Dear Money (23 page)

"These modern women seem confident of their abilities to do anything," she said kindly, almost proudly, longing to be more closely related to the species she was speaking of.

"So why are you here? What's in this for you?" Radalpieno turned the spotlight back on me, emphasizing
why
and
what,
leaving Miss Lane behind, an afterthought now and not perturbed—used to being an afterthought. "Can't your husband take care of you?" Again Win sounded the bell.

"I'm here to make money," I said simply, while also trying to make sense of the bell. "All of you make so much of it and I'm curious to find out how and why. I'm just as curious as Win to see if he's right, to understand if I could do what you do here—take the road not taken. That's the idea, I suppose."

"Suppose? We don't suppose," he said. Again his impressive size inflated. "I rip the throats out of those who tell me they suppose."

"I've done a little research," I said. He wasn't scaring me with his war talk. "I understand what Win does to a certain degree. He manages the trading floor that handles all forms of mortgages and rates." I continued to explain all that I knew; I'd prepared for this moment. I spoke of pools and tranches, making mortgage bonds a viable investment option for big investors, insurance companies and pension funds—structures that offered a variety of risk possibilities. I knew too, and let him know that I did, that in the 1980s he was among the original architects of collateralized mortgage obligations (I referred to them as CMOs) and thus opened the mortgage-backed-security (MBS) frontier that thrived today. He let me talk the way you might let a fish run. "You had the mathematical mind that could understand how to turn vast mortgage pools into bonds that would appeal to investors of all sorts."

I spoke evenly but felt that I was falling down a rabbit hole. I'd read about Radalpieno in the paper and online. There was plenty to read. He lived in a twenty-room mansion in the East Eighties, with a skating rink on the roof in winter and a pool in summer. The most prized piece in his wife's collection of contemporary art was by Damien Hirst, of a tiger shark in formaldehyde. But the house and the shark were details, the accoutrements that described what he and Pretty did with his excess. It was all hard won, and his to claim unequivocally. He'd taken B&B from a slide into a one-trick bond shop, left for dead by the industry, and turned it into one of the most profitable pure-play boutique firms on Wall Street. I used the term "pure play" for effect. I let him know all that I knew, though not about his house and his shark.

He clasped his hands and studied me, working his thumbs. I think he would have enjoyed hearing what I had to say about his mansion and his shark, if only because he seemed to like the notion of a stranger caring to know the details of what made him the man he was.

"Because of you and your colleagues, mortgage securities are an eight-trillion-dollar market today," I added for punctuation, and not a little flattery. "You've taken the puny debts of individual mortgages and turned them into the largest capital market in the world, exceeding by a long shot the combined U.S. stock market. I like stories, and that's a pretty nifty one."

"And you love money," he said. "I like that you love money. You have to love money. That raw impulse is the heart. So tell me about money. What stories can you tell?"

Before I had a chance to look confused, Win stepped in. "He wants to know the schemes you were involved with as a kid, early signs of your entrepreneurial nature. This is his favorite interview question. Once the math checks out, he wants the stories that describe the passion."

"What's your story?" I asked Win.

"Fireworks," he said. "They were illegal in my town but not in the town next door. So I'd go over there on my bike and get them and bring them back and sell them for a profit. I'd buy bricks of them, divide them up—"

"Into tranches," Radalpieno said. I laughed.

"She gets the joke."

"I do," I offered, smiling, imagining Win as a kid, riding his bike between towns with bricks of fireworks. But I was trying to come up with my own story. I didn't have one at hand. Mine had been an easy, safe childhood. I kept thinking, though, of a friend who had a sort of colorful childhood, lots of kids, a crazy stepfather. They lived in a sprawling house in a commune. A friend from grad school, she'd written a novel about this childhood, and I remembered a scene in which her ten-year-old narrator rented out her bedroom for ten bucks to a friend of her older brother so he could have a place to take his girl. "I rented out my room," I said, and told them the story. Dirk Vandewater and his girlfriend, Sunshine. It was the 1970s—the names, the dates, straight from Kali Krane's novel
The Tiger's Mouth.
I knew they'd never have read it: two thousand copies sold, at best. "I used the money earned on the room-letting to buy Avon products that I peddled door to door. By the time I was sixteen I had over five thousand dollars in the bank."

