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susceptible to interest rate movement—namely, the cost of such borrowing.
    â€œWhat’s the CMT?” Jonathan asks.
    The constant maturity tables. They’re more commonly referred to as the Treasury yield curve, but on Wall Street it’s known by its acronym.
    â€œAlmost inverted,” Haresh says.
    Jonathan doesn’t know why Treasury yield curves become inverted any more than he understands the chemical reaction that causes water to freeze. But what he does know is that water freezes when it’s thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the Treasury yield curve becomes inverted when an economy is slowing, and that, in turn, means there’s a good chance that interest rates will stay low.
    That’s at least one bright spot. The cost to the fund to borrow a few hundred million dollars more won’t be prohibitive.
    â€œGo to four to one on the leverage,” he tells Haresh.
    â€œThat’ll exhaust our credit.”
    Jonathan looks into the restaurant, where he can see Ross and Goldenberg yukking it up. “Just do it, Haresh, and let me worry about where the money comes from, okay?”
    â€œOkay. You’re the boss.”
    Back in the restaurant, Jonathan sees that either Goldenberg or Ross has taken it upon himself to order another bottle of the four-hundred-dollar Amarone that Jonathan will be paying for. It’s just as well, as he’d prefer these guys get good and drunk tonight.
    *  *  *
    Jonathan stumbles home close to one in the morning. Natasha is asleep. Or pretending to be so she doesn’t have to engage her husband in his inebriated state. Jonathan doesn’t care which; he’d rather be alone, too.
    After dinner, Ross thought the revelry should continue, so after they put Goldenberg in his limousine, Ross and Jonathan ended up at the St. Regis Hotel’s King Cole Bar, drinking overpriced scotch. Jonathan had watched his wine intake at Wolfgang’s, as he never liked to get too drunk with clients, but the scotch had pushed him over the edge. He’ll be good and hungover tomorrow, but it was worth it to keep Ross happy.
    Before Ross’s speech became slurred, he clearly articulated the words that Jonathan had longed to hear: that he was open to staking Jonathan in his own fund. This had long been Jonathan’s ultimate dream, to be free of the Vincent Komaroffs of the world and to reap one hundred percent of the profits he earned. What impeded this fantasy from becoming reality was that he’d need somewhere near two billion in cash to start the fund, and in order to do the type of trading that would give his investors the returns they demanded, he’d also need to borrow close to six billion more. That’s what had long tethered Jonathan to Harper Sawyer: they have that type of borrowing power, and he doesn’t.
    Jonathan realizes that given the amount of alcohol Ross had consumed, he might not remember anything about what he’d said tonight, or might pretend as if he didn’t if he thought better of his offer in the clear light of day, but if he was serious about putting a billion or so in a fund under Jonathan’s banner, that would go a long way toward convincing other big-shot CEOs to follow suit. The banks, in turn, might see that kind of blue-chip clientele as a reason to loosen the purse strings and give Jonathan the credit he’d need.
    With the fantasy now a little closer to reality, Jonathan returns to one of his favorite parts of this daydream: the naming of his would-be fund. He’s considered honoring his humble roots (Carlisle Investments); or a Greek god (Ares Management); or going with a pop-culture bent (Gotham Partners). But in the end, he knew he’d never be able to resist the self-congratulatory ring of Caine Capital. It was just too good to pass up.
    Right behind the name game is an even greater fantasy: his final showdown with that self-inflated egomaniac Vincent Komaroff. Jonathan