He held up his left hand. Three of the fingers were held at an awkward angle. Morgan grimaced looking at them.

"I'm in the hospital, but of course I don't have insurance. Second day I'm there, a guy comes to visit me. I don't know him from the inside of my a.s.s, but he tells me all my bills are paid for. He tells me he knows who I am, and where I've come from. His name was Stephen Gaines, and he saved my life. Want to know how Stephen saved me?" Leonard said.

The room nodded.

"He gave me my life back. More importantly, he let me become a man again. See, once I lost my job, lost my wife, lost it all, I wasn't a man anymore. I was a d.i.c.kless nothing wandering the streets waiting for someone to put me out of my misery. And Stephen took me from that, and he gave me my life back."

"What did he do?" Chubby asked. Leonard smiled 144.

and walked over to Chubby, knelt down and stared at him in his bright red face.

"He let me earn again."

Chubby nodded, and suddenly Morgan realized he was doing the same thing.

"I know each and every one of you," Leonard said. He looked at Chubby. "Franklin LoBianco. Laid off from Morgan Stanley three months ago.You're listed as owning a four-bedroom apartment on Madison and Thirty-fourth.

Nice neighborhood, Franklin, but I bet you're wishing you didn't splurge on that four-bedroom now."

Franklin lowered his head.

Leonard walked around the room and stopped by a young Indian man with a slight goatee and an earring.

"Nikesh Patel," Leonard said. "You were the chief financial a.n.a.lyst at a hedge fund that was worth one point two billion dollars. But then that fund blew up, and you were without a job. I bet it makes paying for your parents'

home in New Delhi rather difficult."

Nikesh opened his mouth questioningly, but shut it as Leonard walked around the room some more. Morgan went rigid as Leonard stopped right by him and looked down at him.

"Morgan Isaacs," Leonard said. "A few years ago, you bought your apartment for one point eight million dollars.

I'm sure at the time it seemed like a good buy. A good investment. But records show that that same apartment was listed two months ago at one point five. Then one month ago at one point two. Now, it's currently off the market. Figure between costs and renovations, you're out a million dollars minimum. And this real estate market isn't going up anytime soon."

Morgan felt the eyes of the room locked on to him, but 145.

when he met their gaze he saw there was no condescension, no patronage, no disdain. Instead there was pity. And Morgan smiled when he saw his fellow brothers, knowing they were right there with him.

"In the past twenty-four months," Leonard said, standing straight up and walking back to the front of the room, "I have made two point three million dollars. Twice as much as I ever made on Wall Street. And that's in the worst economy in decades."

Morgan could tell his eyes were just one of a dozen pairs that went wide when hearing that sum.

Leonard continued. "And that's after taxes."

A few hushed whispers now rose through the room, including one person who said, quite audibly, "Bulls.h.i.t."

Leonard locked eyes with the speaker, a bald, black guy in his early thirties. "Two point three after taxes, that's, what, four million before Uncle Sam takes his cut?You're telling us you went from being broke-a.s.s on the street to making seven figures after taxes in two years? In this economy?"

Leonard nodded. "Welcome to the new America," he said.

"How?" Chubby said, suddenly springing to life.

"How," Leonard said, rubbing his chin as though debating the question. "That's the key. How. And I'm guessing not just how, but how can you do it, too. That's kind of a multipart answer. And let me tell you this. If you aren't comfortable with the first part, you won't be right for the rest of it. Ready? Here goes. You will make money.

You will also file a W-2. You will do everything a good taxpaying citizen of this great country does, including paying state and federal income tax...only what you will be doing to earn that money will not be legal."

"The money is illegal?" Nikesh said.

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"Money itself is never illegal," Leonard said. "It's how you obtain it that determines the legality."

"So what will we be doing, exactly, that determines the legality?" the black guy said.

"It's actually very similar to what you've all done throughout your entire adult lives," Leonard said. "What is finance? What is the stock market? It's a drug. It's gambling. It's doing something that feels so right, that can change your mood, change your mind, change your outlook on things. Just like a drug, the stock market can either expand your mind, or make you lose it. It all depends on who's doing it and how responsible they are.

You're all pretty responsible guys, it's not your fault you found yourself on the sole of G.o.d's shoe. So you'll be doing exactly what you've done, and what you're good at. Selling people things that make them feel good."

"Drugs," Morgan said.

Leonard c.o.c.ked his head. "That's right."

Nikesh said, "I don't understand. If you sell drugs, how can you file taxes on it?"

"That's for us to know and you not to worry about.

Once you come on board you'll file your taxes just like anyone, and through our company, 718 Enterprises, you'll be just like that waitress on the corner. n.o.body looks at her tax return, and n.o.body will give yours a second glance either."

"What do we need to do?" Nikesh said.

