“The kid is a smart aleck,” the tipsy man said, glaring in his direction, “I’d like to cold-cock him and then kick him in the nuts while he’s down!”
Tuck drummed his fingers on the bar, a sure sign that he was about to disclose awful news. “Did you guys hear about what happened to poor Jimmy Donovan?”
“What?” the others asked in unison, clutching their cocktail glasses more tightly as they sensed the news was going to be very bad indeed.
“Let’s order another round before I tell you,” Tuck suggested, “it’s a grisly tale and a possible harbinger of things to come for all of us.”
“Make mine a double!” Jocko shouted to the bartender before anyone else could react.
*
Frank & Claire
Frank Mills, 79, didn't look that old although he felt much older than he was. A roly-poly, gravel-voiced man with a cherubic countenance, curmudgeonly disposition, crinkly hazel eyes, and thinning gray hair, he parked every afternoon on a bench in the courtyard of Trinity Church on lower Broadway. The Episcopal house of worship, the oldest public building in continuous use in New York, was originally built in 1698 and destroyed, the first time, in the big fires of 1776 when the British occupied the city and forced George Washington and the Continental Army to flee north to White Plains.
It stands opposite the landmarked Art Deco office building where he had worked for 44 years. Coincidentally, the building and he were the same age; the ziggurat limestone skyscraper was erected in 1931, the year of his birth, and for the brief period of eleven days, it garnered the distinction of being the tallest structure in the world, until one 23 feet taller topped out on nearby Broad Street.
They didn't build buildings like it anymore. The edifice had aged gracefully over the years and it remained as elegant and sturdy today as the day the cornerstone had been laid. The lobby was, and still is, an architectural marvel of inlaid wood, lofty marble columns, red and gold mosaic tiles, stainless steel, lacquer, frosted glass and sweeping curves; he loved that building.
He, in contrast, hadn’t fared so well; arthritis deformed a few of his fingers, his posture was slightly stooped, and the lump under his armpit, the one he was going for the biopsy on next week, hurt more each day.
The company he worked for had been merged out of existence decades ago, a casualty of the first hostile takeover in the banking industry, however, its name still lived on in a fashion, chiseled into the soft stone above the building’s main entrance. The cost to remove it was, no doubt, considered to be an unnecessary expense by the current owner.
One of the things he missed most about his employer’s demise was the newsletter the bank had published. In addition to updating you on general corporate news, it contained an obituary section which enabled retirees to keep abreast of the deaths of former co-workers. As the situation stood now, he hadn’t the faintest idea who, amongst them, was still alive and who had passed away.
Frank realized that the people who worked on Wall Street now were reviled as a result of the financial crisis and the taxpayer funded bailouts of the banks. Millions of home mortgages had been made to unqualified buyers – called liar loans -- even dead people managed to obtain mortgages. Bankers bundled (securitized) this shitty paper and sold it to thousands of unsuspecting insurance companies and pension funds, making obscene profits.
And there was no accountability when the giant house of cards collapsed since the bankers had no skin in the game -- none of their own money was on the line – they placed huge bets using other peoples’ money. For them, it was an all reward–no risk strategy; they pocketed exorbitant bonuses and walked away very rich people, often landing lucrative jobs at other financial institutions despite their dismal track records, thanks to the Old Boy Network. Of course, mom and pop investors lost billions.
If he were still working today, the public would despise him too; he’d be tarred with the same broad brush that tarnished the entire banking industry. But the man in the street would be wrong, he hadn’t been a fat cat investment banker. As a commercial banker he had financed business and industrial transactions -- the import and export of coffee, cocoa, talc, fertilizer, corn, sugar, spices, lumber, pistachios; he extended working capital loans to small companies so they could purchase raw materials and make payroll. It was nitty-gritty banking that supported the flow of international commerce and created jobs for people all over the world. No matter what others thought, his conscience was clear.
Claire Poole, 44, a petite, moon-faced woman with chestnut curls and lucent green eyes, sat down next to him on the bench, interrupting his reverie. She was attractive in a tomboyish sort of way and wore a conservative white blouse and a navy blue pants suit. Her immense purse was stuffed with business memos and tasty treats to eat.
“Buenas tardes, senor.”
“Hiya, Claire.”
“How’s the world treating you?”
“Ignoring me, as usual, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.”
“Hmm.”
“The days are beginning to run together.”
“What’s going on up in that noggin of yours?”
“My mind is a busy place, Claire, you’d be surprised at the thoughts percolating in my brain.”
“I’m sure I’d be alarmed.” She held out a candy wrapper. “Care for a Gummy Panda?”
“He took one and chewed on it. “Delicious.”
“I also have Fig Newtons and crushed Oreos; want some?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got a sweet tooth but my doctor says I got to go easy on the sugar.”
“Then how about a delicious cookie sandwich with a bacon-chive-goat-cheese filling guaranteed to melt in your mouth?”
“It sounds wonderful but it’d be disastrous for my cholesterol.”
“Too bad, Frank, that just leaves more for me.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “How can a string-bean like yourself eat so much junk food and still be so thin?”
“My job is stressful, it burns away the excess calories quickly.”
He sighed enviously. “I wish my days were more hectic; I’ve got nothing more pressing to do than sit here on this bench.”
“Old people enjoy sitting on benches, Frank, you see them doing that all over the city.”
“Not me, I hate it.”
“I’m looking forward to retiring myself; I can’t wait.”
“I thought you enjoyed being a scalp-hunter at the SEC.”
“I love it but there are other things I’m chomping at the bit to do.”
“Such as?”
“Traveling; the world is filled with interesting places and I want to see them all.”
“Hmm.”
