“You’re trying
to think of a polite way to ask what all this has to do with you.” He pauses.
“Something has gotten into our courtesy case. It’s been five years since George Hyson retired and left to me the honor of
accompanying Brice to lunch. In those five years Brice has never once called this office. Never had a tax question. Never
solicited a shred of financial advice. He simply appears at noon on April first each year, takes me to lunch, signs his tax
return and the bill. Until this morning.”
“He called?” says Mimi.
“Yes. He’s been doing some thinking, and he’s concluded that an investment strategy would be prudent after all.”
Mimi and I exchange a look. Her cheeks are high and fine, a hint of flush to them. “After thirty years?” she says.
Mr. Stein nods. “After thirty years.” He’s silent again, his eyes leaving us for a French watercolor on the wall, resting
on it a second, then coming back. “Mimi, you made a stronger impression on our legacy than he did on you.”
“I did?”
“He’s asked that you be assigned to his account.”
“I only met him for a second.”
“Yes. Well, he’s requested you, and when we can, we try to keep our legacies happy.”
He pauses again, and now leans forward. Here comes the hammer.
“Brice wants a crash course in modern money management,” Mr. Stein says. He pulls a note card from the thin folder, then looks
over it at us. “Money markets, Treasury bonds, mutual funds, commodities, derivatives — the history and prospects of each.”
Christ. Why not physics and space travel, too? Mr. Stein looks at me. “Now you know why
you’re
here, Mr. Teller.”
The man read my résumé. Actually
read
it. Under “Specialties” I listed “financial instruments.” A bit of a stretch, as my only exposure to them was a three-week
winter-term course my senior year at Ham Tech. Jeremy was my roommate at the time, and my coursemate, too, and thanks to a
torrid stretch at the dice cup, I spent my mornings sleeping off the winter-term parties while he trudged through the snow
to class, notebook in hand. I don’t think I made it to three of them. As for the notes, I have a clear image of standing in
back of the frat house the night of finals, dropping them onto the bonfire.
“He wants five investment scenarios,” says Mr. Stein, “With estimated exposure and rates of return on each — for both bull
and bear markets. I’ll need all of this on my desk the morning of the first—ten days from today.” He looks at us. “You can
manage this?”
Mimi nods. “I’m sure we can,” she says. He looks at me, and I nod, too.
“At least you’ll be spared lunch. Largesse is another quality Andrew failed to inherit from his father. Last year, if I recall,
it was a sandwich and a tonic water at the Carnegie Deli.” He leans forward with the two account folders. “I don’t know what
we can expect from Brice — nothing, maybe. But his account’s been a nonperformer for thirty years. It’s worth a shot.”
We each take a folder.
“That’s it, you two. Thank you.”
We stand and walk together out of the office. Mimi closes the door behind us and looks at me, smiling.
“Are you as swamped as I am?” she asks as we walk down the hall toward Reception. Her perfume is light, alluring.
“Two weeks here and this is as far as I’ve made it from my desk.”
She laughs. “I know the feeling. We’ll have to do this at night, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight’s out — the send-off party for Diane Silio. Will you be there?”
“I will,” I say.
“Shall we work out a schedule then?”
“Sure.”
We’re both quiet a second. “All right, then,” she says, as we walk from Reception into the north wing. “Back to the salt mines.
See you tonight, Jake.”
She smiles and walks off toward her office. I watch her turn the corner. Ten seconds pass and still I’m standing in the hallway,
staring at the
to think of a polite way to ask what all this has to do with you.” He pauses.
“Something has gotten into our courtesy case. It’s been five years since George Hyson retired and left to me the honor of
accompanying Brice to lunch. In those five years Brice has never once called this office. Never had a tax question. Never
solicited a shred of financial advice. He simply appears at noon on April first each year, takes me to lunch, signs his tax
return and the bill. Until this morning.”
“He called?” says Mimi.
“Yes. He’s been doing some thinking, and he’s concluded that an investment strategy would be prudent after all.”
Mimi and I exchange a look. Her cheeks are high and fine, a hint of flush to them. “After thirty years?” she says.
Mr. Stein nods. “After thirty years.” He’s silent again, his eyes leaving us for a French watercolor on the wall, resting
on it a second, then coming back. “Mimi, you made a stronger impression on our legacy than he did on you.”
“I did?”
“He’s asked that you be assigned to his account.”
“I only met him for a second.”
“Yes. Well, he’s requested you, and when we can, we try to keep our legacies happy.”
He pauses again, and now leans forward. Here comes the hammer.
“Brice wants a crash course in modern money management,” Mr. Stein says. He pulls a note card from the thin folder, then looks
over it at us. “Money markets, Treasury bonds, mutual funds, commodities, derivatives — the history and prospects of each.”
Christ. Why not physics and space travel, too? Mr. Stein looks at me. “Now you know why
you’re
here, Mr. Teller.”
The man read my résumé. Actually
read
it. Under “Specialties” I listed “financial instruments.” A bit of a stretch, as my only exposure to them was a three-week
winter-term course my senior year at Ham Tech. Jeremy was my roommate at the time, and my coursemate, too, and thanks to a
torrid stretch at the dice cup, I spent my mornings sleeping off the winter-term parties while he trudged through the snow
to class, notebook in hand. I don’t think I made it to three of them. As for the notes, I have a clear image of standing in
back of the frat house the night of finals, dropping them onto the bonfire.
“He wants five investment scenarios,” says Mr. Stein, “With estimated exposure and rates of return on each — for both bull
and bear markets. I’ll need all of this on my desk the morning of the first—ten days from today.” He looks at us. “You can
manage this?”
Mimi nods. “I’m sure we can,” she says. He looks at me, and I nod, too.
“At least you’ll be spared lunch. Largesse is another quality Andrew failed to inherit from his father. Last year, if I recall,
it was a sandwich and a tonic water at the Carnegie Deli.” He leans forward with the two account folders. “I don’t know what
we can expect from Brice — nothing, maybe. But his account’s been a nonperformer for thirty years. It’s worth a shot.”
We each take a folder.
“That’s it, you two. Thank you.”
We stand and walk together out of the office. Mimi closes the door behind us and looks at me, smiling.
“Are you as swamped as I am?” she asks as we walk down the hall toward Reception. Her perfume is light, alluring.
“Two weeks here and this is as far as I’ve made it from my desk.”
She laughs. “I know the feeling. We’ll have to do this at night, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight’s out — the send-off party for Diane Silio. Will you be there?”
“I will,” I say.
“Shall we work out a schedule then?”
“Sure.”
We’re both quiet a second. “All right, then,” she says, as we walk from Reception into the north wing. “Back to the salt mines.
See you tonight, Jake.”
She smiles and walks off toward her office. I watch her turn the corner. Ten seconds pass and still I’m standing in the hallway,
staring at the
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