Collateral Dreams

COLLATERAL DREAMS

by Jeff Ingber

PROLOGUE

Sunlight cuts through the blinds, striping Everett Webb as he slouches in a leather chair, eyes ringed with sleepless gray. Beside him, Iris Morrison, immaculate in her charcoal suit, stares past him into a vague middle distance.

Parked on the other side of the elongated conference room table is Everett’s interrogator, Paul Trieste, a partner of the host law firm. “Mr. Webb,” Paul presses, in a tone that skirts the border separating the professional from the demeaning, “were you aware, while you were employed with Empire National Bank, of the bank’s policy prohibiting harassment of any kind, including sexual harassment?”

Though the air conditioning hums heartily, beads of sweat escape Everett’s hairline and creep down his temple in a V formation. Iris’s pen taps against her legal pad as a reminder to Everett: pause, breathe, answer cleanly and with brevity. He glances at a free-standing bronze sculpture of a jurist, who seems to be staring him down, and mutters, “Yes.” But even as he says it, he feels a familiar blur in his mind, the place where memory ends and self-justification begins.

Paul, wrapped in a tailor-made Zegna suit, lifts a sheet of paper to Everett’s eye level and taps on the bottom. Everett’s signature stares back at him. “In fact, you acknowledged in writing every year that you read it, correct?”

Everett folds his arms, fingers drumming. He peers at Iris, searching for reassurance. But her expression is unreadable. “I believe so.”

“And didn’t you receive yearly, mandatory online training on that policy?”

Lips curled, Everett stretches against the table edge, pushing away from both the beveled cherrywood top and his assailant. “I did.”

Paul’s mouth twitches into something close to a smirk. “And doesn’t the policy also prohibit romantic relations between a boss and his subordinate?”

Iris’s jaw tightens. She sets the pen down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the legal pad. “Paul, my client is not an expert on Empire Bank’s policies.”

Paul raises a dark eyebrow. “Well, his expertise might not extend to every bank policy, but surely, he knew or should have known of this prohibition.”

Iris shoots him a hard glare. “I suggest you ask another question, if you have one, and stop the conjecturing.”

Paul’s return glower lands clean and cold—the kind that leaves a mark. He returns his focus to Everett. “Well, this policy does prohibit romantic relations between a boss and his subordinate.”

He picks up a glass of water and takes a gulp, but it’s rushed, triggering a cough reflex. Paul berates himself as he clears his throat and presses forward. “Yet you ignored the law, the policy, and your training.”

Everett’s heartbeat thuds in his ears. His gaze flicks to the snake plants standing sentinel along the back wall. Their gold-splashed leaves are frozen in perfect symmetry, untouched by the battle unfolding in the room. He sits up straighter, as if riding a unicycle, and runs a knuckle across his pinched mouth. “I wouldn’t say that,” he whispers.

Paul feigns incredulity. “What would you say?”

“That I was manipulated by a devious and unscrupulous woman.”

Paul tilts his head. “So,” he parries, “help me to better understand. You’re saying that you, a member of the senior management of the bank who made millions each year, was forced into a sexual relationship by Ms. Cosgrove, a young, powerless intern who worked for you?”

Paul casts a sideways glance at the female court reporter perched at the end of the table, her fingers flying over the keyboard that’s recording the conversation. “You’re saying this under oath?”

His body immobile, Everett lets the silence stretch, the lie waiting on his tongue. But is it really false? Isn't the truth here unknowable, even to him? “I didn’t say I was ‘forced.’ I said I was ‘manipulated.’ Played by a woman who understood exactly how power works. Who used youth, beauty, and charm with intention.”

Paul rolls his hooded eyes like the second hand of a watch. “Did you ever report what you considered to be her improper behavior to HR? To Legal? To your own supervisor?”

Everett shifts in his seat, his chest constricting as if caught in a vise. He releases a stream of breath. “No.”

Paul’s triumphant smirk returns. “With apologies to those in the room, did you at one point call Ms. Cosgrove a ‘cunt’?”

