CHAPTER

Three

Mr. Henderson is in receipt of your résumé and is very impressed.” The silky voice came from the other end of the line. Tony's eyebrows rose and his cock jerked in his pants.

“He would like to meet with you for lunch on Tuesday. How does one o'clock at Santucchi's sound?”

Tony was speechless for a moment. He looked over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching him. He was sure his eyes were as big as saucers. James Henderson was the managing director of new accounts and acquisitions over at Greene Investments, the oldest black-owned financial firm on Wall Street.

Tony had faxed over his résumé to the human resources department three weeks before. He was confident that he had the experience for the position advertised in the Sunday Times, but he'd never expected to be getting a call from the assistant to Da Man!

“Mr. Landry, are you there?” the sexy voice asked.

“Yes,” he croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Yes, I'm here. One o'clock would be fine.”

“Okay then. Do you have the address for Santucchi's?”

Everyone knew where Santucchi's was located. All of the big-time power brokers lunched there. Santucchi's was to Wall Street what Sardi's was to the Theater District.

“Yes, I do,” Tony said.

Tuesday took forever to arrive. Tony had to wait through all day Friday, the weekend, and then a rainy Monday.

He arrived at Santucchi's ten minutes early. His stomach was in knots as he stood in front of the mirror in the men's restroom, straightening and restraightening his tie. He'd run his hands over his hair so many times that now his palms were greasy.

Washing his hands for the fourth time, he caught sight of the time on his fake Patek Philippe. It was two minutes to one.

Tony still had the paper towel in his hand when he rushed out of the bathroom. Mr. Henderson was just being seated. Tony looked wildly around him for someplace to stash the refuse. He thought of shoving it into his pocket, but then a waiter moved past him with a tray of dirty dishes and Tony dropped it into a half-full coffee cup.

His heart was beating a mile a minute. If he got this job, his base salary would be sixty thousand dollars a year. With overtime and bonuses he could easily pull in a cool one hundred thousand.

He took a deep breath, eased up alongside Mr. Henderson, and said, “Mr. Henderson, I'm Tony Landry.”

The interview had gone on for two hours.

He was sure he'd asked all of the right questions, and when Mr. Henderson asked what position he saw himself eventually securing within Greene Investments, Tony gave him his most confident smile and said, “Partner.”

Mr. Henderson smiled. He himself had pulled himself up and out of Baltimore's toughest ghetto. The son of a drug-addicted mother, he'd spent most of his life in foster homes. When he was sixteen he was a high school dropout and had already been in and out of four juvenile detention homes. It was clear he was headed straight to the penitentiary when his court-appointed lawyer took an interest in him.

He returned to high school and graduated at the age of twenty-one, with honors. A full scholarship to Howard University followed.

He'd been recruited by Goldman Sachs and Deutsche Bank, but in the end took an analyst position with Greene Investments.

Twenty years and countless promotions later, he'd help build Greene Investments into the financial powerhouse it had become.

The bottom line was, James Henderson was Tony Landry's hero.

“I like your confidence, Tony, I really do” was Mr. Henderson's only comment before he called for the check.

They parted with another strong handshake and Tony walked away from that meeting feeling the most unsure he'd ever felt in his entire life.

Later that day, Tony was still mulling it over as he and his best friend, Errol Payne, played a game of one on one.

“Why you letting it fuck with you, man?” Errol asked as he tried desperately to block Tony's shot.

“ 'Cause,” Tony breathed, hunched over, clutching the basketball close to his chest, “I really want that fucking job!” he bellowed before he turned, sprang up into the air, and dunked the ball.

“Damn,” Errol screeched as he watched Tony swing from the rim with one hand.

“Twenty-one, dawg, I win again.” Tony laughed as he dropped back down to the ground, and smacked Errol on his back.

Errol followed Tony back to the splintered wooden bench.

“You probably got it, so stop stressing.”

Tony wiped at the perspiration on his brow and then lifted the sports bottle of Poland Spring water to his lips and took a long swig.

Errol watched out of the corner of his eye as Tony's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as the water slipped down his throat.

“Hey,” Errol said as he reached over and gave Tony's collarbone a tight squeeze, “It's cool, man. You gotta start thinking positive.”

“Hey, you're the Buddhist here, not me,” Tony said, laughing.