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somewhat, leveling out and then beginning a crawl upward. The federal government had picked up some press indicting some of the innovators in the market like Michael Milken and Drexel Lambert, and a handful of brokers had been led off the floor in handcuffs, a true low point. Now everyone was cautious. Money was still there, only you weren’t supposed to flaunt it. Investors had become conservative and regulators had become emboldened. Wall Street simply wasn’t as glamorous and fun, but for most of those who worked in Lower Manhattan, it was no longer a scary experience going off to work in the morning. If you had work. At the moment, Cary technically had work. Technically.

    It wasn’t work that any government agency would know about, and it was extremely occasional. After the Crash of ’87 he’d left Oppenheimer for what he thought was a better job with a six-figure sign-up bonus at Prudential Bache, but that lasted exactly nine months before the partners asked him to leave due to what they termed “lack of production.” Then he got himself evicted from his apartment near Sutton Place for forgetting to pay the rent. Now he was constantly exhausted and depressed, running a fever, staying in bed all day because he didn’t want to get up and face the world he’d created. And he’d become exhausted by the play-hard, work-hard life. He was popping every kind of antibiotic available, plus a myriad of antidepressants. His own good fortune was slowly killing him. “I was seeing a doctor twice a week,” he said, proving that whatever ailed him was certainly physical and could never be a matter of personal choice.

    No longer was he working hard. Playing hard was a different matter. Playing hard was mostly a way of not dealing with certain big issues such as career, a sense of purpose, growing up. The best way to avoid these things was to focus on little things, like a car.

    “Summer was starting,” he said. “I mean, I’m not going to have my convertible repossessed, God forbid.”

    Specifically, Cary was trying desperately to keep possession of his brand-new leased 1989 Mercedes 580SL convertible with the white leather seats and polished black exterior. Sometimes it was better to focus on the little things when the big things were getting you down. Maintaining possession of the 580SL convertible certainly qualified. If Cary concentrated on the car issue, he wouldn’t have to look at the job issue. Or the housing issue. Or the girlfriend issue. The car issue was something he could get his brain around.

    One morning when Cary was working out at the Vertical Club—Cary called it “a social club masquerading as a gym”—the solution to his car woes became apparent. A broker named Howie was there, who Cary didn’t really know too well, although he’d done a couple of deals with him and made some money. Howie was telling him about this guy he knew, Jeffrey, who operated a car lease company with his father. Howie figured Jeffrey could help Cary work something out with the Mercedes. Howie made it clear that you didn’t ask too many questions about Jeffrey, and you didn’t need to know anyway. Jeffrey had a knack for getting things accomplished. In the locker room after their workout, Howie told Cary he’d get in touch with Jeffrey and get the two of them together.

    At the time, Mercedes had demanded that Cary return the 580SL immediately. Again. The last time he’d managed to hold on to his vehicle by cobbling together enough cash to make a few back payments. But pretty soon the payments had stopped again, and now Mercedes was done with Cary Cimino and his many excuses. They wanted the car back. Although it was just a car, the idea that he might lose it was too much for Cary. It was the ultimate indignity.

    Cary met Jeffrey for the first time in person at the offices of Three Star Leasing, the company Jeffrey was running with his father in New Jersey. The guy was maybe five foot six, a bit overweight and