Everett absentmindedly combs his gray-flecked hair using fingers with bitten-down nails. “No.”

Paul’s mouth crests. “You started to, didn’t you?”

As Everett’s shoulders stiffen, Iris cuts in. “My client has answered the question.”

Relentless and directed, like a raging river seeking its best path, Paul demands, “Mr. Webb, isn’t it true you threatened to ruin Ms. Cosgrove’s career?”

Everett meets his inquisitor's glare head-on. “No, I pointed out that she was ruining her own career.”

Paul pauses, his rhythm thrown off. Then he cocks his head and leers, “You’re a married man, aren’t you, Mr. Webb? But you didn’t care about your wedding vows? Or your pledge to be faithful to your wife?”

Everett feels something tilt inside him, a slow slide of heat uncoiling in his chest. Iris senses this. “This isn't marital therapy,” she snaps at Paul. “And those aren’t true questions. Nor are they appropriate ones.”

She twists her neck toward Everett, “No need to respond.”

Too late. Everett’s jaw locks and his breath comes fast and shallow. He surges to his feet. Iris grabs his forearm, to no avail.

Everett throws a finger at Paul. “Fuck you!” he bellows.

Iris hangs her head, gray threading through her ebony hair like resignation made visible. Paul barks to the court reporter, “Make sure that’s on the record!”

His face brick red, Everett slumps back in his chair like a pile of loose laundry. He eyes the band of gold encircling his ring finger. “I do care,” he murmurs, clinging to the words. “More than ever.”

2006 - EUPHORIA

Chapter 1

In the pre-market, tomb-like quiet of a floor the size of an airport hangar, Everett sits hunched forward, forearms braced against the edge of a metal desk. Before him, blinking screens display real-time financial data and news feeds. Beneath his monitors sits the survival kit: protein bars, half-crushed soda cans, two aspirin bottles, a stress ball with the face rubbed off.

Everett scans the Bloomberg terminal, mouth hanging open. The market thrums like a living pulse, offering various opportunities. He notes a downward shift in Treasury yields. A flight to quality is underway, triggered by the Mumbai train bombings. Everett feels the panic of money sprinting for safety.

His concentration is broken by Simon Levin, one seat over, who also wears the standard Government bond trader attire— a Brooks Brothers dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, skinny tie loose at the throat, and khaki chinos. Simon’s boyish, spade-shaped face is wax-pale and pockmarked. He leans in too close.

“Bro, you know how Alan Greenspan tells Andrea Mitchell he wants sex?”

Everett brought Simon, his former caddy at the country club, into Empire and placed him under his wing. His soft spot for his protégé still outweighs, though just barely these days, the fact that Simon’s middle name might as well be Annoying. Another source of irritation stems from Simon’s God-given ability to strike a golf ball far better than Everett ever could.

Everett answers without turning his head. “An oldie. Says he wants to liquefy his holdings.”

“No!” Simon brays, expelling Listerine breath. “He tells her he wants to improve his long-term growth!”

Simon’s laugh erupts, boyish and unrestrained. Everett takes a long sip from his chipped Penn State mug. “Simon, don’t make fun of Greenspan. He hates regulation and loves cheap money. Which is why we’re gonna get rich.”

A chat message pops up on Everett’s screen. ZC: Come by later.

His stomach tightens. Zachary Collins doesn’t send casual invitations. The man operates in decisive, high-yield terms. And now, he wants to talk.

Everett’s fist pumps instinctively. Securitized products isn’t a step up, it’s a different planet. Bonds are safe, respectable, slow-money work. But securitization? That’s leverage, complexity, alchemy. Where Wall Street’s best magicians work their craft. Where the biggest risks lie, and the biggest rewards.

And yet, a whisper of doubt curls in his mind. The rules are different in that world. The trades, the products—hell, even the language—feel like playing poker at a table where the house writes its own odds. If he steps into it, he has to be sure he isn’t the sucker.

“What’s up?” Simon asks. “You got that look.”

Everett ignores him.

“Ground control to Major Tom,”

“Just a note from a buddy.”