"Simple. Every morning, you will arrive at a predetermined location at eight o'clock. You will be given different items in different quant.i.ties. You will dress the same way you did today--like a businessman. You will carry on you a cell phone that will be given to you on your first day of work. Throughout your shift, you will receive calls 147.

on your cell phone, alerting you to the location of your next customer. We will also tell you what the customer requires, and how much. You will go to the customer's location, exchange money for goods just like anyone, and leave. At the end of each day, you go home. Eighthour days. None of the ten, twelve, fourteen-hour c.r.a.p you're used to. The next morning you'll come back, drop off all the money you received the previous day, fill up your bags and start again. The faster you are, the more runs you'll be given throughout the day, the more money you will make. Those of you who prove that they can handle a lot of runs will be promoted to later shifts. More action, more money. At the beginning you will work with a partner. This is for trust. You are your partner's eyes, and vice versa. But you are also our watchman."

"Watchman?" Chubby asked.

"This business is built on trust," Leonard said. "Because of the sensitive nature of our business, we cannot take risks. We thoroughly check out every single person before we bring them here. We know everything about you. Your background, your families, brothers, sisters.

Your son, Greg."

The black guy swallowed.

"If you do your job, you will make money. If you decide you do not want to continue, that is your prerogative, provided you give us the customary two weeks'

notice. But if you decide that you suddenly want to, say, alert anyone outside of our employ as to your job activities, you will be reprimanded. Severely. There are no second chances, no third strikes. You are not in kindergarten. If you make your bed, you lay in it, and your first offense is a punishable one."

"Punishable by what?" Morgan asked.

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Leonard stopped. Looked at Morgan. "Let's hope I never have to answer that question for you." Morgan said nothing. "If you agree to be a part of our company, you will start this Monday. You each came here with a sponsor, and that sponsor will call you Friday night with the location where you refill and drop off your merchandise and money. Work that starts Sat.u.r.day morning. Yes, Sat.u.r.day. Your sponsor put their reputation on the line bringing you here. Don't embarra.s.s them. In a short time, we will be starting an initiative that has the potential to bring in even more revenue than I've already discussed.

But you only get to be a part of it if you start now. So if you want to be a part of our organization," Leonard said, "stay seated. If you decide this is not right for you, I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

n.o.body moved. Chubby had forgotten all about his cuff links. Nikesh was absently rubbing his back pocket, where his wallet was surely kept. Greg looked at the table, briefly, considering the offer, then looked right back up at Leonard. His eyes said that he was in.

Morgan did not move. The money seemed too good to be true, but he knew Ken Tsang had fallen on hard times and had gotten out of it. And if things didn't work, he could always quit. But the opportunity was too good to pa.s.s up. This was Morgan's way back in the game.

Suddenly a chair squeaked. Everyone turned to the back of the room to see a short, balding man stand up.

He waved his hands, as though trying to explain a crime he hadn't committed.

"I...I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do this."

Leonard tilted his head, a look on his face like a parent who's been disappointed by a child they've put so much effort into. "Jeremy, are you sure?" Leonard said.

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"I--I'm sure. I can't be a part of this." He moved to the back door, still wringing his hands.

"You've disappointed us," Leonard said, motioning to the rest of the room, still riveted to their seats. "One last time, Jeremy. Stay. You heard what I said to everyone about our rules."

"I know, I...I heard you, but...I'm sorry, but I have to go. Good luck, guys," Jeremy said, and he reached for the door.

"Good luck, and farewell, Jeremy," Leonard said.

Then, lightning quick, Leonard reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. And before Morgan even knew what was happening, a crack echoed throughout the room, and Jeremy's head erupted in a spray of fine pink mist.

The dead man's body slid to the floor, leaving a grotesque red trail from the gaping wound in his skull.

Morgan recoiled, nearly tipping back in his seat, and when he righted himself he shivered when he realized that the conference room was dead quiet. The eyes that had bugged out of their sockets were now growing accustomed to the violence that had just taken place. The heads slowly began to swivel from the body back to Leonard.

He watched them do this, a look of apathy, a look of simple that's what happens that's what happens on his face. Morgan recognized on his face. Morgan recognized that face. He knew the emotions. He couldn't help but smile when he realized who it reminded him of. His old boss.

"There will be no dissent," Leonard said. "There will be no second-guessing, and there will be no turning back.

