Chapter 7

Evan

In mid-November, Michael stopped by my desk.

“You’re coming with me and the rest of the team to the conference in Vegas. The flight is at five. Go home and get your stuff and take a car to the airport, terminal four. Travel is e-mailing your ticket now.”

I glanced at my watch—2:34 p.m.—and started shoving things into my bag. “So I’ll see you—” I started to say to Roger, but he had his headphones in and refused to meet my eyes. Uptown, I packed as fast as I could, then sprinted down the stairs to the waiting town car. I called Julia from the car and told her I wouldn’t be able to make dinner—it was her birthday that night, but she seemed to understand, which was a relief. They were calling my name on the PA when I ran up to the gate.

“Right over there, Mr. Peck,” a chirpy flight attendant said, pointing at the remaining empty seat in the business-class cabin, next to Roger.

“Too bad,” Roger said without looking up from his BlackBerry. “Thought this train was going to leave the station without you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Sir?” the flight attendant said, offering a tray with a flute of Champagne. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else. We’ll be taking off shortly.”

The flight attendant was cute and perky and available, exactly Roger’s type, and I expected him to make some crack about it. But he kept his eyes locked on his phone, his mouth shut. Roger had been bragging about this for weeks. Spire was sending a small team to a global investing conference in Las Vegas, and Steve, the head of our macro group, had been so impressed with Roger’s work that he invited him along, too. A first-year analyst had never gone to one of these conferences before. You didn’t get to jump the line like this, not unless you were exceptional. My stomach had churned at the thought. Well, I was working on a deal that would dwarf a trip to Vegas soon enough. Let Roger brag all he wanted.

But there I was. Ruining Roger’s week, to boot. I counted six people from Spire, scattered through the cabin: Steve, Brad, and Chuck, all from Spire’s macro group, plus Roger, Michael, and myself. This had nothing to do with my work, but I supposed that Michael would fill me in eventually. I finished my Champagne, settled in, and closed my eyes. Business class. I could get used to this.

  

A hand on my shoulder shook me awake, and Brad’s face came into focus. I’d only spoken to him in passing before. He was Korean American, in his thirties, had a PhD in applied mathematics from MIT, a mind like a thousand-horsepower engine. He’d made the company an enormous amount of money over the years.

“So here’s the deal,” Brad said, addressing me and Roger while he scanned his phone screen. “Travel tried to get new rooms, but the hotel is sold out because of the conference. So Evan, you’re going to be in Roger’s room.”

“The hell?” Roger snarled. “Are you serious?”

“Suck it up, sweetheart. Chuck and I have to share a suite, too. Michael took Steve’s suite, and Steve is taking mine.”

“There better be separate beds,” Roger said. When Brad left, Roger finally snapped. “What the fuck, Peck? Why are you even here?”

“I don’t know. You heard it. Michael only told me a few hours ago.”

Roger looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. The plane’s engines hummed in the background. “Whatever it is y’all are up to,” he said, clenching his fists on his armrests, “you sure have a way of pissing other people off.”

*  *  *

More than a month earlier, as the market panic was reaching its climax, I’d put the final touches on the WestCorp deal. The numbers were dazzling. Michael had said it right: this was a check just waiting to be cashed. Early one October morning, after working straight through the night, I was finally done. The very last piece was in place. This was the deal that would permanently cement Spire’s dominance, during the most volatile moment of our lifetime—and I was right in the middle of it. I left the folder on Michael’s chair and went for a walk in the cool dawn, stopping at a bench in an empty Times Square with a coffee and Danish in hand, watching the city wake, the taxis and pedestrians flowing up and down the streets, the conclusion vibrating through me like a note struck on a piano.

Back in the office that morning, I shaved and changed into the spare shirt I kept in my desk drawer. I sat, calmly, waiting for the call from Michael. But morning passed, then afternoon, without a word from him. I went past his office around 8:00 p.m., but his door was closed.

Nothing the following day, either. Or the day after that. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I went by his office. He ignored me while I hovered in the doorway. I cleared my throat. “Michael. Just checking—what’s the latest on the WestCorp deal?”

That got his attention. He turned to look at me.