“Who?”

“Zach Collins,”

Simon’s lips part in a slack “O.” “Shit, he's a bigshot. You know him?”

Everett summons his most nonchalant tone. “He’s a family friend. And a fellow Penn State alum. Zach got me into Empire. Last week, he took over sales for all securitized products.”

Simon lets out a low whistle. “Damn, the only important friend my family ever had was… you.” This elicits a chortle from Everett.

Simon taps on the screen before him. “I think rates are gonna keep going down today, so I’m going long on Govies.”

He leans closer. “Svengali, you agree?”

Everett’s response comes fast and sharp. “Dude, if I knew which way rates were headed, I’d be the richest guy on the planet.”

Simon rolls his eyes, whose inherent color is cynicism, then tips his head toward a framed photo sitting beside a monitor. In it, a slender, beaming young woman is smooching the rounded cheek of a girl with a face smooth as porcelain. “Your daughter’s lucky. She looks like her mother.”

Everett chuckles, then sweeps his arm before him. “Maddie wants me to take her here one day.”

Simon plays the straight man. “Why?”

“I told her I work with a bunch of clowns.”

The two share throaty laughs before Simon refocuses on his screens and rubs his temples. “I dunno. Maybe the Fed will signal a rate hike and screw us over.”

Everett rolls a shoulder. “If I'm right about Zach’s message, none of this will be my problem soon.”

Simon cocks his head. “Yeah, but it’s your problem today. So what are you gonna do?”

Everett shoves his swivel chair back and stands rigidly, his hands plunged into his slack’s pockets like holstered weapons. “Go get some breakfast.”

But really, he’s going to walk. Clear his head. Prepare himself.

The day is out there, waiting to be taken.

Chapter 2

In a law office that appears less like a workplace than a storage unit, ceiling-high shelves brim with books and folders. Gina Blake, a big-boned woman in her late twenties, is parked on a leather, high-back armchair in front of a computer. As her hazel eyes, framed by reedy thin lashes, dart across the screen, her hand hovers over the keyboard like a pianist at her instrument, intermittently tapping out revisions to a contract.

The shrill ring of a landline phone startles her. Its caller ID blares “PAUL TRIESTE.” Her forehead furrows, as if a stitch had been sewn into it. She hits the speaker button.

“What are you doing now?” he asks in a voice laced with urgency.

“Having my nails done,” she snaps.

His tone tempers into a hum. “Buy you lunch?”

“Paul, I’m buried right now.”

Gina instantly regrets her curt tone, hurled at the only partner in the firm who truly has her back. A man who once was her lover and remains a friend.

“As wonderful a lunch partner as I am,” Paul responds, “it’s not just with me. I’m meeting an important client. A hedge fund guy named Quentin Crawford, who’s a real shark. Not to mention someone who pays hefty legal bills as easily as you or I buy a cup of coffee.”

She presses her fingertips together. “What does he want our help with?”

“Investing in collateralized debt obligations.”

Gina arches her groomed eyebrows. “Paul, you sue companies for firing pregnant women. Since when are you a Wall Street rainmaker?”

“I'm not. But the firm has a strong financial practice. And I know you have helped out on collateralized debt deals.”

“‘Helped out’ is the operative term. I've dabbled.”

Paul heaves his signature sigh. “Look, Gina, he's like all the other big investors these days. He wants a piece of the action and supply can’t keep up with demand, so he wants to act fast. I need someone who can keep up.”

She glares at the phone. “But why do you need me? There’s lots of regulatory and tax considerations, and that’s not my bailiwick.”

“There’ll be a mountain of documents to wade through, and no one deciphers fine print like you. So I want you to join me.”

She knows Paul too well. “What else? What are you not telling me?”

Paul emits a chuckle resembling a goose honk. “I've heard he's a ladies’ man. And you, my dear, are a lady.”

Gina stifles a laugh. Classic Paul. A man who built his career suing harassers, somehow blind to his own prehistoric takes on women in the workplace.

“How did you meet this guy?” she asks.

