“Yes, I feel sure I could fit that in,” replied Elliot, as if granting them a favor.
Over lunch, Elliot never missed an opportunity to remind them that he was the nephew of the senior partner, with the unspoken implication that if either Fletcher or Logan should cross him, he could slow their progress to a partnership. The threat only served to strengthen the bond between the two men.
“He’s now telling anyone who will listen that he’s going to be the first person to make partner in under seven years,” Fletcher told Logan over a drink a few days later.
“You know he’s such a cunning bastard, it wouldn’t surprise me if he pulled it off,” was Logan’s only response.
“How do you think he became student president of UConn if he treated everyone the same way as he does us?”
“Perhaps no one dared to oppose him.”
“Is that how you managed it?” asked Logan.
“How did you know that?” asked Fletcher, as the bartender collected their glasses.
“I checked your CV the day I joined the firm. Don’t tell me you didn’t read mine?”
“Of course I did,” admitted Fletcher, raising his glass, “I even know that you were the Princeton chess champion.” Both men laughed. “I must run, or I’ll miss my train,” said Fletcher, “and Annie might begin to wonder if there’s another woman in my life.”
“I envy you that,” said Logan quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“The strength of your marriage. It wouldn’t cross Annie’s mind for a second that you could even look at another woman.”
“I’m very fortunate,” said Fletcher. “Maybe you’ll be just as lucky one day. Meg on the reception desk can’t take her eyes off you.”
“Which one is Meg?” asked Logan as Fletcher left him to pick up his coat.
Fletcher had only walked a few yards down Fifth Avenue, when he spotted Ralph Elliot approaching. Fletcher slipped into a doorway, and waited for him to pass. Stepping back out into a raw cold wind that required ear muffs even if you were only walking a single block, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his scarf, but it wasn’t there. He cursed. He must have left it in the bar. He would have to collect it tomorrow, but then he cursed again when he remembered Annie had given it to him for Christmas. He turned around and began to retrace his steps.
Back in the bar, he asked the girl at the coat check if she’d seen a red woolen scarf.
“Yes,” she replied, “it must have fallen out of your sleeve when you put your coat on. I found it on the floor.”
“Thank you,” said Fletcher as he turned to leave, not expecting to see Logan still standing at the bar. He froze when he saw the man he was talking to.
Nat was fast asleep.
La dévaluation française—three simple words sent the tapes from a gentle murmur into a chattering panic. The phone by Nat’s bed was ringing thirty seconds later, and he immediately gave Adrian the order, “Get out of francs as fast as you can.” He listened and then replied, “Dollars.”
Nat couldn’t remember a day in the last ten years when he hadn’t shaved. He didn’t shave.
Su Ling was awake by the time he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. “Is there a problem?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“The French have devalued by seven percent.”
“Is that good or bad?” she asked.
“Depends how many francs we’re holding. I’ll be able to make an assessment just as soon as I can get to a screen.”
“You’ll have one by the side of your bed in a few years’ time, so you wouldn’t even need to go into your office,” said Su Ling, letting her head fall back on the pillow when she saw 5:09 flick up on the bedside clock.
Nat picked up the phone; Adrian was still on the other end of the line. “It’s proving difficult to get out of francs; there are very few buyers other than the French government and they won’t be able to go on propping up the currency for much longer.”
“Keep selling. Pick up yen, deutschmarks or Swiss francs, but nothing else. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes. Is Steven there?”
“No, he’s on his way. It took me some time to find out whose bed he was in.”