“Something’s come up,” he said. “It’s on hold until I iron out a few more details.”

“Oh. Okay. So—”

“So I’ll let you know.” He turned back to his computer.

Panic rose as I walked back to my desk. What did he mean? Iron what out? But there had been a finality in his tone. I was just a low-level analyst, after all. He didn’t owe me any explanation. These kinds of things happened. Deals were called off all the time, for all sorts of reasons.

But it made me feel sick, physically sick, the thought of so many days and nights disappearing with nothing to show for it. Who was I? What was I doing there? I’d always had an answer before. I was a boy from British Columbia. A student. A hockey player, most of all. When graduation erased that, I found a new scaffolding. I was an analyst at Spire Management; that was the life I was building for myself. Everything else that was fading into the background—Julia, my friends—was made bearable by this. The sureness of my work and the nearness of success. Without that, I started to come loose.

My solution: I’d keep busy, so busy I wouldn’t have time to think. I jumped at every assignment, tried to fill the hours, insurance against the worst outcome. Roger and the other analysts must have sensed the change—my constant volunteering, joining them for lunch when before I’d been too busy. Julia could sense it, too. She was cooler and quieter than ever in the moments we overlapped at home. She sat there looking at me, but her mind was somewhere else. It was like she could tell how desperately I was faking my way through it, and it disgusted her.

  

Until just a few days before the trip to Las Vegas, when something had changed. I got home early and found Julia standing at the stove. Stirring a pot, flipping through a magazine, one bare foot lifted to scratch the back of her calf. “It smells amazing,” I said. When she turned, it was the old Julia who was looking at me: the spill of blond hair over her shoulder, her eyes crinkled at the corners from her smile. “There’ll be enough for both of us,” she offered. After we ate, I led her into the bedroom. The sex was good, not the best ever, but it was what I had needed: the two of us, finally in the same place again. It was so sad that this tiny moment of tenderness was even worth remarking on.

The next night, I stopped by McGuigan’s with the guys after work. Just for a drink, one drink. It was a weeknight, and I wanted to get home early again. To get things back on track with Julia. I sat at the bar, waiting for Maria. I was going to end this flirtation, or whatever it was, before it went any further. I’d slip in a mention of my girlfriend, which would do the trick. A clean break.

Maria came over and drew a pint of Guinness without needing to ask. Part of me wished that we’d gotten our chance—that I’d made a move one of those late nights, saying good-bye on the sidewalk outside the bar, a one-time slip that could be forgiven. I sipped my beer, feeling nostalgic. I’d finish the drink before I said anything.

Another man came into the bar and sat a few stools down, a tanned guy in a leather jacket. Maria said something to him, then poured him a generous whiskey. I lifted my glass to get her attention. She came back over and placed another pint of Guinness on the bar, then said,

“This is it for me tonight. Cathy’ll take care of your tab.”

“Where are you going? Actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“I’m off early,” she said. “I’ve got plans.”

A minute later, she emerged from the back with her coat on. The guy in the leather jacket stood and gestured at her to go ahead. They passed me on their way out, and as an afterthought, Maria turned on her heel.

“Oops. I should introduce you. Evan, this is Wyeth. Wyeth, Evan.”

I was used to towering over other people, but Wyeth was the same height as me. “Hey. Maria’s favorite customer,” I said, extending a hand and forcing a smile.

“Hey. Maria’s boyfriend,” he said.

Maria smiled, then tugged on Wyeth’s sleeve. “See you later, Evan,” she called over her shoulder. Through the window, I watched them pause on the sidewalk. Maria stood on her toes and kissed him, for a long time.

I sat back down, disoriented. Cathy, the other bartender, came over a few minutes later. “Another?” she said, pointing at my empty pint glass. I shook my head. “I’ll have a Scotch. Straight up.” The other analysts were going out to a club in the Meatpacking District where Roger knew the promoter, and I went along. We got a table and ordered bottle service. A group of lithe, glittery women floated toward us. I poured myself a vodka on the rocks, one after another. This feeling could only be scoured out by something strong. Music—deep house with a thumping beat—vibrated through every pore. After a while I looked up and realized a petite Asian girl was sitting on my lap. She leaned in and said something inaudible. “What?” I shouted back, over the music. She leaned in again and this time licked the edge of my earlobe, and finally—finally—my mind went empty. We wound up pressed against a wall at the edge of the room. Her tongue in my mouth, her tiny body, my hands sliding up her sequined miniskirt, it was all I was aware of. I wanted this nameless girl more than anything I’d wanted before. I’d fuck her right there in public if I had to.

