I look over at Tod. The ultimate white guy, standard issue Wall Street, you know he spends his summers on Cape Cod wearing pink pants with lobsters or sailboats embroidered on them. He’s not married; he has a girlfriend, a soulless husk of a blonde who is fond of expensive restaurants and clothes. He couldn’t afford her. Nobody could. He could certainly afford the squeg. But it didn’t seem to be about money, it seemed to be about his drone Louis Vuitton handbag girlfriend and his strange attraction to this dark, exotic flower.

I threw the empty can of beans in the trash. I didn’t really care who Kensington hires as long as they can make money.

* * * *

Nick is standing over me, with his gold tie.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I wasn’t really thrilled with that execution.” He is picking a fight.

“You got done at a half on two thousand contracts. It was five-eighths bid when you came in.”

“I know, I should have gotten done on the screen.”

“You’re lucky you got done at all, the crowd was showing me a bid for five hundred only.”

“So you bought the balance?”

“Yes.” I lied.

“Well you watch, that trade is going to turn out to be a winner just like the rest of them. The stock is already up a buck.”

“It’s gotta go up more than that for me to trade all this juice.”

Nick leans closer.

“I don’t really appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

“Can we go in a conference room please?” I can see Tod listening over my shoulder.

“Without our customers—you don’t exist. You hear me? If you’re so smart why don’t you go start your own hedge fund.”

“Maybe I will.”

Nick laughs. “Maybe you will. Maybe you would have been short all the way up.”

“Maybe I’ll be short all the way down.”

“You got an answer for everything.”

“We’re a publicly traded company. We have permanent capital. We don’t need clients.”

“We’re in the moving business, not the storage business, don’t you forget that.”

“I think it’s the other way around.”

“We are here to service our clients.” He is pointing at my chest.

“No we’re not. We are here to make money. Serving our clients is incidental to making money. In many cases, there is more money to be made by not serving them.”

Nick leans up again, and folds his arms. “So we agree to disagree.”

“Yes,” I say, “we have fundamental differences in our visions for the role of the publicly traded investment bank. I’m sure our shareholders will side with you.”

“Maybe they would, if they knew about the giant casino you were running here.”

“The irony, of course, is that of the two of us, I am the only one who understands the risks.”

“You have no idea. You’re out of your motherfucking league. You’re little boys, playing a game.”

“And winning,” I say.

* * * *

I open a Diet Coke.