Blackjack: A Wall Street Tale

By Tim Quast

For Aaron Simmons and Connor Hennessey, working with Silicon Valley superstars Ric Mantilla and Carl Retten at tech high-flyer dComm Systems is the American dream. But when Simmons and Hennessey stumble onto a hedge fund called Blackjack, dreams become nightmares. From San Francisco to Belize, a battle of wits ensues, with survival doubled down and Blackjack holding the cards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Quast
• Release date: Jun 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452392738

Tim Quast

Tim grew up with God and horses and earned degrees in theology and English. Raised in Cow Country USA, along what’s called the Snake River Breaks, he lived westward where the river brings Oregon and Idaho together across a chasm that leads straight into hell...Hell’s Canyon, that is.Tim has worked in the capital markets since 1993. A veteran of multiple startups, Tim’s done the soft-shoe for venture capitalists, made payroll from savings, scripted public-company quarterly calls, built analyst coverage, and missed earnings estimates (not deadly, but no fun). He once watched an FBI sting unfold at a public company. He’s never met a hedge fund manager who packed an Uzi. Never say never.Tim lives with his wife Karen in Denver and together they run a successful market-structure analytics software firm.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Golden Empire, I like that, Ric was saying. We should put it on the wall.

He had the cork out, pouring a Germain-Robin brandy called Anno Domini.

Carl watched him bring the drinks. He took one and touched the rim to Ric’s glass. Ric with his jacket off, dark gray herringbone bespoke slacks from Savile Row. Burgundy broad stripe tie handmade in Thailand. Monogrammed mauve shirt, Sea Island cotton and French cuffs.

For Ric Mantilla, CEO, only the best.

Carl said, Reporters write fancy phrases. Most times that’s what they are, fancy phrases.

Ric sighed, arms out. But big gold letters? It would be perfect.

Carl said, And there’s why you wouldn’t do it.

Ric grinned. Yeah, why?

He walked behind his desk, a pink granite slab on a thick teak frame, and sat in the chair, top-grade aniline leather, the kind that cost dearly. There was only one small piece of a given bovine hide that carried a branding-iron mark like the one right now under Ric's ass. A couple things you didn't get with lower-grade leathers were branding scars and Ric Mantilla.

On the wall behind Ric, the Wayne Thiebaud landscape, California Central Valley in paint swirls like frosting. Next to that, the IPO Red Herring framed in black oak, stained not varnished.

Carl sipped brandy, Jesus, what they could do with pinot noir, and said, Because you’re not flashy.

Ric laughed. See, that, he said, pointing a finger, is why we’re partners.

Another thing, you’re sincere.

Ric dropped the finger, shot him a look, changed subjects. You believe the stock this quarter, up another forty percent?

Carl nodded. I guess, he said.

Every buck higher they’re worth millions more, after awhile, no joke, you lost count. Easy to be like Ric and see everything big and golden. That reporter calling OrNaMent Technologies the Golden Empire, tagging him and Ric Golden Boys, you’re around that long enough, you start believing it. But Carl pushed these thoughts away because Carl Retten, Chief Financial Officer, had reasons.

You’ve got something on your mind, Ric said. Want another? He pointed at Carl’s glass.

Sometimes I’m thinking about the stock, our financials, pretty soon I’ve drained my drink. Carl lifted the empty snifter toward Ric.

Ric poured more. What bothers you?

Specifically or in general?

Both.

Specifically, nothing. In general, a lot.

Ric refilled his own glass. This is why I don’t worry, he said.

Oh? How’s that?

You do enough for both of us.

That how it works?

Seems to.

Ric had the Anno Domini halfway to his mouth when he looked up, focusing beyond Carl. Following Ric’s eyes, Carl saw one of the assistant controllers in the doorway, no knock or anything, OrNaMent Technologies big enough now for several ACs. Carl tried to remember the kid’s name. Jerry? Jared? Picked one and went with it.

What’s up, Jared?

It’s Jerry.

Jerry had a look like a bad smell had hit him, scowling, his eyes roaming from the bottle in Ric’s hand to the wall with its original oil-and-acrylic and the framed copy of the circular for the Initial Public Offering, and back to them. A boyish face that didn’t look even thirty and probably wasn’t. Jerry was sweating too, his white shirt doing a poor job hiding underarm rings.