The next day, I got up from my desk several times to go retch in the bathroom. You asshole, I thought, staring at my sweaty and sallow reflection under the fluorescent lights. I’d managed to tear myself away from the girl and get a cab before any of my coworkers noticed. I passed out on the futon at home. At an early morning hour, I dragged myself to the sink for a glass of water and took a scalding shower. Eventually I crawled into bed next to Julia, my hair wet, feeling like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.

*  *  *

Two black town cars were waiting for us at McCarran. They whisked us straight to the expensive steak-and-red-wine restaurant in the hotel, our luggage sent up to our rooms without us. A private room in the back of the restaurant was walled in by ceiling-high racks of wine bottles. Chuck and Brad and Roger started getting drunk and rowdy. Steve was supervising in a bemused way, and I was just trying to roll with it. I drank my wine slowly, still feeling my bender from a few days earlier. Michael was distracted, answering e-mails, stepping out to take calls. When he left the room to take his third call of the night, Chuck rolled his eyes and said, “Why the hell is he even here?”

Roger shot me an accusatory look.

“I mean,” Chuck continued, looking at Steve for an answer, “doesn’t he have better things to be doing? Like running the company?”

Steve shrugged. “He’s the boss. He can do what he wants.”

“Probably just wants to get laid,” Brad said sullenly. Chuck hooted in laughter, and Roger joined in. Chuck was slightly older, had a fiancée, owned rather than rented, but in every other way, he and Roger were practically twins. They were, of course, hitting it off.

Michael walked back in, eyes still glued to his screen. In that moment, between songs on the restaurant speakers, the clicking of Michael’s BlackBerry keys was the only sound to be heard. Chuck, in a fit of flushed boldness, balled up his napkin and lobbed it across the table at Michael’s shoulder.

Michael looked up, as surprised as the rest of us.

“Hey, Michael,” Chuck said. “I know you’re the CEO, but you’re in Vegas, man. Drink up. We’re going out tonight.”

Michael stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Drink up.’”

Silence. Then Michael broke out in a smug grin. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Someone get me a real drink.”

Chuck hooted again, calling for the waitress to bring a bottle of their best Scotch, and I relaxed a little. Michael drank a double in one smooth swig, then another after that. A limo was idling outside, waiting to take us to a high-end nightclub where Chuck had reserved a table. In the limo, I sat next to Michael, who kept refilling my glass and clapping me on the knee when I downed my Scotch straight, in one macho gulp.

Liquid courage helped. I was careful to keep my tone light, not ruining the mood. “Michael,” I said. “I just wanted to ask, before everything starts tomorrow—what’s, uh, what’s the agenda for this weekend?”

“Oh, you know. Keynotes and panels, networking, the usual. Most of it will be interminably dull. These things always are.”

“Right. So I’ve heard.” I nodded. “But the focus is on global macro, isn’t it? I’m just wondering if there’s anything you wanted me to—or what the angle…or I guess takeaway, you could call it—”

Michael clapped me on the knee again, refilling my glass. “Evan, don’t worry. You’re asking why I invited you, aren’t you? Just watch and listen, and you’ll see. You could learn a lot these next few days.”

