need approval to even make the request." She shook her head. Her eyes bored into Amalise's as if she'd stepped over a line. "Who's the client?"
Amalise blinked. "It's First Merchant's customer, actually. We're representing them."
She went back to the card catalog. "Well, you'd think a bank would already have that kind of information, wouldn't you?"
Amalise felt the blush that rose. They would and surely did, Raymond confirmed when she reported back. A credit check on First Merchant Bank's client wasn't the firm's responsibility. He wasn't going to stir that pot.
Amalise lounged in the chair in front of Raymond's desk. "Then I guess we're at a dead end. I found nothing on either Murdoch or the companies." Thinking of the property that Murdoch would destroy in the Marigny District to build his hotel, the thought popped into her mind that she would love to see this deal die. The rogue idea frightened her, and she shook it off.
Raymond spread his hands. "Finding nothing is a good result. The Reports and SEC opinions would only bring bad news." Besides, he went on, his friend Josh Bart at Lehman Loeb vouched for anyone Tom Hannigan at Morgan Klemp recommended. He looked at Amalise, cocked his head and shrugged. "In the end, it's all about relationships."
He had plenty of work lined up for her to do. Bingham Murdoch was First Merchant Bank's concern, not a problem for Mangen & Morris.
Later that night Bingham stood at the living room window in his executive suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, gazing at the harvest moon. The full moon would cycle around once more, then wane as the closing date grew near. He was remembering a time when calculations of the moon's cycle meant to him life or death.
His heart beat faster as he thought of this, and he almost whispered the thoughts aloud. A quarter moon is what you want, at most. The enemy would be waiting below for their chutes to open on a moonlit night, those mushrooms hanging over you like iridescent targets. He nodded to himself. Yes, you pick a dark night. If you're lucky, maybe the weather's acting up a little—some fog, light rain, low cloud cover. At most a quarter moon.
Bingham smiled, shrugging off the memory. The pinnacle was now in sight. Six weeks, at most. Thanksgiving. And he had a lot to be thankful for.
He turned away from the window, adjusting his shirt collar. He licked the tips of his fingers and smoothed back his hair. Robert was waiting downstairs in the Blue Room, and he'd invited two pretty ladies to dine with them tonight. As Bingham walked into the bedroom, he sang, "New Orleans ladies . . . they sa-shay by . . ." Yes, he loved this city.
And Robert was doing well, so far. Bingham mused over his luck. The young investment banker was the perfect chief executive officer to run the hotel. Good with money, tough, aggressive, and smart. But Robert could stand to learn a few things. He was abrasive, and his flashpoint was low.
Bingham inspected his wardrobe, then pulled out his tux, a white shirt, a black bow tie. He untied the tie he'd worn all day and pulled it off. Despite the sorry economy, he figured the markets were poised to soar, and he sensed the kid had keen insight into the ideal ratio of risk to reward. Finding Robert was a piece of good fortune, all in all. The kid would keep the lid on things. He was hungry. And he'd chum up with the local champions of the public good.
Yes. Robert was a necessary evil.
He laid the clothes he would wear tonight out on the bed in the order in which he would put them on. When he'd finished undressing, Bingham turned on the shower and stepped inside. A rush of pleasure hit him all at once as the hot water streamed over him, a jolt of pure, unselfish joy. He always did like a good, hot shower. He dried off with a thick, soft towel and pulled on the robe with the hotel logo embroidered on the front pocket. Yes, he thought to himself while he shaved, things were moving along. He'd been told these lawyers were the
Amalise blinked. "It's First Merchant's customer, actually. We're representing them."
She went back to the card catalog. "Well, you'd think a bank would already have that kind of information, wouldn't you?"
Amalise felt the blush that rose. They would and surely did, Raymond confirmed when she reported back. A credit check on First Merchant Bank's client wasn't the firm's responsibility. He wasn't going to stir that pot.
Amalise lounged in the chair in front of Raymond's desk. "Then I guess we're at a dead end. I found nothing on either Murdoch or the companies." Thinking of the property that Murdoch would destroy in the Marigny District to build his hotel, the thought popped into her mind that she would love to see this deal die. The rogue idea frightened her, and she shook it off.
Raymond spread his hands. "Finding nothing is a good result. The Reports and SEC opinions would only bring bad news." Besides, he went on, his friend Josh Bart at Lehman Loeb vouched for anyone Tom Hannigan at Morgan Klemp recommended. He looked at Amalise, cocked his head and shrugged. "In the end, it's all about relationships."
He had plenty of work lined up for her to do. Bingham Murdoch was First Merchant Bank's concern, not a problem for Mangen & Morris.
Later that night Bingham stood at the living room window in his executive suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, gazing at the harvest moon. The full moon would cycle around once more, then wane as the closing date grew near. He was remembering a time when calculations of the moon's cycle meant to him life or death.
His heart beat faster as he thought of this, and he almost whispered the thoughts aloud. A quarter moon is what you want, at most. The enemy would be waiting below for their chutes to open on a moonlit night, those mushrooms hanging over you like iridescent targets. He nodded to himself. Yes, you pick a dark night. If you're lucky, maybe the weather's acting up a little—some fog, light rain, low cloud cover. At most a quarter moon.
Bingham smiled, shrugging off the memory. The pinnacle was now in sight. Six weeks, at most. Thanksgiving. And he had a lot to be thankful for.
He turned away from the window, adjusting his shirt collar. He licked the tips of his fingers and smoothed back his hair. Robert was waiting downstairs in the Blue Room, and he'd invited two pretty ladies to dine with them tonight. As Bingham walked into the bedroom, he sang, "New Orleans ladies . . . they sa-shay by . . ." Yes, he loved this city.
And Robert was doing well, so far. Bingham mused over his luck. The young investment banker was the perfect chief executive officer to run the hotel. Good with money, tough, aggressive, and smart. But Robert could stand to learn a few things. He was abrasive, and his flashpoint was low.
Bingham inspected his wardrobe, then pulled out his tux, a white shirt, a black bow tie. He untied the tie he'd worn all day and pulled it off. Despite the sorry economy, he figured the markets were poised to soar, and he sensed the kid had keen insight into the ideal ratio of risk to reward. Finding Robert was a piece of good fortune, all in all. The kid would keep the lid on things. He was hungry. And he'd chum up with the local champions of the public good.
Yes. Robert was a necessary evil.
He laid the clothes he would wear tonight out on the bed in the order in which he would put them on. When he'd finished undressing, Bingham turned on the shower and stepped inside. A rush of pleasure hit him all at once as the hot water streamed over him, a jolt of pure, unselfish joy. He always did like a good, hot shower. He dried off with a thick, soft towel and pulled on the robe with the hotel logo embroidered on the front pocket. Yes, he thought to himself while he shaved, things were moving along. He'd been told these lawyers were the
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