"So you were a pimp."

"A madam," I said, lifting my chin.

"And what did you do with the cash?"

"I went to Europe, learned Italian, fell in love."

"You spent it all?"

"I like money because I like to spend it."

"
Like?
"

He was right. I didn't feel comfortable saying "love" when it came to money. I wasn't brought up that way. But I said it now. I said, "Love money," because suddenly I got it, and I wanted this. I wanted it very, very much.

"How much are you putting on her?" Win asked Radalpieno. The planes kept lining up, one after the next, cruising in low over Brooklyn and Queens. From up here, the East River looked inviting and the city seemed almost as calm as these rooms pretended to be.

"Am I a racehorse?" I asked.

"Yes you are, darling," Win said, "and this is Saratoga."

Radalpieno took the bell and started ringing it.

"Really, that too?" Win asked Radalpieno, and Radalpieno smiled and shook the bell again.

"That too," he confirmed.

"As you like," Win said.

"What are you making now?" Radalpieno asked me.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"You know what I mean," he responded, almost curtly, joviality fading from his face with the speed of a flicked switch.

"Salary," offered Win.

"I'm not so sure I want to be Eliza Doolittle," I lied. They moved so fast.

"Don't be coy. That's why you're here. You said so your self," Radalpieno said. He paused to study his thumbs again. "It'll be fun," he added, the curt tone giving way to joy once again—though I noted that the joy took its time seeping across his face.

This was all a joke, a game. I was just another shark in formaldehyde, a performance piece for the office, a living photograph to prance the halls. I thought of Gloria Swanson's eyes. Anything could be bought. If this were an affair, it would have been the point of no return.

"I'll bet her salary and give her one to boot, a bonus in a year if she performs. Guaranteed contractually. She's a writer. How much can it be?" He pressed a button somewhere beneath his desk and spoke to Miss Lane, telling her to inform HR. "I'll be rooting for her even if I'm betting against her. A hedge. Does that satisfy your requirements, Johns? Your
folly,
as you said."

"When I was younger I imagined a different future," I said.

"Ring the bell," Radalpieno said. "She's getting philosophical. We don't want philosophy, Miss Palmer, we want fast brains."

"What is this bell you keep ringing?" I asked.

"In the fullness of time, Miss Palmer," he said.

"Fast brains," Win offered and winked. Though clearly in control, Win seemed to be a different man in the presence of Radalpieno, more aware of the effort it took to control the likes of him, the effort, as if that power could vanish in an instant and become a puddle of illusion at his feet, the chimera of what had been.

"Your salary?"

"I make some money. I contribute to magazines. The books pay a bit. My teaching job."

"A good year?" Win asked. "Don't be shy. It's just money."
Just money:
to those who have plenty of it.

"A good year?" I shrugged. "One hundred and fifty, perhaps." I felt I was undressing in front of strangers. Once I would have been proud of that sum. If I'd known at twenty that by the time I was thirty-eight I'd be making that amount of money, I'd have thought I'd become a great success, even if just now I'd padded the figure a bit.

"That bad?" Radalpieno asked. Then to Win, "Why don't you put her in sales? Give her something certain. She has a pretty smile, a charming manner. The Japanese would love her."

Win rang the bell and said, "Because I intend to make her a star, and you know stars aren't found in sales."

I thought of Lily Starr gossiping about me, whispering my exploits from ear to ear. I wanted to be a star. I wanted to work hard. I was seized again with that wonderful sensation, the gambler's blood. I was gambling everything and nothing.

"I see," Radalpieno said, stretching out the two words so they seemed to say much more. "It's our policy to pay top salaries. You should know that. Win can tell you. He'll fill you in on the details. This is a good opportunity. Such chances don't fall in the laps of just anyone. Win's word is
the
word," he said and added, "Your life will be your own, I imagine, at last. Free." I'd thought freedom was writing's currency. "Don't ever underestimate the ability of money."