We pulled up at the entrance of another hotel-casino monolith. Chuck led the way down the long, plushly carpeted hallway toward the club. The Scotch in the limo had been too much for me. The night began to blur and spin when we entered the club. The whole room seemed to rattle from the collective frenzy: drinking, dancing, snorting, vibrating. Women in thongs and pasties shimmied on platforms around the dance floor. High up in his booth, the DJ lifted his arms, and the crowd responded with a deafening roar. Smoke and confetti poured from the ceiling. Our waitress was wearing a tight scoop-neck minidress that displayed her cleavage, which bounced vigorously whenever she mixed a drink in the cocktail shaker. I had shot after shot handed to me. I was drunker than I’d been in months, drunker even than a few nights ago in Meatpacking. I had long slipped past the point of enjoyment. What time was it? Would this night ever end? Nothing seemed to exist except for this club, the gyrations of the people around me. A slow-motion orgy: Michael getting closer and closer to a blond woman on the banquette, Chuck kissing a woman—then two at once—sitting on his lap. Steve had turned in earlier, his wedding ring glinting in the strobe lights. Brad had his hand at the small of our waitress’s back, his eyes traveling toward her chest. Roger was off somewhere else.

Our limo driver was, miraculously, still outside when I got up to leave. I pulled the hotel-room key card out of my pocket, where the room number had been written on the card’s paper envelope: 3605. Back in the hotel, I stumbled toward the elevator bank and leaned my forehead against the cool marble wall while I waited. It felt so good. I could have fallen asleep there. I found myself wandering down a long hallway, red carpets and golden wallpaper. Such a long hallway. How had I gotten there? I studied the paper envelope again: 3605. I looked up, and there I was—our room at last.

I swiped my card, and the light turned green, but the door banged abruptly and wouldn’t open more than an inch. I pulled the door closed and tried again. The light turned green, and I pushed the door open, but again it banged up against something. I squinted, trying to right my vision, and saw that the security flip bar had been latched into place.

I propped the door open with my foot and shouted through the opening, “Roger. Roger! Come on, it’s me.”

Silence at first, and then came the sounds of female giggling. “Ocupado, amigo,” Roger said from within the room.

The door closed with a bang, and I slumped against the wall, my legs splayed out across the floor. Sexiled. I needed some kind of plan. Focus. I closed my eyes. My head jerked up—had I fallen asleep?—and I slapped my forehead several times. I hated being this drunk. I couldn’t stay out in the hallway. Everyone from Spire was staying on this floor. I couldn’t let them see me like this. No way.

Back at the elevator bank, I pushed the Down button. I’d explain myself at the front desk. Maybe they’d had a cancellation. Or I’d take a cab to one of the motels I’d seen between the airport and the Strip. They had to have something, a bed where I could sleep for a few hours before morning came.

A small ding sounded as the car arrived. I kept my eyes down and didn’t see the dark-suited figure striding out until we nearly collided.

“Evan? Whoa, what are you doing?”

It was Chuck, looking rumpled and sweaty but in better shape than I was, and thoroughly pleased with how the night had gone.

“Yeah. Hi—hey, Chuck. How are you?”

“How are you? What, you didn’t get enough? Going back out for more?”

“No.” I shook my head with effort. “I’m locked out. Roger is—he has…company.”

Chuck laughed. “Shit. Well, come on, you can crash in our room for now. Roger’s gonna be done soon. Trust me, he’s paying her by the hour.”

I followed Chuck to his suite at the other end of the hallway. Even through my blurring vision, I could see that it was enormous. Bigger than any New York apartment I’d ever seen. Steps led down to a sunken living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline sparkled against the desert night. I could make out a bar on one side of the living room and a huge soaking tub on the other. A spiral staircase, half hidden in the darkness, twisted up to a second floor.

“Nice, huh?” Chuck said, his voice echoing in the room. “Would’ve had the place to myself, too. The beds are spoken for, but I think there’s a foldout in that corner near the kitchen. Brad’s still out. He’ll be back soon.”

Chuck’s footsteps retreated up the spiral stairs. I found the bathroom, flipped on the light, and hurled the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I paused, gulping for air, then puked again. After the nausea receded, I splashed water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I felt better. More in control. I’d sleep a little, get back to my room, be fine in the morning. Hungover, but fine.

  

Something woke me. The sound of the air-conditioning turning on or off. I’d passed out on the couch without bothering to unfold it. I was shivering, and I had a kink in my neck.

It was tempting to stay there, to close my eyes and let the drunken fog tug me back under. I knew I ought to get up, go back to my room, get some real sleep. In just a few minutes. My mind swam with the soothing hum of the AC.

Then, how much later I didn’t know, there was the sound of laughter and high heels on the marble floor. The high-pitched, breathy voice of a woman.