Ric said, Get you a brandy? He turned toward the cabinet for a glass.

No, Jerry snorted.

Carl heard derision in the kid’s tone like somebody asked, Hey, we borrow your car for the demolition derby? Ric stopped and turned around.

You guys should be in jail, Jerry said. And then he just went off, his face going red. Carl caught words here and there. Sham, and financials, and full of holes. Pipe-stuffing. The words began to get clearer. Those off-balance-sheet entities moving debt from the books, Jerry was saying, that’s illegal, I don’t know how you guys do it. Saying, The earnings today, all that equity income packed in, you don’t say a word. Crazy. Aiming a trembling finger at them.

Carl glanced at Ric, and Ric was frozen there with the bottle of Germain-Robin and his glass. Bug-eyed-Jerry in front of them picked up again, saying he’d hired a law firm, he was going to have a press conference next week. They’re all coming after you, Justice Department, Securities and Exchange Commission, the Nasdaq. You guys are history. And then, like he’d planned his finale, he said he was taking them down.

When Jerry walked out, Carl wasn’t seeing a kid anymore. Carl said, What I was saying earlier about worrying?

Ric chuckled, more a strangled sigh than a laugh. Carl was thinking it lacked gusto, the aura of sincerity that Ric Mantilla could give things. Ric went to his chair and sat, the leather creaking. He’s like nineteen, who’d believe him? We’re the Golden Empire.

Ric, Carl said, most of that was true. He thought he should probably stop there, but screw it, and he tacked on for good measure, And don’t give me your ‘who, me?’ look or try to tell me you didn’t know, because I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

Something about that didn’t set well with Ric. Carl watched the steam coming, watched Ric come out of the chair with his wavy hair flying, his dark Latin face half-purple. He’s in finance, you hired the fucking monster. Carl. Spat it at him, Carl feeling little flecks of saliva on his face.

Carl came right back, knowing it was stupid responding this way. I don’t make midlevel hires, Ric, and it wasn’t my idea to pad sales figures, so don’t go off on me.

They argued.

Ric back and forth across the room, shaking his finger, spitting things like, Finance is your responsibility. Carl doing battle, half out of the chair, parrying with, I kept telling you. Finally withering, sinking back, letting Ric win again. Tuning Ric out, Carl let his mind go to the reporter from the Chronicle who had strung the words Golden Empire together today. He could picture the guy’s face, but now with scorn written on it. He could imagine his family down there in tears as he turned in handcuffs and climbed the courthouse stairs.

Ric was still ranting. I will take the little bastard down… The brandy bottle was empty. Drunk or spilled, Carl wasn’t sure. Ah, but maybe Ric was winding down, because here he came with Remy Martin. Reinforcements. Sloshing some in Carl’s glass he said, Let’s fucking take him apart.

And then it was quiet. Like after a SWAT team throws flash bangs in the movies and the director shows you what it’s like to be a victim by muting all sound. That kind of silence.

Ric, you get how serious this is. Carl said it softly.

Dark eyes still intense, Ric said, Tell me.

Carl did. It started small, he said. Things like padding sales figures with product that distributors hadn’t sold, to make the number. You know, get to what Wall Street’s expecting. On The Street, the quarter meaning everything. You missed, your stock was cooked. Couldn’t let that happen, remember? Too much riding on it. The debt deals, the stock deals, making acquisitions almost every day, got to have a strong currency or your balance sheet falls apart. Yes, it was hard to admit that he – Carl Retten CPA, Harvard MBA – had created special purpose entities. Saying to Ric, You know I pride myself on being a straight-up guy, and Ric just listening. Remember, we moved debt to the SPEs? Capitalized them with stock, even made some employees shareholders because you had to have outside shareholders, we couldn’t find them fast enough? Change the records, make them look like outside shareholders. And everything, Carl said, hinging on the stock. It starts going down, those SPEs weaken, they’re out of compliance with capitalization rules, you’ve got to dump more equity in. Next thing, it’s like the big engine leaving the track and taking the whole train off the trestle with it.

