of life, holding down a job, right up until retirement age.’

‘Correct, but our world, well, so competitive – more so of late. We’ve got to be on top of our game. Shareholders … I needn’t tell you, Philip.’ He leans forward. ‘We’ll have to think of something. Yeah. Thing is: where do we fit him in?’

Philip refuses to be drawn into what he knows is Sharkey’s bogus concern.

‘His consultant says he’ll be as right as rain in no time.’

While throwing a shifty glance at the Asians, Sharkey listens. ‘Oh, but of course,’ he leans again towards Philip, ‘we’ll welcome him back. And I’ll get one of the Young Turks to give him a hand with some of the contracts – just to ease the burden. Oh, God, of course we look after our own.’

A boy in a white jacket is serving coffee from a silver pot to the Asians and the Treasury man, who is in full flight, using his hands a lot, and passing around pages. The others are bent over their computers. Sharkey puts up one hand to the side of his face: ‘If our man here can’t get them to bite, no one can.’

Spreading his hands wide in a gesture of candour, he returns to their conversation. ‘You know what the Braces are like.’

Both men finish their coffee and stand. ‘Good to have this private chat,’ Sharkey says. ‘With the pace of life as it is, we hardly get time to say hello.’

Before Philip returns to his office he glances after Sharkey’s self-satisfied swagger: he is overstating his concern about the Red Braces. Even if at times they look down their noses at him, they also know that he is the lighting rod that has transformed the bank, and made it what it is. They give him authority and freedom denied to anyone else.

He is intent on maintaining the position Nat Am holds in the banking world, no matter who becomes a casualty. The personal fortune he has acquired, big investments in the Docklands development, and a couple of shopping malls in Britain – all these would have been sufficient for another man to take his foot off the pedal – play golf, visit art auctions, and take leisurely lunches in Patrick Guilbaud’s.

At a black tie dinner in Carton House the previous November, a government minister presented him with the Banker of the Year award, and in his speech called him ‘one of the men who kick-started this economy: a mover and shaker, badly needed in this country’.

Later, when the dance was in full swing, Sharkey leaned over the Waterford Glass trophy mounted on gold, and boasted to a couple of them, including Brennan: ‘For all the posturing the Red Braces do in The Horseshoe Bar, Nat Am would be a fucking two-bit money lending outfit if it hadn’t been for yours truly.’ He jabbed his thumb towards his starched shirt-front. ‘It was only when they became scared that I might be poached that they came up with the top job.’

When the adrenalin is rushing, his well-concealed hurt shows. He knew that even though he was a ‘Harvard man’, the top brass in the other banks never fully accepted him, and that they preferred the company of their own sort: especially those from long-established banking families.

‘I should’ve got my feet under the table long ago. Fuck them,’ he laughs and looks fondly at the award. ‘Dunleavy never got one of these babies, and never will. Guys like him with tennis and Robinsons Barley Water in the back garden – they never had the hunger.’ He straightened up in the chair. ‘The Davos award last year was big, but this baby – this is special.’ And yes, he was aware too of the nickname other banks had given him when he joined Amalgamated and door-stepped debtors: The Marino Bootboy.

‘But I brought home the bacon.’ And he had wiped their eye, taken some of their biggest customers, and had set up in business those who would have been left scratching their arses, and maybe never getting the start they needed.

Like others of his generation and poor background who were clever, and had the strut of newfound success in the construction industry and in politics, Sharkey believed his star would continue to rise. He spoke their language, and was willing to take risks in a country no longer relying on farming for its mainstay. They were street-wise, and could work with each other precisely because of a shared desire for the prize that was dangling before them.

During the summer months they went on the occasional golfing trip to Lahinch and across to Wales, and also to corporate boxes at Old Trafford. And when the football game was over, Alex Ferguson came to say hello, and invited them for a drink. And wherever Sharkey went, his disciples followed. When Conrad appeared with them at Bellamy’s for the first time, Egan quipped from his high stool, ‘Who’s Sharkey’s new fucking food-taster?’

