“No,” says Culpepper, “it’s just, when your friend said ‘a courtesy call,’ I thought—”
Bewes and Hex exchange a look, stand.
“Nobody’s above the law,” says Bewes.
“Who said anything—” says Culpepper. “I thought we were talking about dessert.”
Bewes buttons his jacket, smiling—a guy with a winning hand.
“A case is being built. Months, years. Sanctioned at the highest level. And you want to talk about evidence? How about you’d need two tractor trailers to haul it all to court.”
“File a suit,” said Culpepper. “Show a warrant. We’ll respond.”
“When the time comes,” said Hex.
“Assuming you guys aren’t parking cars in Queens after I make a phone call,” said Culpepper, chewing on his candy cane.
“Hey,” said Bewes, “I’m from the Bronx. You wanna call a guy out, call him out. But make sure you know what you’re buying.”
“It’s so cute,” said Culpepper, “that you think it matters the size of your dick. ’Cause, son, when I fuck someone, I use my whole arm.”
He showed them the arm, and the hand attached to it, at the end of which a single finger was raised in salute.
Bewes laughed.
“You know how some days you come to work and it’s a drag?” he said. “Well, this is gonna be fun.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Culpepper, “until it goes in past the elbow.”
*
That night at dinner, Ben was distracted. He reviewed his conversation with Culpepper in his head.
“It’s nothing,” Culpepper had said, dropping his candy cane in the trash after the agents left. “They’re traffic cops writing bullshit tickets at the end of the month. Trying to get their quotas up.”
“They said months,” Ben responded. “Years.”
“Look at what happened to HSBC. A fucking wrist slap. You know why? Because if they gave them the full extent of the law, they’d have had to take their banking license. And we all know that’s not gonna happen. They’re too big to jail.”
“You’re calling a billion-dollar fine a wrist slap?”
“It’s walking-around money. A few months’ profits. You know that better than anyone.”
But Ben wasn’t so sure. Something about the way the agents carried themselves. They were cocky, like they knew they had the high card.
“We need to close ranks,” he’d said. “Anyone who knows anything.”
“Already done. Do you know the level of nondisclosure paperwork you have to sign to even work the front desk here? It’s Fort fucking Knox.”
“I’m not going to jail.”
“Jesus, don’t be such a pussy. Don’t you get it? There is no jail. Remember the LIBOR scandal? A conspiracy worth trillions with a t. A reporter says to the assistant attorney general, This is a bank that has broken the law before, so why not be tougher? The assistant attorney general says, I don’t know what tougher means.”
“They came to my office,” Ben had said.
“They took an elevator ride. Two guys. If they really had something it’d be hundreds of guys, and they’d walk out with a lot more than their dicks in their hands.”
And yet sitting in a corner booth with Sarah and Jenny and her fiancé’s family, Ben couldn’t help but wonder if that was really all they’d walked out with. Ben wished he had videotape of the meeting so he could watch his own face, see how much he’d given away. His poker face was usually top-notch, but in that room he’d felt off his game. Did it come through in the tension around his mouth? A crinkle in his eyes.
“Ben?” said Sarah, shaking his arm. From the look on her face, it was clear a question has been thrown his way.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t catch that. It’s pretty loud in here.”
He said this, even though the place was dead quiet, just a few blue-hairs whispering into their soup.
“I said, we still think real estate is the way to go, money-wise,” said Burt or Carl or whatever Shane’s father’s name was. “And then I asked your opinion.”
“Depends on the real estate,” said Ben, sliding out of the banquette. “But my advice after Hurricane Sandy is, if you’re buying in Manhattan, pick a high floor.”
He excused himself, dodging Sarah’s disapproving look, and went outside. He needed some air.
On the curb he bummed a smoke from a late commuter and stood under the restaurant’s awning smoking. A light rain fell, and he watched the taillights sheen on the black macadam.
“Got another?” asked a man in a turtleneck, stepping out behind Ben.
Kipling turned, eyed him. A moneyed man in his forties, but with a nose that had been broken at least once.
“Sorry. I bummed this one.”
The man in the turtleneck shrugged, stood looking out at the rain.
“There’s a young lady in the restaurant trying to get your attention,” he said.
Ben looked. Jenny was waving at him. Come back to the table. He looked away.
“My daughter,” he said. “It’s meet-the-new-in-laws night.”
“Congrats,” said the man.