Ric stared. You telling me we could go bankrupt?

I’m telling you, Carl said, that a scandal would be devastating. Carl held his glass out, amazed that what was in it moments ago was gone. He was feeling light-headed. And I’m telling you we’re in one very deep shithole, partner.

Ric filled the glass up. He said, I’m calling my lawyer.

Carl remembered Ric’s attorney from a party at Ric’s Pacific Heights home. Brazilian fellow, white hair, distinguished, fit for mid-sixties. Ric introduced them, saying, You can’t believe how this guy’s connected. Ric was on the phone now, giving details. To the point, no wasted words. Ric said, Okay, and hung up.

Ric paced. Carl drank Remy. It was past ten now. Carl was watching the ceiling, wondering how do you make it stop moving? Midnight came and went.

The phone rang. Ric hit the speaker button and barked something. The guy on the other end was deep-voiced, sort of male sultry, with a precision to the way he spoke. Or maybe, Carl thought, it was just the effect of booze on his own hearing.

Carl heard the guy introducing himself now. William Jeramane, from Blackjack. He’d heard they had difficulties? Blackjack often dealt with distressed situations like this, perhaps he could assist?

We need to meet or something? Carl mumbled.

No, Jeramane said. I prefer that we keep an arm’s length between us.

Carl started to say he didn’t do deals without looking at a guy. He stopped himself. Truth was, you don’t want to look someone in the eye who knows your worst dirt. It was surreal, a guy like him, Carl Retten, star investment banker, CFO of a public company, having a conversation like this.

What do we do? Ric asked.

Nothing, Jeramane said. For now. He said Blackjack would erase the problem by Monday, if they were willing to pay the price.

Carl wondered what the man meant by erase.

Ric replied at once to the speakerphone: Name your terms.

Carl was thinking, what in hell happened to take the bastard down? And what’s it like getting indicted on felony charges, your name in the papers for something besides being golden? Ric was pumping a fist in the air, grinning, saying the other thing Carl was thinking.

What’s this cost us?

Everything. The word Jeramane used.

Ric said, I’m sorry?

Carl looked at the empty Remy Martin bottle.

Most often, Jeramane replied, the word ‘everything’ connotes ‘all,’ and that is precisely how I mean to use it.

Ric stood up. Everything?

Let me explain, Jeramane said. In my possession are your personal financial statements. It appears the two of you have done quite nicely.

Ric said, Thanks. You were saying about ‘everything?’

Ah yes, right, Jeramane replied. I was momentarily distracted by all that wealth. Jeramane continued, saying that Blackjack would free them from their obligations. That would require collateral, of course. They, Ric and Carl, were collateral, Jeramane said. He said Blackjack would leave them sufficient resources, however.

Carl heard it through a cognac haze. Clear enough, though, to wonder how Jeramane defined sufficient, the guy seeming to have a penchant for definitions. And does a man who offers to leave you something believe he can take it away to begin?

Ric said, Collateral? That’s extortion.

Blackjack, Jeramane replied, wants a return on its investment, and I expect you to produce it. As for extortion, Jeramane said, that’s the extraction of value under pain of threats. This was a mutual exchange of value, do you see? He said, Blackjack helps you reclaim what we might call your ‘personal value.’ In turn, Blackjack would require indentured dedication of their talents.

You always speak in riddles? Ric asked. Or you just don’t have the balls to come out and say it?

Jeramane laughed. Grit. I like that, he said. Very well, yours is a twist on the old saying ‘your money or your life.’

Ric said, You’re robbing us.

Jeramane said, Let me paint a picture for you, Ric. I’ve heard it said one is worth a thousand words. He said, Imagine this: Next week your lives, as you know them, end. You will forfeit all your gains from your shareholdings. You will face enormous fines and probable restitution to investors. You will endure an onslaught of personal lawsuits. You will be forced to stand by, perhaps in a holding cell, while the authorities confiscate all you now cherish. And finally, you will go to jail for a very long time. When you emerge as free men, you will forever be imprisoned by your ruined reputations. Jeramane said, Now imagine your family, Carl, your colleagues, Ric, seeing that picture.

