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representative.”
    “Know what he’s talking about?”
    “Not a clue. That’s what makes me nervous.”
    “Any change in the position?”
    “Nada.”
    “Then why are you so nervous?”
    “It’s my job to be nervous.”
    “If you didn’t get nervous,” said Astor, “we wouldn’t make any money.”
    “But this time…”
    Astor stopped and turned to face his friend. “This time what?”
    “It’s a little rich for my taste.”
    “Show a little faith. Have I been wrong on something this big before?”
    Shank pulled open the glass door leading into the office. “The market,” he said, “doesn’t care about before.”
    Astor walked inside. “Comstock Partners” was written in gold block lettering on a bleached maple divider behind the reception desk. He rapped his knuckles on the counter as he passed through the reception area. “Hello, ladies,” he said, addressing the receptionists, both young and male and hoping for a shot at the trading desk. “Bring me the usual. This time make sure it’s hot.”
    “The usual” was a double espresso with a lemon rind on the side, some biscotti, and a shot of wheatgrass, in case he felt so inspired. In fact, the espresso was always piping hot, but he felt it his duty to keep the newbies on their toes. Lesson one: in this business, you couldn’t be careful enough.
    Not breaking stride, Astor continued down a corridor housing administrative offices—accounting, legal, IT. “What about my fifty grand?”
    “Check’s on your desk,” said Shank. “That was some dive. Your back okay?”
    “Don’t remind me.”
    “You could have heard that flop in the next county. Great party, though. I’m just sorry it had to end on a sour note.”
    “I thought you weren’t going to bring that up.”
    “It just slipped.” Shank took hold of Astor’s arm and stopped his progress, guiding him against a wall. Astor stood still, Shank’s compendious belly pressing against him. “Marv, what are you going to do? Give me a kiss?”
    “Really, Bobby, you doing okay? We’re talking about your father here. You can talk to me.”
    Astor looked Shank straight in the eye. “I’m fine, Marv. Really.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Do you want me to pinkie swear?”
    “Screw you,” said Shank, dismissing Astor with a shove down the hall. “Shows what I get for caring.”
    “If you want a friend…” began Astor.
    “Buy a dog,” the two men said in unison. Astor raised his hand and Shank high-fived him.
    “Thought you were getting soft on me,” said Astor.
    “Thought you had a heartbeat.”
    “Never.”
    The trading floor was a long open space, a floor-to-ceiling window that looked over Ground Zero and past Wall Street to the East River making up the outer wall. A desk ran the length of the room. Fourteen traders sat across from one another at uneven intervals. A host of flat-screen monitors demarcated each post. Workspaces varied from immaculate to chaotic. He counted three boxes of Pepcid, two containers of Tums, and a bottle of Maalox. Pro ball players got concussions. Traders got ulcers. If you weren’t playing injured, you weren’t playing hard enough.
    Aware that the room had gone silent at his arrival, Astor stopped and addressed his team. “Okay, everyone, listen up. I know you’ve all heard about my father. I have no more idea what happened than any of you. If I find out anything, I’ll announce it over the hoot-and-holler. Your condolences are appreciated, but as most of you know, we had a falling-out a while back. Don’t expect me to hide in my office while I get over it. I’m going to be out here on the desk riding your ass like any other day. So get to work and make some money.”
    Astor waited, but no one made a move. He clapped his hands. “That means now.”
    The room came back to life.
    Astor continued to his office. He had founded Comstock Partners fifteen years earlier, at the age of twenty-six. The firm’s name was a lie from the beginning.