Egan was too open and careless; behind his back, the lackeys were all the while giving a blow-by-blow account to their master. And when Egan was passed over for a promotion for which he was eminently suited, he began to use his sharp wit even more to raise a laugh at Sharkey’s expense. The two men maintained a professional manner at work, but the poker games ceased.

While Egan is resting at the nursing home out in Dalkey, Sharkey calls a meeting. ‘Just a short get-together, guys, nothing formal. Take a pew.’ The disciples are there, as well as one or two from Corporate Finance and Treasury. ‘One of our clients is causing me some sleepless nights,’ he tells them. On his desk is a file. ‘McCarthy here.’ He rests one hand on the file. ‘He’s been our client for donkey’s years. Now he’s failing to make the cut. Only four occupied out of a whole development in Tullamore.’

Like a walk-on actor who has been waiting for his cue, Brennan comes in with: ‘Who was processing the loan, Aengus?’

‘Well,’ Sharkey, stares at the file and, with put-on reluctance to betray a colleague, says: ‘Kevin actually.’ He heaves a sigh: ‘Didn’t crunch the numbers, I’m sorry to say.’

He allows one of his deadly silences to fill the room. ‘Maybe he was a bit below par, and we’re all concerned about poor Kevin, but we’ve to run a bank. Nat Am will be history if we don’t get the finger out. He won’t be back until Monday and I just got this info this morning. Unfortunately, these things can’t wait or we’ll be in the manure business. So we have to press on. I’ll take this up with Kevin on his return.’

Sitting to one side, Philip is raging, but he has to be cautious. Eventually, he speaks. ‘Aengus, to be fair about it, a few of us, including your good self, had a look at that application. Don’t you remember – afterwards we took McCarthy and his lawyer to Thornton’s. So it’s hardly fair …’

Reptile-like, Sharkey’s tongue shows at the side of his mouth and slides along his lower lip: an involuntary action, and by now a dead giveaway to all who know him that he is about to fly into one of his tantrums.

‘Yes, here in your office.’ Philip adds. ‘We all fell short in not crunching the numbers.’

The temperature drops.

Sharkey affects a moderate tone. ‘Come on, Philip – Kevin was the one who signed off. Lookit, you all know the rules by now.’ He looks around for support. ‘Whoever signs off owns the loan.’

‘Right on, Aengus,’ says Brennan.

‘So with the greatest respect,’ he whips a letter out of the bundle, and casts it in front of Philip, then leans back in his chair. ‘Yes, I know Kevin is a life-long friend, and it’s admirable to see you stand up for him, but from that, you’ll see who signed off.’

‘Kevin will be back on Monday. Can we not put it on hold until then?’ Philip says, handing back the letter.

‘No, we can’t put it on hold.’ Sharkey’s anger is rising. ‘If I don’t take steps to deal with this, we’re in Queer Street and my ass is on the line. It isn’t by putting things on hold that has made Nat Am what it is.’

‘I’m with you there,’ says Wheeler.

One of the women on Egan’s team for processing loans reaches for her inhaler and, in the silence, can be heard drawing in the tense air.

‘The buck stops here. Let no one think otherwise.’ Sharkey passes around the file. ‘See for yourselves, guys.’

The asthmatic lets a sheaf of papers fall to the ground; she is full of apologies. ‘No prob,’ Sharkey says, ‘we’re all stressed.’ Then he sits in a broody silence, as the file is given a cursory examination.

‘No reference at all to market research from estate agents for the project,’ says Wheeler.

‘So now you see the pickle we’re in, guys,’ Sharkey slaps the file for emphasis and places his two hands on the desk to signal the end to the meeting. ‘That’s it. Any ideas, send them in.’

As they are leaving, Philip lingers, and, in a low voice, asks Sharkey if he might have a word.