For Carl, it was the moment of clarity. He was staggering to the liquor cabinet, and those words, your family, got him more than the rest. He had kids in college. He had a wife who hated risk. Carl heard himself mumble, Yeah.

Ric was glaring at the phone and growling, We’ll fight it with all we’ve got.

Jeramane went on as if he heard neither of them: On the other hand, with Blackjack you live to fight another day. In fact, not only will your reputations be untarnished, they will be burnished by success. You will be prized professionals. You will possess means, motive and opportunity for fortune again.

Carl was at the cabinet, reaching with a shaky hand for something, anything, amber. Ric was repeating himself, muttering, We’ll fight the charges.

Are they true? The charges? Jeramane in a lilting voice. Remember, I know your personal finances. I am also versed in your company’s books.

Carl felt the bottle slip from his fingers and fall. Ric’s heavy indigo-colored wool carpet absorbed the impact. Carl looked down at the unbroken object and said to himself, that’s a hell of a metaphor. He said out loud, We’ll do it.

Pardon? Jeramane’s voice over the speakerphone a question mark hanging in the air.

Ric stood at his desk, mouth open.

You’ve got a deal. We choose your solution, Carl heard himself say. Funny thing was, Ric looked relieved. Carl had no memory of getting home that night.

The following Monday passed in waiting, dread hanging like the summer thunderheads in Illinois when he was a kid. Tornadoes everywhere. Carl going by corporate accounting, hand in his pocket, saying, Where’s Jared. I mean Jerry?

I don’t know, he’s supposed to be here. Never called or anything.

Oh.

Pacing the halls, time dragging like a body on a rope. Jerry didn’t show all day. Or the day after. Or the day after that.

A month later, Jerry’s family came into the office to get his things, still no trace. Carl met them in the lobby. Hugs and handshakes, taking their hands in both of his. Looking at Jerry’s wife, Jerry’s mother, both red-eyed as they told him, We don’t understand, he left for work and never arrived.

For Carl Retten, a straight-up guy, that was hard. Our condolences, he said, offering a somber expression that was as sincere as it no doubt looked. Had his assistant Jane send flowers, and comfort food. That’s what Jane called it. She said, People are a wreck, they just need to eat to get through it, even when they don’t feel like it.

In following weeks, Carl called Jerry’s wife a couple times, feeling like a back-stabber but doing it because it was the right thing. The whole time Carl had one word going through his mind: Blackjack.

Later, he and Ric were talking. Ric said, I still say you hired the fucker. Adding with a chuckle, Long as the case is open, we don’t even have to pay insurance claims. Carl was thinking that besides flash, this was another way he and Ric were different. Ric felt no remorse.

Now six months later, the stock was still up. Still making The Street’s number. Reporters and analysts still calling it the Golden Empire with its Golden Boys. Ric and Carl both agreed, you don’t overstay your welcome. So OrNaMent Technologies announced an executive succession plan. Maybe it meant something else to Ric, Carl didn’t know. For him, it meant getting away from something that had bothered him for six months and wasn’t getting better.

Carl and I are grateful for the trust shown us by employees, customers and investors, Ric said in the news release. In a sense, we feel like proud parents as we prepare to hand the reins to successors, knowing we have given our best. Ric left first. Carl followed him out the door a few months later.

Time passed. Carl cleaned out the garage. He took his son fishing up on the Feather River. He went to bed early because he felt like he needed to rest. Like he needed to be ready for something. He didn’t talk to Ric much. Ric made $290 million, he didn’t need to hang out with Carl Retten.

Today, Carl was pulling weeds in the front yard. His cell phone rang, a voice he’d never forget on the other end, and yet Carl found himself searching. Hi Ric, he said after a moment’s pause.

You busy? Come over, Ric said.

Sure. Now? Carl was thinking you don’t call for months, I’m supposed to jump up and brush off my knees?

Ric said, I was gonna buy something, I can’t.

Carl said, You need me to buy it for you?

Ric said, No, it’s Jeramane.

Carl said, I’ll be there in a twenty minutes. And when he stood up, his legs felt stiff and heavy.