The lights went on. Suddenly I was wide awake, my heart hammering and blood rushing to my head. Brad was back, with company. I felt a preemptive embarrassment at being discovered here.

There were more than two voices. One woman and another. Brad muttering something. Then:

“I’m going to have a drink. Ladies?” Michael.

The two women chorused a yes.

The sound of liquid splashing into glasses, bodies sinking into leather sofas. I turned onto my stomach and peered over the arm of the couch. My view was mostly obscured by the dining table and the oak-paneled bar. They hadn’t seen me, and the window for making myself known without humiliation was closing rapidly. No, I realized. It had closed already.

Brad was on one couch, Michael and the two women on another. One woman, the blonde from the club, was hunched over the glass-topped coffee table. When she sat up, she handed a rolled-up dollar bill to Michael.

“This is good shit, Brad,” Michael said, wiping the coke from his nose.

Brad was silent. It looked like he was reading something on his phone.

“So,” Michael said. “What do you ladies think of my friend here?”

The second woman—a redhead—giggled. “I think he’s handsome.”

“I think you’re handsome,” the blonde purred, nestling up to Michael.

“I think you have better taste than your friend.” He ran his hand up her bare arm. I grimaced. She was at least thirty years younger than he was.

The redhead stood up, dress slipped off her shoulder to expose a lacy black bra, and went to the other couch. She snuggled up to Brad, but Brad just kept his eyes on his phone.

“So what do you guys do?” one of the women asked. “You must be big shots with a room like this.”

“You should see my room, honey. We’ll take a field trip later.”

“We’re in finance,” Brad said abruptly. “Hedge funds.”

Silence, then one ventured, “Hedge funds. What does that mean?”

“It’s a way of investing designed to mitigate risk,” Brad said, alert again. “Hedging your bets. At any given point in time, we’re betting on a number of different scenarios, so no matter which way the market goes, we’re protected. So an example would be—if I met a woman out at a club, but I wasn’t sure how she felt about me, maybe I’d bring her friend along, too. See? I’ve hedged my bets. In case one says no, I have a backup.”

Michael snorted. “Brad’s a nerd, in case you couldn’t tell. Don’t get him started. But this is boring. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Actually.” Brad’s voice was rising. “Actually, I don’t think it’s boring at all. It’s interesting, in fact. I was going through the books this week, and there was some fascinating stuff in there.”

“Not now. We have company.” Michael slid his hand up the blonde’s skirt and kissed her neck. She was giggling and blushing. Her friend attempted the same with Brad, but he pushed her away impatiently.

“I think we do, Michael. I think we want to talk about this right now. We can do it alone, or we can do it in front of these two. Up to you.”

Michael laughed. “Ladies, I’m sorry. I apologize for him. No manners at all.” He tucked several crisp-looking bills into the blonde’s dress. “Some other time.”

The high heels obediently clacked their way back across the marble foyer, and the doors opened and closed a moment later. Michael turned to Brad.

“You mind telling me what the fuck that was about?”

“I need to talk to you about this, Michael. Right now. We have a big problem on our hands.”

“What? For God’s sake, what is it?”

Brad took a deep breath. “I was looking at the books, getting ready for the conference. I noticed something wasn’t lining up. So I went deeper into the numbers, and I saw we have a lot of exposure—a lot of exposure—in one particular area. Which I’d heard nothing about. The lumber markets.”

“And?”

“Do you know about this? All the money we have tied up in lumber futures?”

“Of course I know about it. I’m running this company. It’s my deal.”

“Well, then explain it to me. Because I’m sure as hell not seeing it. The housing market is the worst it’s ever been. And yet we’re betting that the demand for lumber is going to go up? For there to be massive, imminent growth?”

“Correct.”

“What the hell, Michael?” Brad stood up and started pacing. “This isn’t some murky situation where we don’t know what the economy is going to look like next year. We do know. No one in their right mind is going to be building.”

“In North America, maybe. But before you get any more worked up, Brad, I suggest you look at the bigger picture. We’re not betting on there being demand here.”

“Where, then?”

“China.”

