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largely a project of mutual invention.
    Paul’s only form of orientation had happened at the same time as his interview. When Carter had called Paul into his office, Howary’s doors had been closed less than two weeks. From the window behind Carter’s desk, Paul had watched the flow of dark suits on their pilgrimage down Park Avenue. For years, he had gone to work just two blocks north; a part of him couldn’t entirely believe that it was over. The surreality of sitting in a leather armchair in his father-in-law’s office, resumé in hand, implicitly begging for employment, made the situation almost bearable.
    Carter started off the meeting graciously, almost apologetically, as if Paul were doing him a favor by showing up. He gestured for him to sit, then pressed an intercom button and asked for coffee. “I appreciate you coming down, Paul,” he said. “Do you want anything to eat?”
    â€œI’m fine, thank you.”
    â€œI was glad to get Merrill’s call. It’s been a crazy quarter, and we could really use another hand on deck.”
    â€œI appreciate you thinking of me, sir.”
    The door opened and a woman came in, wheeling a silver cart. After they had helped themselves to coffee, Carter thanked her and she disappeared wordlessly back into the hallway. Once the door was closed, he said, “So here’s the thing. My job used to be eighty percent offense, twenty percent defense. Now, it’s completely inverted. I barely have time to respond to all my preexisting clients, much less go out and get new ones. Everyone wants to redeem out. If they aren’t pulling their money, they’re thinking about it. They want to talk about it. Investor Relations has turned into a triage center.”
    Paul nodded soberly. “How many people do you have in the IR department?”
    â€œA couple top guys. But it doesn’t really matter.” Carter shook his head. “I’ve had relationships with a lot of these folks for years. Some of my clients have been with me since JPMorgan. They don’t want their hand held by some pretty Investor Relations girl wearing a nice suit. They want to talk to me, or to Alain, or at least someone who works directly for me or Alain.”
    â€œHow far down are you?” Paul asked.
    Carter began to clean his glasses. Paul wondered if he wasn’t supposed to be asking questions.
    Still cleaning, Carter said, “Good question. Some of the funds are doing better than others. We’re divided into five main funds, each with a different tilt. An inside manager here at Delphic oversees each of the funds. Alain oversees all the inside managers. As you know, we’re a fund of funds, so our inside managers aren’t directly managing the assets under their control: They’re hand selecting outside managers. Only one of our funds, the Frederick Fund, is a single-manager strat. That means a single outside manager holds primarily all of its assets; in this case, its RCM, Morty Reis’s fund. Our other funds are generally subdivided among multiple outside managers, between three and ten depending on the fund and the timing. Some of the outside managers are doing fine, a few are doing abysmally, and one I’m going to get rid of in”—Carter stopped to glance at his Patek Philippe watch—“about twenty-five minutes.”
    He placed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “We’ll discuss details later,” he said, nodding quickly. It was clear he felt almost as awkward about this interview as Paul did. “I don’t keep a big staff here at Delphic. We’ve been resisting the idea of getting a general counsel for years. For a few years we had a CFO with a law degree so he wore both hats, so to speak. But we lost him a year ago, and we’ve been on autopilot since then, relying on outside counsel when we need it. But with the markets the way they are, it’s just too