Driving down Canyon Road to Trousdale getting on 280, up past 380 and Junipero Serra Park and onto 101 toward Daly City, the whole way on the phone with Ric getting the story. Ric went to buy a jet, was going to fly around the world drinking Mai Tais and doing women, see if there were differences. Some lame joke like that. He went to the airline broker, the guy came back and said, You can’t buy it, the report isn’t good. Ric checked. Everything had liens, holds, freezes. So it looked like he was totally tapped out. Creditors on the report with names like Gambler, Ltd, Dealer, Ltd, a couple others.

All of that’s Blackjack, you know, Ric said.

Carl said, Can I call you back?

Picking up highway 1 toward Pacific Heights, which was narrow surface streets here this side of the Presidio and the Golden Gate Bridge, Carl called his banker and his attorney. He asked them would they take a look at his accounts, his credit report? His banker called back in less than five minutes. Carl was on Geary, close to Ric’s. If you needed money, Carl’s banker said, why didn’t you ask me first?

Carl said, Can I call you back?

Now, Carl was holding a glass of cognac and sitting on a chair in Ric’s home office. He couldn’t drink it. Ric was working on his third one and on pacing the room. Carl was thinking he needed a shower and wondering what Ric was thinking. He watched Ric, the guy still fit, his hair a little longer, wearing starched ivory chinos with creases and RM stitched on the left rear pocket flap, and one of those linen shirts like they wear in Malaysia, sage green and buttoned to the top.

The phone rang. Ric hit the speaker button. Mantilla, he said.

Jeramane’s voice like smoke and whiskey, smooth and gravelly at once, congratulating them on their bright new vistas.

Carl was wondering what a guy with that kind of constitution looked like. Take everything a person’s got, slap them on the back and tell them they have a bright future.

Apparently we’re in your debt. Literally, Ric said, his tone condescending.

Carl was thinking maybe you want to go easy with a man who makes people and felonies disappear.

I did not mean to sound patronizing, gentlemen, Jeramane replied. He offered an apology. Said he was aware of Ric’s abortive purchase – how he phrased it. Said he supposed they both now understood Blackjack’s claims on their assets. He said it was a fair arrangement, as nothing had been taken from them. Moved to arm’s length, was how Carl heard it, and he remembered the man using the same words about six months ago. Then Jeramane said, Gentleman, your time for redemption has arrived.

Sounds like we’re getting baptized, Ric said.

Jeramane chuckled. You might say ‘faith with works.’

Ric said, I’m not religious.

Carl was thinking when did the devil get into the redemption business?

Ric told Jeramane go on, he was listening. Jeramane said it was time for them to begin generating a return on investment. Told them they would start a new company, and employ for your investors the strategies you have honed so well.

Carl was wondering if that included the commission of felonies.

By investors, I suppose you mean you, Ric said.

Jeramane said, no not him, personally. Blackjack. He said Blackjack would retain controlling interest and would capitalize them sufficiently to launch your enterprise. The words that got Ric were, Mr. Mantilla, we have placed in your name a Bombardier jet. It shall serve as a valuable tool in this capital endeavor. Jeramane told them that if all went swimmingly, both they and Blackjack would profit as planned, and they would then be free again. Or more precisely, released from further obligation. Jeramane’s words.

Ric countered that this wasn’t the agreement. You said we’d have ‘burnished reputations’ or something like that, He argued. He said Jeramane was trying to change the deal.

To the contrary, Jeramane told him. He reminded them of his words: all you possess. That, Jeramane said, includes your talents, lives and reputations. Until you have earned redemption, these belong to Blackjack. As always, you have the choice to adhere to the terms of the deal, in which you foreswore everything to Blackjack, or renege and force Blackjack to collect. How do you choose?

It was roughly fifteen seconds after that when Carl got it. Saw the picture as big as day. Your money or your life, can’t have one without the other. Maybe you like your family too, and don’t want to lose it. Kids in college, a wife who hates risk. Carl Retten was a straight-up guy, he told himself. Sometimes that meant doing what needed to be done, no backing down. Sometimes you just had to face facts. He muted the phone and heard himself tell Ric, "This is the deal we made. He didn’t wait for Ric’s response. He depressed the mute button again and told Jeramane, We’ll do it."