‘Well then, what is it? I’m busy.’ He starts to play with the string that is securing the folder.

‘No reference to the meeting we had.’

‘Meeting? What meeting?’

‘The meeting you held right here in your office with Mc- Carthy. Kyran and Conrad were here also.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The cold dark eyes are looking away towards Dun Laoghaire. Then he turns and speaks slowly and deliberately. ‘I’ve been nearly thirty years in banking and I’ve never been called a liar until now.’

‘I’m not calling – ’

‘You are impugning my character.’

‘No. I am reminding you of a meeting here with McCarthy to point out that Kevin did not go out on a limb.’

‘Kevin has been dragging his heels in this bank for a while now, and I’ve no intention of carrying the can for him any more.’ He holds Philip in a penetrating gaze. ‘A piece of advice, Philip. I’d tread very carefully if I were you.’

Philip doesn’t reply but opens his briefcase, removes a page and places it in front of Sharkey. ‘There,’ he says; ‘that might jog your memory. It’s a photocopy. I’ve been boning up on this file – just to help out an old friend, you might say.’

Sharkey stares at a copy of a letter that had been in the file, but was not included in the one the staff has just seen. It is a letter from McCarthy’s personal assistant thanking Sharkey and Kevin Egan for approving Mr McCarthy’s loan application, and inviting them both to his box at the Curragh on Derby Day.

‘You know what this means,’ Sharkey hisses.

‘No. What does it mean?’

‘You know I can scupper your prospects with Nat Am.’ The hissing voice becomes more intense. ‘No one, but no one, crosses me and gets away with it.’

Philip has one more card left to play.

‘Right,’ he says calmly. ‘You’re playing with the gloves off. Here’s something else to jog your memory. Remember Jacqui?’

‘Jacqui?’ A hunted look appears in Sharkey’s small eyes.

‘Jacqui who used to work in it. Left us a couple of years ago. I think you remember her alright. Not easy to forget Jacqui: dark and very pretty. Oh yes. Anyway, she remembers you, and she has an interesting story about … let’s call it your extra-curricular interest in Googling.’

Sharkey’s shoulders begin to droop; his hands get busy, tying and untying the string that keeps the file together.

Philip puts him on the rack. ‘Didn’t I bump into Jacqui a few weeks ago in Upper Mount Street. She works with the Bank of Ireland now. Said she got a hard time here after her third baby was born. Had to decamp.’

‘Your point? I don’t have all day.’

‘She invited me to Scruffy Murphy’s for coffee. She used to help out here when Karen was under pressure. Anyway, she tells this strange story. Said you were called out of the office one evening. It was a Friday, near to close of business. And didn’t she take a peek at your computer? Didn’t like what she saw – not one bit, Aengus. You were off to Berlin on business the following Monday, and it seems you weren’t exactly looking up the nearest chapel for morning Mass.’

Sharkey glares him. His mouth hangs loose and, like a scowling child tidying up his toys, he begins, slowly, to align the file on his desk. ‘I never thought you’d stoop so low. Never,’ he mutters.

‘Neither did I. You see, Aengus, Jacqui is my insurance.’

After a moment’s staring at the file, Sharkey’s face brightens; he has the look of a chess player who has hit on a move to stymie his opponent. ‘Jacqui has fuck-all proof.’

‘Right there, Aengus, except that if she began to blab – and I persuaded her not to – but if she did, well now …. But, Aengus, I know how to handle Jacqui. Of course, there’s the reputation of the bank … And the Braces.’

‘An all-time low. A fucking all-time low.’

‘Agreed, but we live in a jungle.’

Very slowly, and without raising his head, Sharkey says to the Gatsby photo on his desk: ‘This meeting’s over.’

Sharkey comes to an agreement with regard to McCarthy’s liability to the bank which worked to the satisfaction of both, and Jacqui never again comes up in conversation.