“Through my cousin, whose firm does his CPA work. He told me, ‘Crawford shits more money before breakfast than you or I will make in a lifetime.’”

A pause. “Gina, this is big. You should be there.”

Gina spins her chair to face the window and the Art Deco skyscraper beyond, which stabs at the clouds. The firm is full of bright, competent women—fresher, prettier, hungrier. Paul hasn’t chosen me for my shine, but for the comfort of the familiar, the ease of someone who owes him too much to say no. And to do me a favor. Further debate is futile anyway. I’ll lose this argument, as I always do with Paul. Almost every one anyway.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But you owe me.”

“What, exactly, will I owe you?” he teases.

An enigmatic smile plays on her pink-tinged lips as she hangs up.

*

Paul and Gina arrive fifteen minutes early at Le Beau Monde, a restaurant balancing old-world charm with new-world ambition. Their table is framed by a working brick fireplace and a Steinway Grand Piano that graces one corner.

Gina had spent countless nights here with Paul, draped in candlelight and fine bourbon, devouring dry-aged steaks and each other. Now, she can't help but feel her old self—wild-animal hungry in both personal and professional ways—closeted behind today’s veneer of good manners.

Gina points her nose toward the fourth setting. “Is Quentin bringing someone?”

“Yeah, some intern. Bet you a dollar she's young and real hot.”

Gina doesn’t bother rolling her eyes. Paul orders vodka sodas, heavy on the alcohol. The drink quickly works its sly magic on Gina.

“Can you give me a quick primer on collateralized debt obligations?” he asks with a wink.

“No such thing. There’s only the Talmudic explanation.”

Paul plops his elbows on the white linen tablecloth, cradling his head in his palms. “Try,” he commands.

She blows out her cheeks and expels the air. “CDOs are the next generation of securitization. The bastard children of plain-old mortgage-backeds, but with more makeup. Same bones underneath, just more layers, more glitter, and more ways to hide the rot.”

“They're not traded on exchanges, right?”

“Yep. And the math models are nearly indecipherable, So it’s hard to track their value, which can turn fast. They involve a lot of leverage and they’re barely regulated, which always means some level of unknown risk.”

Paul pinches the bridge of his nose. “What are these ‘tranches’ I keep hearing about?”

“They happen ’cause you’re chopping up pieces of mostly crap debt by their credit rating and yields, to end up with what they call a ‘payments waterfall,’ with each successive slice offering higher yields—”.

His face curdles. “Gina, give me the English version.”

“The safest investors drink first, while the riskiest ones are left with whatever’s trickling down.”

He shakes his head. “Those finance guys love making things impenetrable. It keeps the suckers in the game. So who are the players in this market?”

Gina stirs her drink absentmindedly. “The lenders love CDOs ’cause they can get risky assets off their books by packaging and selling them. The rating agencies and guarantors love them ’cause of the fat fees they collect. And the bankers who set up CDOs get commissions that are through the roof, especially for the toxic waste.”

He narrows one eye. “Toxic waste?”

She takes another sip and lets the ice sting her lips before swallowing. “The bottom, riskiest stuff.”

A wave of satisfaction washes over Gina, realizing that not only does she know more about the subject of this meeting but, also, Paul will never truly understand it no matter how many explanations he’s given. “Can sellers even find someone to buy that crap?” he asks.

She tips her head back, as if searching for an answer in the ceiling. “Some hedge funds will. They’ll take the risk to get the potential massive returns. They’ve got few limits on how they invest and what kind of leverage they can take. And they don’t have shareholders or trustees looking over their shoulders. Quentin probably pockets twenty percent of whatever he makes.”

Gina’s attention shifts to an approaching man with a rugged face reminiscent of the Marlboro Man. Walking beside him is a striking twenty-something woman with an air of self-assurance.

Paul’s knee bounces under the table. “Told you,” he whispers. “In my next life, I'm gonna be a hedge fund manager.”

Gina smooths down her thick, wavy hair, a dark contrast to her alabaster complexion. “And I’ll be a hedge fund manager’s kept wife.”