The Key

“What could you say?” I asked. “Everything he’s said and done can be explained away. It’s all too subtle, and it’s all his word against mine. And he’s a rainmaker—he brings in more fees in a month than I bring in all year, so I think I know where the partners’ loyalties lie.”

“I don’t care how much money he brings in. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this sort of thing.”

“I’ll just deal with it, and once I make partner, I’ll never have to deal with it again.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind….”

“Thanks, Jake. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. See you at ten?”

“At ten,” I confirmed and hung up the phone. “Pretty little head, my foot,” I muttered, washing the words down with a swig of soda.

I turned to where I’d left my briefcase on top of the credenza, unlatching it and drawing a battered spiral-bound notebook from an inside pocket.

The notebook contained a hundred sheets of ruled paper, but it was already more than half-filled, which wasn’t surprising given that I’d been making regular entries for years. I opened to a fresh page and printed the date at the top. Then I quickly summarized my interaction with Gallagher, “pretty little head” and all. I tried to describe it objectively, which was challenging given the rage still coursing through my veins. I wrote steadily for several minutes before pausing to look over my account. Satisfied that I’d captured everything important, I flipped through the preceding pages.

The previous entry was from Saturday afternoon and described the first incident with Gallagher. The page before that held a description of my most recent meeting with the partner assigned to be my “mentor.” He’d insisted on conducting my last performance review over drinks and had swilled down three Glenlivets while I nursed a seltzer and fought off his attempts to steer the conversation toward my love life, rather than my professional development.

The notebook was my version of an insurance policy, started at the urging of my friend Luisa, a lawyer. I wanted to succeed on my merits, but it hadn’t taken long to realize that there was a lot more than merit to succeeding on Wall Street, especially as a woman. If I ever found myself getting the shaft for reasons that I suspected had more to do with my gender than anything else, I had a detailed record of all I’d put up with over the years. None of my experiences met the legal definition of sexual harassment, but as a whole the handwritten pages told a compelling story.

I’d returned the notebook to my briefcase and was cranking through the e-mails overflowing my in-box when the intercom buzzed. “Peter’s on line one,” Jessica told me.

“Thanks, I’ll take it,” I said and picked up the phone, still typing with my free hand. “Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Not so far.”

“That’s the attitude, Sparky.”

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to check in and see if maybe you could sneak out for a nice romantic lunch today.”

I hadn’t told Peter about Gallagher’s far less welcome invitation—it would only upset him, and he was already concerned about how hard I’d been working—so he couldn’t have known the unfortunate associations lunch invitations held for me just then. Nor was there any way I was going to be able to sneak out for a nice romantic anything. In fact, sneaking out for a decent night’s sleep was probably going to be a problem, and I told Peter as much.

“That bad, huh?” Peter ran a tech start-up, and while he worked hard, he was his own boss and set his own hours. It wasn’t always easy for him to understand how little control I had over my own schedule.

“Just business as usual. Listen, I’ll call you when I know how things are shaping up. Maybe we can try to grab a late dinner?”

“That would be great. I feel like I see less of you than I did before we lived together.”

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “But this deal can’t last forever.” At least, I certainly hoped it couldn’t. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“All right,” he agreed.

My other line was ringing, and I checked the caller ID. “That’s Jake. I’ve got to run.”

I’d hung up before I realized Peter was still talking. “Love you—” he was saying.

I felt guilty, but only partly because I’d had so little time for Peter of late.

The other part was because I was annoyed that I felt guilty. A nasty little voice in my head was saying that Peter should know well enough by now what my job was like, that he couldn’t expect me to drop everything whenever he called. Just because he had a key to my apartment didn’t mean that he had a key to my entire life.

And the very existence of that nasty little voice made me feel all the more guilty.

chapter four

J ake, Mark and I took the single flight of stairs up to the designated conference room a few minutes before ten. “Where should I sit?” asked Mark nervously, setting the stack of bound presentations on the table. Client meetings were still pretty new to him—he’d joined the firm only a few months ago after graduating early from an undergraduate finance program, opting to start work immediately rather than use the extra time to travel or take a few electives.

“I wouldn’t just yet,” I advised. “I’m sure Gallagher has some master plan about how he wants to position us.” Like kneeling at his feet, awaiting his next command. Jake smiled as if he knew what I was thinking, and he probably did.

Gallagher arrived a moment later, deep in chummy conversation with his companion—Nicholas Perry, presumably. Next to Perry, Gallagher looked especially mousy, as Perry was well over six feet and bore a striking resemblance to George Hamilton, albeit dressed in a pin-striped suit rather than a Zorro costume.

Jake stepped forward and introduced himself, shaking Perry’s hand.

“Hello, Jake,” Perry said.