Jeramane, sounding pleased, congratulated them. He had the nerve to say, Godspeed, gentlemen.

Ric said, What kind of business?

That, Jeramane said, is up to you. He said he would be in touch but he would not be seeing them. He bid them good day.

Carl was feeling déjà vu all over again on the way to Ric’s liquor cabinet. Except he was sober this time, and dressed in grass-stained jeans. Needing a shower for at least one reason. He saw that Ric had a bottle of Germain-Robin Anno Domini brandy on the shelf. Ironic. He poured some in two snifters and brought them over, handing one to Ric. They touched rims. Good crystal, the sound ringing.

Ric said, I’m thinking something in communications.

Call it ‘Redemption Networks?’ Carl said, surprised to find his sense of humor still present.

Ric shook his head. Logo shaped like a wafer and little thimble of wine? No way.

Any ideas?

Remember we talked about chipsets? Maybe a rollup. They were both silent for a bit.

So where do we start? Carl said.

Business plan, hire some people.

Carl looked at Ric. Let me ask you, he said. How does it feel bringing people on, knowing what we know?

Ric took a drink of Anno Domini. It’s just business, he said. He snapped his fingers. I got it. ‘dComm Systems.’ I had that name in my head. Good, huh? His hands out like a movie director’s, framing the scene.

Carl watched him, wondering, would he spill his drink doing that? It sounds an awful lot, Carl said, like that rat poison.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 2

Aaron Simmons woke from a nap. It felt like one anyway. This going to bed after two, getting up at five, even his hair just wanted to lie there. He’d begun using gel in it. He’d considered running a rope from one of the bed’s four posters so he could haul himself up.

It would be practical he’d told Julia, only half-jokingly. A process improvement, he’d said. But there was no rope tied off up there, partly because some processes looked stupid no matter how efficient they were, but mostly because Julia said, Hell no, you’re not tying rope to our bed, even when he’d said with a suggestive look that maybe they could repurpose the rope, you know?

She’d replied that he’d have to get more sleep before that option made economic sense. So Aaron arose and stumbled to the bathroom under his own power.

Besides, there was no shortage of reasons for getting up – around twelve million of them, give or take, depending on math and the outcome of future events. Six weeks to the IPO. Behind him, Julia’s sigh told him she was rolling into the warmth he’d left behind.

Now here he stood, the vice president of finance and corporate controller for dComm Systems, naked before the sink and staring at the mirror. Almost had it made, and well under his self-imposed goal of 35 years. Of age, that was, and every day looking it more.

Maybe the real reason people feel like shit after an all-night bender isn’t booze but lack of sleep. No wine last night and it still felt like somebody was beating on an anvil back of his left eye.

He studied the lines on his face. Did those come out, or were they like tattoos, you had to have them removed? He rattled a couple Advil out of the bottle he kept by the sink, ran water in his hand to wash them down and cranked on the shower.

Aaron Simmons was 31, young for his position, father of two, husband to Julia. The other night, his wife had called him a bigamist. He was married to both of them, dComm Systems and her, she’d said.

And sleeping with neither, he’d countered. Plus, he’d added after she smacked him playfully on the chest, Julia wasn’t offering a big options package.

What did he mean by that she’d wanted to know, doing a little dance around him. He didn’t like the package? No, he liked the package just fine thank you, and maybe tonight he could sneak away from the other woman and hang out with her. Maybe too, she’d change her mind about that rope on the bed? That had earned him another smack on the chest, but thank God Julia had a sense of humor.

Aaron Simmons considered himself a perfectionist, a scheduler, a planner. Disciplined, not much fat on his five-ten, 150-pound frame but going a little saggy on the edges, he saw. Office-chair soft, Julia called it.

He squeegied the glass shower stall and wiped the fixture with a washrag. After drying off and hanging the towel on the rack, he picked a uniform from the closet: solid-colored pinpoint Oxford, muted tie, Italian loafers sans tassels, worsted wool slacks. Some called it accountant GQ. He rubbed gel into his cropped and thinning brown hair.