“China? Are you serious? We have no idea what the Chinese are going to do tomorrow, let alone next year. Since when do we make predictions about their market with any kind of confidence?”

Michael chuckled. “Brad. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of personal animosity? I know the Koreans aren’t big fans of the Chinese, but—”

“Stop. Just stop. Does Kleinman know about this?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kleinman put me in charge, and frankly it would look bad for him to be overseeing every little deal while he’s in Washington.”

“Every little deal? Michael, are you even listening? Our exposure on this is massive. If it goes the wrong way, we are totally fucked.”

“You’re getting hysterical about something that’s going to make us a lot of money. Will you listen for a minute, please?”

Brad stood in place, quivering with anger. He seemed on the verge of shouting, but he clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Thank you. Sit down, too. You’re acting like a lunatic. We’ve been working on this position for a long time. Months and months. Demand from the Chinese market for North American lumber has already gone up this year. Every single one of our predictions has played out, and I guarantee you that demand is going to continue to skyrocket in 2009. Our calls on WestCorp are going to make you a very rich man.”

My mind was racing. So the deal wasn’t dead. Not at all. It was very much alive.

“What I don’t get,” Brad said, “what I don’t understand, Michael, is that if this bet is such a sure thing, why isn’t everyone else all over this? We don’t specialize in this. There are a dozen shops that know lumber better than we do.”

“Because it’s impossible to make any real money selling anything to the Chinese, that’s why. You know that. The tariffs and taxes eat into your profits like a parasite. It’s byzantine. The only way to make money is to find your way through that system.”

Brad started pacing again. Michael sat back on the couch calmly, waiting.

Brad wheeled around to look at Michael. “Your trip to China in August. For the Olympics, right? Did you go to a single event? Or was that all just a cover?”

“Of course I did. Swimming, rowing, whatever. Let me tell you, you meet all sorts of people at the Olympics. All sorts of politicians and government flunkies who are just so eager to rub shoulders with us Americans. The people in that country love us. They finally got a taste of capitalism, and now they can’t get enough. They know how much better things are over here. They’ll do just about anything to catch up. “

“Jesus Christ. Are we talking bribery, Michael? Did you bribe the fucking Chinese government?”

On the plane ride that day, we had encountered a particularly nasty bout of turbulence. I gripped the armrests, my jaw clenched. I hated turbulence. I kept counting to ten, over and over, waiting for the plane to steady again. Surely it would stop when I got to ten. That’s exactly how I felt at that moment.

“Give me a little credit,” Michael said. But before I could exhale, he continued. “Bribery. It’s such an unsubtle word. You can wipe that sneer off your face. I didn’t bribe the Chinese government. We worked out an arrangement that was mutually beneficial.”

“What arrangement?”

“Sit down. You’re making yourself all agitated.”

“What arrangement, Michael?”

“The appropriate Chinese authorities are now inclined to look favorably upon lumber imports from certain Canadian companies. Those imports won’t be subject to the usual taxes and tariffs. When WestCorp sells their lumber to Chinese buyers, they’ll keep one hundred percent of the revenue.”

“And what are they getting in return?”

Michael sighed. He seemed bored by the conversation. “WestCorp wanted the Chinese to drop the trade barriers. The Chinese wanted a few favors that some highly placed WestCorp executives were, luckily, able to grant.”

“What favors?”

“Like I said. The Chinese love us. They love our lives. They love North America. They want to come here, to live here, to buy homes here—well, not here here, not Las Vegas, this place is a hellhole. But Vancouver? Toronto? That’s a different story. These businessmen and bureaucrats, now they’ve got money to spare, but the one thing they still can’t buy is a normal life. They want their kids to be like ours. To go to Ivy League schools. To have good careers. They need visas. And Canadian immigration moves like molasses. WestCorp was able to help them out. Speed things up through back channels. They have something we want. We have something they want. It’s really not so complicated.”

“And you went to Beijing to make this happen. You decided to put the entire company at risk for this deal. I can’t believe this.”