“And this is Rachel Benjamin and Mark Anders.” I had the feeling that Jake didn’t trust Gallagher to get the names of his minions right and had preempted the introductions accordingly.

“Nice to meet you.” He turned to Gallagher. “This is quite a group you’ve assembled here, Glenn.” There was something oily about his tone, or maybe it just seemed that way because he looked so slick, from his shining tasseled loafers up to his sleekly barbered hair.

Gallagher shrugged—he saved his chumminess for old college pals—and glanced at his Rolex. “Ready to get started?”

“Let’s do it,” agreed Perry with a glance at his own Rolex.

Sure enough, Gallagher did have strong ideas about seating. In my case, it was at the end of the table farthest from Perry. For once I was happy to be marginalized.

“We’ve run the numbers,” he told Perry as we took our places. “And the bond department is raring to go—we should be able to get this done in a couple of weeks.”

“The faster the better,” said Perry.

Gallagher began walking him through the materials we’d put together, with Jake, Mark, and I adding the occasional clarifying detail when called upon. The mechanics of the proposed buyout were fairly straightforward. Perry would purchase all of Thunderbolt’s shares, financing a small part of the acquisition with fifty million dollars put up by his investor group. The remainder would be financed by bonds that Winslow, Brown would issue and sell. The bonds, in turn, would be backed by Thunderbolt’s future earnings. Perry’s investor group would then own a company worth five hundred million dollars after putting up only ten percent of its value.

It was risky but perfectly legal. And Winslow, Brown would net a cool three or four million dollars in fees for a few weeks’ work, a healthy chunk of which would be deposited directly into Gallagher’s pocket. It was good to be a partner, and especially good to be a senior partner.

“The only thing standing in the way is getting the new union contract signed. Did you wrap up the negotiations?” Gallagher asked Perry.

“We finalized everything over the weekend. Kryzluk, the chapter president, is a bit bull-headed, but the last thing he wanted was layoffs—he had to cave on benefits.” He said this as if the decline in Thunderbolt’s business was a plus, because it meant that the union had to yield on its demands to ensure that employees kept their jobs.

“Good,” said Gallagher, who probably didn’t spend much time pondering the fate of industrial laborers in a rust-belt town. Concern about that sort of thing would be a liability in his line of work.

As I listened, however, my unease only increased.

The whole deal smelled. As I’d tried to point out earlier, Thunderbolt was in bad shape. I didn’t understand what Perry or his anonymous co-investors were thinking—sure, the buyout would leave them in control, but with massive interest payments that the business couldn’t support with its declining revenues.

When Gallagher paused to draw a breath, I spoke without thinking. “Are there any new contracts in the pipeline?” There must be a reason that Perry was so interested in owning the company—the man may have been slick, but I doubted he was stupid.

My question met with an awkward moment of silence. Then Perry turned to me, peering down the length of the polished mahogany table as if noting my presence for the first time.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” he said with finality.

Gallagher shot me a look that suggested he wished looks could, in fact, kill before changing the subject. A few minutes later he was chummily walking Perry down the hall to the elevators.

Gallagher had, of course, guaranteed Perry we’d have a revised set of numbers ready the next day, which meant that the rest of today and much of the evening were shot. I knew I couldn’t face diving back into work without a short break—preferably one involving food—and Jake and Mark concurred. We agreed to reconvene in ten minutes for a quick lunch and headed downstairs to our offices.

I was at Jessica’s desk, retrieving messages, when I heard the panicked voice of Bert, the guy who manned reception, from across the floor.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? You can’t go in there! I need to make sure you’re expected—”

Jessica and I both turned to stare. The woman Bert was trailing ignored his protests. “Don’t worry—I’ll find my way, thanks.”

She was average height and in her late forties, with the sort of face people describe as striking rather than pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was wearing a smart navy pantsuit. We watched, curious, as she surveyed the open space of the floor, its center crammed with the low-walled cubicles that housed junior bankers and assistants, and the offices for more senior bankers lining the perimeter. Her eyes landed on Dahlia, seated at her station in front of Gallagher’s own corner office.

“Hello, Dahlia,” she called, threading her way through the maze of cubes.

“Naomi!” Dahlia’s tone was surprised. Bert hesitated but seemed to take the greeting as proof of the intruder’s legitimacy. With a shrug he retreated to reception.

“It’s been a long time,” said Naomi as she reached Dahlia. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Glenn and I signed the divorce papers. Is he in?”

“He had a meeting, but he should be back soon. I didn’t know you were—I mean, do you have an appointment? Did he know that you were coming to see him?” Dahlia’s polite smile began to give way to a more apprehensive expression.

“I think we’re both aware that he would never agree to see me in person.” By this point the two women had the attention of everyone within earshot. There wasn’t much drama during the course of a normal day at Winslow, Brown, but it looked like we were all in for an unexpected treat.

