Free Moral Hazard by Kate Jennings Page B

“literary,” which prompted his next remark. “You know, I’ve always wanted to write a novel about the financial world.”
    “Really!”
    “A thriller. All the investment banks have CIA or State Department guys working for them. Filled with spooks! Being a banker is a good cover. The stories I’ve heard.” True enthusiasm in his voice.
    “Something along the lines of Michael Crichton? John Grisham?”
    “Yes, that’s it, exactly. I’m a big fan of those writers. Not that I get much time to read.”
    “Great idea!”
    “Wouldn’t mind having their bank accounts, either.”
    “Go for it!”
    Chuck wagged his head, grinned goofily. I glanced across at Mike, engaged in intense conversation with his companion. In unison, they consulted their watches. Mike wore a plastic digital watch, the head of Private Banking something heavy and gold. A Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso, if I wasn’t mistaken. Showy.
    I turned my attention back to Chuck. Observing him was as entertaining as watching Horace because he had an array of mannerisms, developed after he stopped smoking and drinking. Once, when he was having a conversation on speaker phone, I saw him whip out his comb and pull it through his hair, poke around in his ear with a pen, hitch up his pants, and then repeat the exercise, all the while laughing, doodling, gnawing on candy, consulting his computer. A marvel of multitasking.
    Today, while he tore his bread into pieces and rearranged the cutlery and glassware, Chuck enlightened me on the latest advertising campaign. At that time, banks went in for big-picture, pious ads; they’ve since returned to selling products. The tagline for our new campaign: NIEDECKER BENECKE. BRIDGING THE GLOBE. BUILDING TOMORROW .
    “That’s a bit Clinton-ish,” I said. Bridges were figuring large in White House speeches. This was before Monica, and the prudes of America began their year-long torture of the rest of us.
    “He hasn’t got a monopoly on the metaphor.” His tone was warm, but it was a reprimand nevertheless; my opinion wasn’t being solicited. Chuck was invariably good-humored, no matter his message, which is why he was liked. We were accustomed to the dissonance.
    From then on, I limited my remarks to “Excellent!” as he outlined Niedecker’s critical role in creating the infrastructure to ready the world for the twenty-first century. Providing financing for schools, hospitals, factories, dams, power plants, highways, railroads. Instrumental in making every nation competitive. I listened attentively, hoping to give the impression that I was a good worker ant, masticating the information, turning it into wads of useful speech material.
    After lunch, as he jabbed at the elevator button and bounced on his heels, Chuck asked, “Now, what were the take-aways from our discussion?” A consultant had given Chuck and his lieutenants some management pointers, among which was the advice to get us to repeat in our own words whatever it was they had said, in case we were inattentive, hearing selectively, or plain dense.
    “Niedecker is serving humanity, sir. At its beck and call.” We often added “sir” to our verbal communications with him, some of us spiking it with more irreverence than others.
    “Please, Cath. Call me Chuck.” Half-smiling, a little irreverent himself. Another jab at the elevator button. And another.

20
    Bailey had a new room: fresh paint, crisp curtains, a view of the East River and Sotheby’s. Prime New York real estate. But when I arrived after work, expecting to find him settled, he had disappeared. I searched. He was in his old room, curled in a fetal position on the bed, which had been stripped to its plastic mattress covering.
    I placed geraniums on the windowsill of the new room, bought soaps and lotions, provided colorful patterned sheets, hung his collages on the wall, propped up photographs of his mother, of me. Out the window, I watched the limos and Town Cars arrive for auctions and