People think that rich people don’t have money problems, but they do. Here is how it works. You start making x million a year, everyone knows it, and there is unbelievable social pressure to get a house/car/boat/second house commensurate with your social status. So you stretch. Rich people stretch like poor people stretch. How fragile everything is. A divorce, a lawsuit, an injury, and the whole fucking house of cards comes tumbling down. Jesus H. Christ. Though usually it is the woman’s fault. Left to my own devices I would have been living in the shack and stepping on pizza boxes all along. The women, they are nest-builders. Katharine was the queen of them. And then, at some point, the calculus changes and you’re worth more to them dead than alive. As I drove down the access road, I thought with a shudder that I was lucky to be above ground.

I pulled into the parking lot in the darkness. As usual, Weber’s car was there. A green 1996 Toyota Camry. I can’t remember the last time it wasn’t there when I arrived in the morning. I never wanted to ask, but I got the distinct impression that Weber spent many nights at the office. It would be stuffy in the trading room. I get out of the car and walk up the footpath to the building, which doesn’t have a sign on it. Nobody is supposed to know that poor rich people work here. I can feel the gravel crunch under my feet, and as I think of all the things I have to deal with today, from canceling the credit cards to Katharine to trading the PALM spinoff, it makes me kind of have to take a shit. The glass door swings open and I get a blast of warm air.

Kevin’s here already. He’s my assistant. About five years ago he won the Heisman Trophy for Division III football, whatever it’s called, which is pretty impressive if you think about it. He’s a good egg. He can’t do my job, especially when it comes to managing broker relationships, but he handles the Weber insanity well. I had to have a conversation with him about his obsessive throat-clearing, a nervous tic that was kind of freaking out everyone on the desk, but it still comes out, especially when there’s red on the screen. I expect to be hearing it today.

“You’re late,” he says to me.

“Yeah.”

“You hung over?”

“A little.”

“How was dinner?”

“Fine. I lost my wallet. Need you to handle some stuff this morning.”

“Okay.”

“Anything out of Weber?” I ask.

“No, actually, not a peep. How was he at dinner?”

“Not good.” It was worse than that, actually.

“Is this place going to be around in a month?”

“Dude.”

“Seriously, is it?”

“How the hell should I know.” I say, annoyed. “My ex-wife doesn’t get paid, I go BK. I go to jail.”

“You’re not going to jail.”

“Whatever. Watch the lights, I have to cancel these credit cards.