"What's in this for you?" I asked. His gruff manner did not deter me. Today he was a man whose empire, his universe of white rooms and light, did not have sovereignty over me. Not yet. This was still, in part, just a fabulous procrastination technique—an escape from the blank white page and the lonely desk. My old life still awaited me, though the idea of earning $150,000 and a guaranteed bonus, ditching the scramble, had taken a firm hold of my imagination. Ease, like stepping into a hot tub.

Radalpieno said, "I'm here to make Win Johns happy. He makes me happy, I make him happy." He spoke with a little exasperation, but it felt more forced than genuine. It was clear he enjoyed playing—anything, everything—immensely.

"Then what's in it for you?" I asked Win. I knew that my salary would make no difference to the business, could be deducted from Win's bonus or salary without his noticing.

Win held me with his big chocolate eyes. "You," he said. He let the bold declaration hang in the air for a moment—the desire to unsettle. "You showed a willingness to play. I liked that. It motivates me." He paused, then added, "And you're an artist, a talented writer whose work I admire, and it seems the arts are in need of a bit of saving these days." With that, the challenge became much more complicated. Did he want to save the arts or squash the arts? "And also the knowledge that I can."

"He believes there is nothing magical about what we do. He believes it is not pure innate talent and financial acumen, so therefore anyone can do it," Radalpieno said.

"We're used-car salesmen," Win said. "That's all we are, really."

"Oh yes, he likes that metaphor. You'll be trading a lot of Toyotas and Hondas. Watch out if you ever get a Model T."

"If you fail, which you won't," Win said, "I may become a character in one of your novels—like Emma Chapman, right? So you see, I win even if I lose. But I won't lose. I don't lose."

"He's doing it, Johns. Your boy is pulling it off yet again." They both hopped up and went closer to the screens—the green lines and gibberish. "Snake's moving the whole market. He was right about the curve on the 6s. It's an ambush. The carnage won't be small. 'A good plan violently executed
now
is better than a perfect plan next week.' Patton," he said to me, radiant in the screen's green glow. "I love this," Radalpieno nearly sang, clenching his fists and shaking them to the sky, which seemed to bring down the snow that was gently beginning to fall outside the windows, as if calling forth so many specks of light to add to his luminous collection—the specks like all those dollars my father tried to save, simply fluttering to the ground for the sake of extravagance and nothing more.

"We're moving him to subprime, Johns. He'll head the desk. Get your little beauty to do this and you're the star magician, Johns."

From the glass palace Win took me to the pit. His office, the mess I imagined I'd find at a place like this, of papers and books and computers, also had a glass wall, but this one was transparent, not smoked, offering a clear view onto the trading floor—an empire in itself, as large as an ice rink or basketball court, with a high ceiling beneath which were rows upon rows of desks, open to allow for the easy flow of information. Each desk was occupied by a man (there were few women) busily working phones and monitoring computer screens, tapping away on wireless keyboards, the steady hum of electricity, the ring of phones. In the center of the room was an empty space above which, suspended from the ceiling, was an enormous box of screens showing the same figures and graphs and charts and information that had been on display in Radalpieno's office. Also the news—in case disaster strikes, I was told. On the morning of September 11, 2001, for example, the instant news on these screens was how all the traders understood to freeze trades immediately. The noise was constant but not loud, the steady rhythm of money being generated. The overhead lights were bright and seemed to extinguish any natural light that forced its way onto the floor.

"It's fascinating," I said, "like a machine." When Win shut his office door, the sounds of the dealing room vanished, but he could see everything. Win's office overlooked the East Side as well, and though it was only ten stories below Radalpieno's, the view seemed less spectacular, more chaotic. Helicopters that I had not noticed zipped about like flies. From here the city was not as calm, and it seemed the powers above wanted it just that way—energy igniting energy. I opened the door fast just to hear the sound again. Then shut it swiftly. Win looked at me, amused. A big old-fashioned gumball machine stood guard outside the door, filled with the colorful balls.