“Yes, I did. And I would do it again. I don’t need to tell you how dismal things are. How pathetic our returns are this year. How much worse it’s going to get. Do you really want to go back to New York and tell half the company that they’re going to lose their jobs? China is booming. They need lumber, and the Canadians have a glut they need to unload. We’re just providing liquidity. We’re making a market. We applied a little pressure to make it happen, but it’s happening, and it’s working.”

Brad was silent for a long time.

“You’re not going to be able to keep this quiet much longer, Michael,” he said at last. “Pretty soon someone else is going to notice it, too, someone besides me, and they’ll start asking questions.”

“Maybe. But what they’ll notice is how much money we’re making. And what they’ll ask is why they didn’t think of this earlier. Does anyone really care how you get from point A to point B? Did you hear a single complaint from a single banker cashing his checks during the last five years? And we’re not stupid. We’ve been discreet for a reason. When people finally notice, the proof will be there. The profits will be there. I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Who is we?”

“Me and Peck, the analyst. That’s it. A few people have pitched in occasionally, but they never really knew what they were working on.”

“And does Peck know about the arrangement you have going?”

I closed my eyes and felt an insane rage—all of it directed at Roger. Most of me realized that this was ridiculous. Roger was the least of my concerns. But were it not for him, I would have been asleep and blissfully ignorant. Yes, I’d had my suspicions along the way. The trip to China. The overheard phone call. But I’d decided, a while earlier, to trust that Michael had a plan. He was the boss. He wasn’t going to do anything illegal. I kept my head down and did my job. It had worked, up until that moment.

“He knows I went to China,” Michael said. “He doesn’t know what I did there. I picked him for a reason. He keeps things to himself. And he’s ambitious, too. He wants it to succeed. I can tell. He’s perfect for this.”

“Michael, come on. He’s—what?—twenty-three years old? These analysts go out drinking every night. They can’t keep a secret.”

“He’s different. And we have an insurance policy on him.”

“How?”

“He’s Canadian. Which the WestCorp guys loved, by the way. But his visa is contingent on his remaining in our employ. If he puts this deal in jeopardy, we’ll be talking layoffs. Visas don’t come cheap. He’d be the first to go. So it would behoove him to keep his mouth shut.”

I could make out a green pinprick of light from the smoke detector on the ceiling above me. The rage had turned into panic. A stinging rash spread across my chest, down my arms, and under my shirt. Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe.

“Fucking hell, Michael. This is your mess. Okay? I don’t want anything to do with it. And I’d like you to leave now, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re the one who brought this up,” Michael said, standing from the couch, tugging his cuffs straight. “I didn’t ask you to get involved. And Kleinman didn’t ask you to be his watchdog. I’m going to bed.” The door opened, there was a pause, and Michael said: “And I hope you don’t have trouble sleeping, because I certainly won’t.”

  

“All right, Peck?”

Chuck cuffed me hard on the back. We were at the breakfast buffet outside the conference room, where the day’s first panel was about to begin. Chuck popped an enormous strawberry into his mouth and winked.

When I finally returned to my room, I’d lain in bed for the next three hours, jittery and unable to sleep, while Roger snored loudly on the other bed. I’d taken a long shower, had already drunk several cups of coffee, but it didn’t help. My mind was like a helium balloon. I tried to concentrate on the men on stage who were holding forth on the euro. A glossy pamphlet promised several more panels like this one before the day was out. The bland normalcy of it contradicted everything that had happened the previous night.

The conference broke for lunch around noon. On my way out, I felt a hand grab my elbow.

“I need you to do something for me,” Michael said.

Did he know? But how would he know? I followed him out of the conference center, back to the hotel elevators. Up in Michael’s suite, I had to shield my eyes from the sun, blasting in full strength through the wide windows.

Michael disappeared around the corner. This room was even bigger than Chuck and Brad’s. Plush cream carpeting, a dazzling glass chandelier, an urn on the hall table overflowing with tropical vines and flowers. Michael returned holding a slim leather briefcase. Black, brand new, with a small combination lock built into the top. He handed it to me. It was surprisingly light.

“I want you to walk this over to the Venetian,” he said. “Bring this to a Mr. Wenjian Chan. He’s a guest there. Walk, don’t take a cab. It’s important that you hand it to Chan directly. Not to the concierge. Tell him you’re there on my behalf. Okay?”