“Oh. He’s not going to like this,” said Dahlia.

Naomi shrugged. “Too bad, isn’t it? Look, here he comes now.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The acoustics on the floor were pretty good, but it still may have been a strain for some of the eavesdroppers to make out what Dahlia and Naomi had been saying. Gallagher, however, could be heard easily since he was shouting.

“I was getting sick of my lawyer racking up fees talking to your lawyer,” his ex-wife answered. She followed him into his office.

“He wouldn’t be racking up fees if you weren’t being so unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? Unreasonable?” Naomi’s voice rose to match Gallagher’s own, and while nobody could see them now, everybody could still hear them. “I hardly see how it’s unreasonable to expect you to live up to your legal obligation to pay your daughter’s tuition.”

“I don’t know why she has to go to that fancy school. What can they possibly teach her that costs thirty grand a year?”

“You listen here, Glenn Gallagher. If I’d known when I met you what a stingy schmuck you’d turn out to be, I would never have had anything to do with you. Beth is the one good thing that came out of our marriage, and I’m not going to let you stint on her education. It’s the least you can do. I can’t remember the last time you saw her. She probably can’t, either.”

Jessica looked up at me, bemused. “Stingy schmuck?” she mouthed. I shrugged.

“Can’t we talk about this later?” Gallagher said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“No, we cannot talk about it later. I’m not leaving here without a check. And don’t even try to cry poor. Your new apartment’s the lead spread in this month’s Architectural Digest. Little Annabel probably spent more on each square foot of that place than the school costs.”

“There’s no need to drag Annabel into this.”

“I could care less about dear Annabel. All I want is for you to pry open your checkbook and write the check. Make it out directly to the school. If they don’t get it in the next two days, Beth’s going to lose her spot for next year. Or perhaps I should write a letter to the editor of Architectural Digest? I’m sure they’d be interested to learn all about how you managed to find the money to pay for your swanky penthouse but can’t seem to scrounge up your daughter’s tuition.”

“I’ll write the check. Just shut up already.”

There was silence, and then the sound of a check being ripped from a ledger.

“This better not bounce.”

“You’re psycho. A real head case. Now get out of here before I call security.”

“Gladly.” Naomi reappeared at the door then turned back for one last parting shot. “You know, you’d be of more use to your daughter dead. Pull any more of this crap, and I’ll kill you myself.”

She walked calmly out of her former husband’s office, and everyone who’d been listening hurriedly began shuffling papers or typing at their computers, feigning utter absorption in work. I stifled the urge to clap.

“I’m off,” Naomi said to Dahlia. “But I have the feeling that he’s not going to be much fun to deal with for the rest of the day.”

The women’s eyes met. Then Gallagher began yelling for Dahlia from his office.

chapter five

N aomi was still waiting for an elevator when I went out to the lobby a moment later to meet Jake and Mark. Listening to her let Gallagher have it had been almost as cathartic as if I’d done it myself, and it had definitely been more cathartic than my blunt-object fantasy. I wanted to thank her, but even I knew that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

She appeared preoccupied anyway, tapping her foot and checking her watch as she waited. My colleagues sat on the other side of the floor so had missed the entire scene—I was already looking forward to filling them in over lunch.

An elevator finally announced its arrival with a digital beep. The doors slid apart, framing another woman in the opening.

“Figures,” I heard Naomi say under her breath.

The woman was about my age and roughly the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. With her golden highlights and glossy manicure, not to mention the enormous diamond on her ring finger and matching studs in her ears, she was pretty much the illustrated dictionary definition of socialite-slash-trophy-wife. The Gucci jacket, Prada skirt, Manolo Blahnik heels, and Louis Vuitton purse did nothing to contradict the image, although I did find myself wondering if it was wise to mix so many brands at once. I also felt suddenly self-conscious. It must be nice to have the funds and leisure time to support such perfect grooming and over-the-top wardrobe selection. In fact, it must be nice simply to get enough sleep.

She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.

The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”

“Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.

It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely—the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.

Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”

“He’s in a fine humor.”

“Oh?”

“I have that effect on him. And I managed to separate him from some of his money. He never likes that much. Can I give you some advice, Annabel?”

“Do I have a choice?” she answered impatiently. She moved to step past Naomi, but Naomi moved with her. The elevator doors gave a whining beep in protest at standing open for so long.

“If you didn’t already sign everything away in a prenup, which he probably made sure you did, get things squared away now. Especially if you’re planning on having any little Annabels or Glenn juniors. Find a good lawyer and have him draw up some watertight contracts. Otherwise all you’ll see once he’s onto Number Three is half of whatever he made while you were married, and my guess is that he’ll hide a lot of that away.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Are you done now?” asked Annabel, trying again to step past Naomi. “These people are waiting for the elevator.” She motioned toward our little group, which had been bearing witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of awkwardness. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in her eyes as her glance swept over us.

