Read Rigged for Free Online

was hard to tell where Wall Street ended and Morton’s began. The minute David stepped through the door of the hallowed steak house cum financial hangout on Forty-fifth and Fifth, he was accosted by a cacophony of sounds and scents that reminded him of the social outings he’d endured back at HBS. The air was so thick with clouds of cigar smoke that David would have needed a gas mask to make out the old-world Chicago decor, and the overwhelming mixed scent of whiskey, bankers, and roasting dry-aged meat was so intense that he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to salivate or vomit—maybe a little of both.
    The place was crowded, even though it was barely 6:00 P.M. , and it took David nearly five minutes to get the attention of the overdressed, overweight host with the restaurant’s coveted seating chart. Of course, the rotund man didn’t need to consult the chart to direct David toward Giovanni’s table; though there were four corners to the rectangular steak house, there was only one “corner table.”
    David did his best to compose himself as he made his way through the crowded restaurant, navigating carefully betweenthe tables that seemed dangerously close together, especially considering that most of the waitstaff were obese and most of the clientele were already three whiskeys deep. David hoped he wasn’t sweating too much beneath his herring-gray Brooks Brothers suit. He was pretty sure he had escaped Merrill without his boss noticing his early departure, but the five-block record-breaking journey to the restaurant was a blur of near-death experiences involving taxicabs, pretzel vendors, and tourists. At least now the tourists had something to tell their friends back home about—the crazy fucking kid in a banker’s monkey-suit sprinting through red lights while a guy in a vendor’s apron screamed after him, tossing pretzels at the back of his head.
    Somehow he’d made it, with a few minutes to spare. Following the directions the maître d’ had given him, David spotted his quarry, mentally taking in the corner table with quick flicks of his eyes. Anthony Giovanni was seated at the center, his hair and suit immaculate, a glass of scotch at his lips and a cigar in his outstretched right hand. To Giovanni’s left was a man David vaguely recognized from the financial newspapers: Jim Lowell, a preppy, midforties banker and near-billionaire who was currently trying to buy the New York Knicks. To Lowell’s left was another almost familiar face: Doug Masters, the head of a consulting behemoth that had rejected David’s résumé—thank God, as David had no interest in the world of consulting—a few months before he’d landed the Merrill job.
    On Giovanni’s other side was a man David didn’t recognize: dark hair, dark eyes, wide shoulders, young—maybe late thirties, definitely under forty—and handsome in a Baldwinesque sort of way. Not exactly Alec, but somewhere on the way to Billy. The unknown man spotted David first, nudging Giovanni in a manner that immediately told David the two were colleagues, if not equals.
    “There he is,” Giovanni said, waving his cigar and kicking out the empty chair closest to David. “Right on time and not a hair out of place. Gentlemen, meet my assistant’s newest crush, David Russo.”
    David tried not to blush as he shook hands all around, then lowered himself into the free seat, directly across from Giovanni.
    “I’m not kidding,” Giovanni continued, grinning. “Harriet’s got your fucking picture taped to the wall above her desk. Chocolate and flowers? I like a kid who gets creative, but now your girlfriend’s got a real fight on her hands.”
    David laughed as a waiter placed a glass of scotch in front of him, then passed out poster-sized menus. After the waiter had explained the specials, Giovanni waved him away, then finally introduced the man to his left.
    “Nick Reston, youngest president in the history of the Merc Exchange. He’s my right-hand man, and