In the study, he ran the Remington cordless over his stubble while he listened to voice mail messages. He jotted notes with a jade pen that said Sigma Cappa Phi on the side. After the messages played, he looked out from his Sausalito condominium, passing the shaver by a few rough spots.

Rays of sunlight poked at San Francisco’s foggy shroud. The TransAmerica building was the first of its Embarcadero and Market Street brethren to push through to pink light. The spire of the Bay Bridge between Oakland and The City seemed to drift in the mist like a ghost ship, the Marina below in pre-dawn dark and matchstick masts.

The buzzing razor had grown warm. He clicked it off. What would he do with $12 million worth of vested stock options? He had no idea. He put the razor away in the bathroom, grabbed a couple power bars downstairs, car keys, a can of Red Bull, the cell phone, his brief case. Out the door, back to Wife Number Two. dComm Systems.

#

Across the Bay in Kensington, the shadows were still long. Westward, the first sun was dappling the fog around the Golden Gate, a watermark on the approaching day. Connor Hennessey switched off the recessed lights in his Cape Cod two-story and folded his six-foot frame into the Porsche 911 Carrera.

Six weeks to the big payoff. The Initial Public Offering. Sell the public your hours of blood, sweat and tears and take the money, thank you. Open the theater doors. We appreciate your patience, and please take your seats for the show. You hoped.

If you were in the investor relations profession like Connor Hennessey, your job in the six months before the deal was to teach entrepreneurs how to act like somebody else was the owner of their business. Sure, you might have VCs bankrolling your gig, the venture capitalists betting on somebody’s brains and energy. They were tough, but not like the public. Not like undressing every quarter and standing there while the public studied you. Horse traders with hands on their chins, expressions pensive and contemplative, saying, she looks a bit narrow in the chest.

Right then, Connor was thinking how’d I get from theater to horse-trading? Investor relations? his dad had said once. That mean you’re the son of a bitch who screws the shareholders? No, Connor had told him, he was the guy calling the play-by-play. His dad staring back like he’d just seen another male flash him, saying, Serious? Connor replying, Free sex and stock options. Left his old man standing there wondering if it were true or not.

Truth was, the gig carried a weight of responsibility. It had nothing to do with jobbing anyone. To the contrary, you wanted the firm and the folks running it to understand how to be public, to understand that you’re beholden to investors. So, no sex. Options, maybe.

In the case of dComm Systems, no maybe, a yes, and millions’ worth, just an IPO and six months of lockups away, incentive to do the rest of the job that comes after going public.

Another analogy: swinging trapezes over a net of regulations, finding the right words to keep investors tracking with you, managing messages like a press secretary. The CEO didn’t mean margin pressure across the board, just in the component segment where backlog is driving prices down.

Things like that a small part of the job really, but the job turning on words and relationships and the power of a cadre of institutional investors that might like you today and short-sell your shares tomorrow. Do that, you might come back to the platform colored a pleasing green with a dollar sign standing beside you. Six weeks to go and much to like: rapid growth, good people, executives with great credentials.

The Golden Boys they were called before. Straight shooters. Yes, the CEO liked to push the envelope, Connor was learning. You just deal with that and keep your cool. How? In Connor’s opinion, with speed. Not the snorting kind but the smoking variety. Rubber.

He flicked the Carrera’s six-speed shifter to first gear and barked out of the driveway, the neighbors tolerating that, but not more, so he was careful to keep the fat tires from screaming. He hit second and then third on the twisting street as the speedometer jumped to 50 miles per hour.

Winding down Lenox Road toward Arlington, the main thoroughfare to the freeway and the city across the bay, Connor glimpsed the First Unitarian Church of Berkeley amid the trees. The FUCB was obviously in Kensington, but calling it the First Unitarian Church of Kensington presented the deacons with a bit of a doggerel.

They’d get the youth segment, Connor said aloud, thinking what would you say? I’m off to FUCK? The Church of Fuck? Jeez, it might cast communion in a whole new light.

He laughed, breeze blending with classic rock music on the radio, barely stirring his short, sandy hair. Singing along off-key. Thumping one meaty Irish hand on the steering wheel.

Seven minutes later he turned up the on-ramp to Interstate 80 and San Francisco. At 6:30, traffic already clogged all lanes. This was the drag strip, the place to put the car through its paces. The on-ramp, what kind of irony was that?

