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Looking forward to being productive again, in some way.”
    “Excellent. Excellent. This might dovetail nicely for both of us. I was talking to an old friend of yours today—Al Pierce, over at your old shop.”
    Al Pierce had never been my friend. He had been CFO at Case Securities when I was there and it was discovered that the billion dollars in profits my group had run up over three years was, in fact, only a half-billion dollars, the rest being a function of my imagination and faking a few hundred trade tickets. Al hadn’t caught it and was gobsmacked when the Feds showed up with the evidence. It was a mystery to me how he’d held on to his job. He had no reason to be doing me any favors.
    “He suggested I should give you a call. We have a situation here and he thought you might be able to pilot us through these troubled waters.”
    “Listen, Mr. Stockman . . .”
    “Bill, please.”
    “Okay. Bill. It’s nice to be thought of, but I’m not sure what I can do for you. I am permanently barred from my old job, and I don’t know whether Al mentioned it or not, but I’m under court order not to even speak to him.”
    There it was—as out in the open as I could make it. If he was still interested, that told me something. It told me he was scared.
    “Yes, he made that clear. But this is an unusual situation, Jay . . .”
    I hated it when people called me Jay. They always wanted something.
    “. . . and we would not be asking you to do anything that would jeopardize your legal standing.”
    There was a tell in Stockman’s voice. He was smooth—a Wall Street senior bureaucrat, and they’re the worst kind—but he didn’t sound smooth. He sounded like somebody had his balls in a vise, but hadn’t started squeezing. Yet. I wanted to hear more. But I didn’t want him to know I wanted it.
    “Bill, I’m sorry. I just got home. I have personal things I need to sort out. What’s your timing on this?”
    “We are prepared to make this worth your while.”
    “You have my full attention.”
    “A young trader at the firm was in an unfortunate accident this summer. There was no question at the time that it was an accident. A boating accident . . .”
    “Is this the story that was in the news this week?” I interrupted.
    “Ahh, you saw it.” He sighed, as though the world would be a much better place if William Stockman controlled the flow of all information. “Yes, well, what was not mentioned by the press was that the SEC has indicated an interest in his trading reports. They have asked us to turn over all of his trade blotters, tickets, reports, notebooks, and market diary.”
    “What are they looking for?”
    “I don’t know. I have had our internal auditors and compliance officers go over everything and they’ve come up with nothing that would interest the regulators.”
    “But you’re not comfortable with that?”
    “The markets are in turmoil every day. I am focused on doing whatever it takes to guarantee the survival of this firm . . .”
    I wondered if I was supposed to salute.
    “. . . and if there is anything there that could jeopardize my work, I want to know about it. Before I hand it over to the SEC.”
    I was interested. My parole officer would be happy. My bank account would be happy. And I wouldn’t mind beating the Feds at their own game. A little bit of payback.
    “I can clear up my issues and start a week Monday. Does that work for you?”
    “I was hoping to get you started next week. There are bigger considerations. I doubt this will take more than a week or two, but I need it cleared up well before the SEC deadline.”
    My return ticket from New Orleans was for Wednesday, which would get me back a full two days before my next P.O. meeting.
    “I might be able to swing it by Thursday.”
    “I’m prepared to offer you five thousand a day, plus expenses, if you can start this Monday.”
    Two weeks’ work at five thousand a day. I was willing to bend for that kind