What had I been thinking, trusting Michael all this time? Of course he didn’t care about me. He didn’t give a shit.

“It’s a short walk,” Michael said. “You’ll be back in time for the next panel.”

He turned and disappeared around the corner. I stood there, unsure what to do. I wanted to shout after him, tell him that I knew. Drop the briefcase and walk away forever. But I’d never do that. It must have been why Michael picked me. He saw it from the start—from the very first time I walked into his office. I wasn’t brave. I never was. Obeying orders was just about the only thing I knew how to do.

  

At the Venetian, a young Asian girl opened the door. She inclined her head and gestured me inside. She spoke in Mandarin but stopped when she saw the look on my face.

“Michael Casey?”

“No. No, I’m Evan Peck. I work with Michael.”

“Ah. Mr. Peck. My mistake. Please, come this way.” Her English was smooth and flawless, with no more of an accent than mine. She had a round and dewy face, and couldn’t be more than a teenager.

I followed her down a hallway to a large sitting room. An older man with silver hair gazed steadily at the view of the desert through the window, indifferent to the luxury of the suite, to the Champagne chilling on ice, to the mirrored walls. He turned toward me.

“Michael Casey?” He had a thick accent.

I shook my head. My shirt, soaked with sweat from the walk under the scorching noonday sun, started to chill in the air-conditioning. The girl cut in, in rapid Mandarin. The man kept his eyes on me while they spoke, then he smiled. The girl turned back to me with a respectful tilt of her head. “This is my father, Wenjian Chan. He was expecting to speak to Mr. Casey. He has asked me to stay and translate.” She paused, waiting for me to nod. I did.

“Thank you,” she continued. “Forgive our urgency, but he asks whether he may please have the briefcase you are delivering on behalf of Mr. Casey now.”

She took it from me and laid it gently on the coffee table. Her father put on reading glasses and spun the combination lock. It opened with a pop. Chan removed a slim manila folder and scanned each page in the folder carefully. Several minutes later, Chan looked up and spoke to his daughter. It was clear from his tone that he was satisfied.

The girl smiled at me. “Thank you. My father is very pleased with this. Please convey our gratitude to Mr. Casey.” She held out her arm and started to lead me to the door when Chan interrupted, barking at her.

She stiffened and turned red, then shook her head at her father. Chan was pointing at me, his voice almost at a shout. She started speaking, but he cut her off, insistent. My heart started thudding like a muscle gone loose. The daughter drew a deep breath, glancing sideways at her father.

“My father is very pleased with the help you have offered to us. And now that you have helped us with these papers”—she was so quiet I could barely hear—“he wonders if you might offer us help in the future, too.”

“I’m sorry?” I said. Chan was chattering excitedly. My mouth had gone dry. Michael hadn’t said anything about this.

She turned a deeper shade of red. “I’ll be applying to college next fall, here in America. My father is aware that you might have useful connections. You went to Yale, yes? You know many people there?” She took another breath and added, “He says that he would like to—as you say—keep in touch.”

  

The words echoed through my head. Keep in touch. I began walking back to the hotel, then I broke into a run, sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. I had to talk to Michael. So they knew where I’d gone to college. What else did they know about me? Just exactly how far did this thing go? What were they expecting from me?

But at the conference, Michael was nowhere in sight. I ducked into a corner and dialed his number. It went directly to voice mail. I sent a frantic e-mail. I tried calling again, but his phone remained off. I refreshed my e-mail. Nothing.

The afternoon panel was about to begin, and the others were drifting back into the ballroom. Chuck waved me over. I was the last one to file into our row and wound up sitting next to Roger. He didn’t seem affected by the night before. Bright-eyed, cleanly shaved, popping a stick of gum. His collar crisp and perfectly white. He raised an eyebrow, taking me in. “You look like shit,” he said.

The panel was about to begin. There was an empty seat in the middle of the row, where Michael was supposed to be. I craned my neck, scanning the entrances to the ballroom. I had a sudden, dizzying fear.

“Oh,” Roger said. “Who are you looking for? Michael, your boyfriend? He had to leave. Just went to the airport. He’s flying back to New York right now.”