He downshifted from third to second and tromped the accelerator, feeling the car slip sideways and shudder. Two seconds of thrills, then braking to match the crawling traffic, merging onto the freeway.

It was March, year of our Lord 2004.

#

Aaron Simmons was sitting behind his computer monitor. Connor could see the scowl. He knocked and stepped in. Aaron held up a finger, and Connor waited until Aaron looked at him, before saying, Trouble in paradise?

Naw, just complex, man, Aaron said. Connor watched him run fingers through his hair, twist his spine with a hand on the arm of his chair. There was a pop.

Sounds like you need some exercise.

No time.

That’s what they all say, and they all end up looking like Marlon Brando.

Very funny. Aaron’s frown was deepening.

What you got there, fantasy basketball? Connor nodding at Aaron’s screen.

I wish, Aaron said. Integrating financials. These different accounting platforms everybody runs are a nightmare. Or as you would say, a ‘fricking nightmare.’ Aaron managed a thin smile. Not to worry, pardner. Are we rich yet?

No, but maybe we will be. Connor shrugged. The Street’s a mystery, man, but I think we’ll open well. Silverman Sayers, good ink, timing. You accountants aren’t gonna screw the shareholders, are you?

I thought that was your job.

I just call the play-by-play. Conner and Aaron both laughed.

Aaron waved dismissively and took a drink from a Perrier bottle. Seriously man, what’s up?

Connor dropped into one of the chairs in front of Aaron’s desk. I’m feeling good about the IPO. Market’s coming back, investors are looking at IPOs again, especially cool stuff like IP chipsets. Connor followed that with a wink and a nod, the kind that says it’s all good.

And your point is?

Working on the Red Herring. I don’t want to drive through a minefield, blow a wheel off our wagon.

Aaron sipped Perrier, set the bottle down and shook his head. No Claymores I know of. Amy’s been holding everything together. You know Amy, right? Keller?

Connor cleared his throat. Yeah, top-notch accountant. I hear. Thinking, I’d like to know Amy all right. Amy coming down the hall, look at those…

Conner?

What?

I said ‘have you met her?’ Aaron narrowed his eyes.

Connor shifted in his the chair. Uh, yeah. Sure. Yep.

She gets it done. Aaron bit the end of a pencil, still eyeing Connor. Good looking, too.

Don’t start.

Just looking out for the single guy.

I’m in love with my car.

Sleep well, do you?

Not till the IPO’s over. No blow-ups, bro.

Aaron shook his head slowly, still smiling. He kicked his feet up on his desk and clasped his hands behind his head. Conner grabbed a rubber band off Aaron’s desk and flicked it. Aaron yanked his feet from the dusk and ducked. Connor went out the door laughing and down the hall toward Ric Mantilla’s office.

As he walked to the office of dComm’s chief executive officer, Conner forgot about Amy for the moment and thought about Ric Mantilla, dComm’s CEO. The first time he’d seen the man in his groove was the inaugural all-hands meeting. San Francisco Ritz-Carlton, sweeping views of the city atop Nob Hill. French cuisine from the Ritz’s top-rated restaurant, The Dining Room. Mantilla on stage working the mic like an entertainer, his jacket off, in Sea Island with cuffs and links saying, How’s lunch, everybody? Like this kind of thing, do you? Know how you get it? You bust your ass, that’s how.

Connor was accustomed to regalia. Bankers in Armani, Bill Blass, some guy with vice president on his card saying, I had this tailored by my man Maurice when I was in Paris last week.

Maybe the first time they’d talked Connor had said to Ric, Nice shirt. Ric replied, Sea island. Connor was thinking then, see island? Or Sea Island?

Watching Ric on stage, he’d turned to Amy Keller sitting next to him, trying not to look at those very nice…and whispered, So where’s Sea Island?

Amy’d shot a blank look, so he’d told her about Ric’s shirt. She’d giggled and said, Sea Island, silly. It’s good cotton. Like Egyptian cotton, Pima cotton named after the Indians.

Oh, right.

You don’t know that? Those bankers in their starched white shirts? Amy