“Yes, I must get back to my office. Some of us work, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I know how busy you must be with all of that shopping and decorating to do. Goodbye, Annabel.”

“Goodbye, Naomi,” Annabel said, mimicking Naomi’s tone. This time Naomi let her pass and stepped into the elevator, followed by Jake, Mark, and me. A small smile played over her lips as the doors slid shut.

We were all silent as the elevator descended. Personally, I was in awe. Naomi seemed to be completely comfortable saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. And while Miss Manners most assuredly would not have approved, I couldn’t help but be impressed.

The doors parted when we reached the ground floor, and Naomi strode off.

“Wow,” I said.

“Good show,” agreed Jake.

“You missed the first act.” I filled them in on Naomi’s showdown with Gallagher as we made our way to a nearby Burger Heaven. I’d chosen our destination; I was very much in need of protein, preferably accompanied by large quantities of French fries.

“It sounds like Wife Number One isn’t exactly president of the Glenn Gallagher fan club,” said Jake when we had settled in a booth and placed our order.

“I don’t think that’s a very happening club,” I said.

Mark laughed, his first laugh in the three days we’d spent almost entirely in each other’s company. I turned to him, glad to see some sign of personality. It would be nice if the guy loosened up—thus far, he’d been like a Stepford associate: focused, uncomplaining, and completely humorless.

“So, Mark, where are you from?” I asked.

“Me?” He took a sip of his soda. “New Jersey.”

“Southern New Jersey or northern New Jersey?” asked Jake. I wondered how this could possibly matter. New Jersey was New Jersey as far as I was concerned.

“Southern.”

“Then you’re an Eagles fan, right?” said Jake.

My heart sank. I really hated sports talk, and it didn’t help that I had no idea what sport the Eagles played.

“Yeah.”

“Man, did you see their game against the Cowboys? During the playoffs?”

“Uh, no. I missed it.”

“It was awesome.” Jake started talking about the game, and I was able to ascertain that the sport in question was football. It was amazing how someone who was usually so engaging in conversation could embrace such a boring topic.

“What about the Eagles-Steelers game? Did you see that one?” Jake asked.

Mark looked relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “That was a great game.”

They started talking about that game, and I tuned out. I couldn’t possibly be expected to concentrate on a subject this dull when I was hungry. I perked back up when our food arrived, and I was pleased to find that the football discussion had run its course. They were now talking about work. This was only a marginally better topic, but it still trumped sports.

“You’ve been with the firm since January, right?” Jake was asking. “How do you like it?”

Mark picked up his burger. “I expected that the hours would be pretty brutal, and they have been, especially with this new deal. But I wanted to work on a buyout.”

“Even with the Idi Amin of Winslow, Brown?” I asked.

Mark hesitated. “This is probably embarrassing to admit, but I was deciding between offers at a few different firms. When I heard that Gallagher had left Ryan Brothers to join Winslow, Brown—well, that made up my mind for me. In fact, I asked to be assigned to his next deal. I’d heard that working with him was sort of painful, but I thought it would be a good learning experience. He’s kind of a legend in certain circles.”

Circles of hell, I thought. Imagine wanting to work with Gallagher. In fact, following Gallagher to the firm? That was dedication. Or masochism.

“Then it’s a dream come true?” asked Jake. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me; there was a teasing edge to his tone. But Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.

“I have a question, Jake. Since you’ve worked with the guy before.”

Jake turned his attention away from Mark. “Shoot.”

“What’s with Gallagher and the pencil thing?”

“What pencil thing?”

“Don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t noticed the pencil thing. When he sharpens an already sharp pencil and sucks on it? He must have done it six or seven times when we were in his office this morning.”

He grinned. “Oh, that pencil thing.”

“Yes, that pencil thing. He must go through a dozen pencils a day. And the sucking—it’s disgusting. I don’t even want to know what Freud would make of it.”

“All that lead can’t be good for him,” volunteered Mark.

“Maybe he’ll die of lead poisoning,” I said, not bothering to disguise the hopeful note in my voice.

“I think they make them out of graphite now,” Jake said. “It’s funny, though. Do you watch Forensic City?”

“I love that show,” I said.

“You do? Me, too,” Jake said.

“I have the entire season’s episodes on my TiVo, just waiting for the time to watch them all,” I told him.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll ruin anything by telling you they had an episode a few weeks ago in which a guy who likes to chew on toothpicks dies from chewing on a poisoned toothpick.”

“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could slip some poison into one of Gallagher’s pencils?”

“Should I be worried you’re not joking?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know. Would you be willing to help out?”