Butch Hardy was just finishing his report on the extra money he’d sent over to the Russian team with Charlene along with the photographs of Cassy Levin he’d included on Dammerman’s orders when his phone rang.
He picked up. “Yes?”
“Meet me at the Nassau Street door,” Dammerman said. “We’re going for a little walk.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Hardy said, but Dammerman had already hung up.
He printed out the brief report, erased the file from his computer, and put the hard copy in his locked file cabinet before he grabbed his jacket and went upstairs to the reception desk on the main floor.
“Good morning, sir,” one of the big men at the desk said, nodding respectfully as he passed. The entire security crew in the building, including the guys on reception, had been his hires after he’d thoroughly vetted them.
It was nearly a year ago when Dammerman had called him into his office and ordered the replacement of everyone on security.
“Sure thing, sir,” Hardy had said. “But can you tell me why?”
“Security is shit around here. I want it tightened up. Good enough?”
“You’re the boss.”
“And never forget it,” Dammerman had said darkly.
And Hardy hadn’t.
Dammerman seemed to be in another of his dark moods, which had been happening more frequently over the past month or so, when Hardy joined him at the front door.
“Let’s go,” BP’s COO said. He headed up Nassau Street at a brisk pace, and Hardy fell in beside him.
It was just past noon and time for lunch, which was what Hardy figured this meeting was all about—going to lunch to discuss things too sensitive to cover in the building. Later, if or when the shit hit the fan, they would have plausible deniability: We never had any discussion of that nature in either of our offices so far as I can recall.
Time was when Wall Street players would take a break for long liquid lunches. That wasn’t done much anymore. A mostly sober, stay-at-your-desk work ethic reigned. Even the traders on the floor, who were rough-around-the-edges frat boy types, no longer hit the bars during the day.
In the digital age nobody dared to be away from a trading terminal—everything happened in split seconds. If you didn’t notice a price aberration and act on it at once, you could lose millions for your firm. Even going to the john was a high-risk proposition for a trader.
Of course Dammerman was above any such restrictions. He’d spent a lot of high-stress years at the trading posts as a swinging dick, bellowing profanities and trading at a manic speed.
“Trade or quit, I don’t give a fuck, just get out of my way!”
But right now, as number two at BP, he was the master of his universe, and everyone, including Hardy, knew it.