Every one of you came here for one reason, and that's to regain some of the respect you had for yourselves. Jeremy did not have this self-respect, and now he's dead. But before you start thinking to yourselves that I'm some 150.

kind of monster, let me tell you that if Jeremy had stayed, like every one of you is going to stay, you will make every penny you did at your old jobs. There will be no layoffs, no cutbacks, no downsizing. If anything, your earnings will grow at a faster rate than they ever could while you sat in some wretched cubicle or soulless office. We will be introducing a new product in the next few days that promises to help you erase all those debts. Keep making those mortgage payments. Keep driving that Lexus, keep that sweet Russian girlfriend who wants to spend five grand a month at Chanel. You'll have all of that--and enough just in case you want to throw a dime on the football games on Sunday. Now, you can either take Jeremy's way out, the coward's way out, or you can get back to work and stay the man you were supposed to be. So, men, are you in, or are you worthless?"

Morgan stood up. He felt a surge of energy through his veins, his skin felt like it was on fire. "I'm in," he said.

Within seconds, every other man in the room stood up and joined him. Leonard's eyes met each recruit as they pledged to be a part of this. Morgan looked at each one of them, silently bet himself that he would outearn each and every one of them. And he knew from the way their eyes met his that they were thinking the exact same thing.

Morgan Isaacs smiled.

Let the games begin.

"No second chances," Leonard said. "I'll see the rest of you on Monday."

21.

Amanda had just settled down on Henry's couch with a gla.s.s of Pinot Noir, and the first sip tasted better than anything she'd eaten in weeks. She'd skipped dinner, but h.e.l.l, wine had nutrients, didn't it?

It had been one of those days that never wanted to end.

Her feet felt like they'd been trapped inside thimbles and she needed something to take the edge off. She'd been with a client at the office until nearly eight o'clock, and Amanda had come to the pretty secure conclusion that humans were not meant to wear high heels for twelve straight hours. So by the time she got to his place, weary, weak, her dogs barking like n.o.body's business, she wrenched that cork from the bottle faster than Pamela Anderson dropped her drawers around a rock star.

And while all those excuses were reason enough to have a drink--whether or not she continued with the bottle depended on several factors--another reason was Henry.

Things were going well. They'd endured more rocky periods in their relationship than the next twenty couples combined, and she fully believed they'd come out stronger than ever. She never doubted his love for her. Even when that brain of his got in the way, which it often did, 152.

she knew it was only because he could be torn between the right thing to do and the smart thing to do. It still surprised her how rarely those two choices were one and the same.

Still, she'd learned a long time ago that trying to change him was not only impossible, but defeated the purpose and would undermine their entire relationship.

Henry was relentless. That was the bottom line, and G.o.d did she love him for it. As much as her heart pounded during the times where he scared her half to death with his latest bit of reckless behavior, it was that full throttle stopatnothingishness that made him a great reporter and a great partner. Sure he did stupid stuff. He was a guy; that was embedded in the DNA.

For every time he brought home flowers, he would leave his underwear hanging from the bedpost. For every time he said "I love you," he would chew with his mouth open. But that's what made them so great. He wasn't fake and didn't pretend to be perfect. Amanda had met plenty of guys who did everything right: held the door open for her, pulled her chair out at dinner, chewed with their mouth closed. But these men were nothing but painters, carpenters, covering up holes in the frame with pretty wallpaper or a fresh coat of paint. Eventually the hole would reveal the truth, and the facade would crumble. With Henry there was none of that. He wore his holes proudly.

Still, she wondered when they might take the next step.

Amanda was never one of those girls who dreamed about her wedding when she was six. She didn't name her unborn children, or buy Modern Bride Modern Bride magazine. If love came, she magazine. If love came, she would deal with it then. For years, love to Amanda was like taxes. You only thought about it when you had to.

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Yet Henry had changed that. Every so often she would think about what he would look like in a tuxedo, and thought about who would be her maid of honor. She caught herself smiling at things she once found cheesy, and more than once had felt that terror-and joy-filled moment of antic.i.p.ation when she thought he might pop the question.

Yet she didn't want to rush him. Or rush herself. She wasn't sure if she was ready to commit, and wanted to make that decision when the time came.

Still, it felt nice to think about it. If only once in a while.

Amanda heard someone jiggling the doork.n.o.b. She stood up, gla.s.s in hand, and watched as Henry entered the apartment. His sport jacket was rumpled, slacks dirty around the cuffs. There seemed to be some sort of dirt or substance, something gray and ashy on his lapels. He saw her and smiled, and that was enough to make her smile, too.

"Hey, hon," he said, dropping his briefcase on the floor and joining her. She felt his arms wrap around her, and she hugged him back. "You smell like tannins."

She held up the gla.s.s of Pinot. "Got started early. That kind of day, you know?"

"Do I know." He went into the kitchen and took out a gla.s.s. Not a wine goblet, but a regular drinking gla.s.s.

Then he went over to the dining room table where she'd put a stopper in the open bottle. He wrenched out the plug and filled his gla.s.s up nearly three-quarters of the way.

Then Amanda watched in both horror and admiration as he downed the entire thing in one gulp. But when he went back for a refill, that's when she stepped in and took the bottle.