Robbie's Scheme Read online

  The rest of Robbie’s speech keeps her full attention; his words don’t require any fighting to stay awake. The passion in his voice helps. She can tell he means it when he complains about the rich and preaches for a more equal society. Unlike Senator Redman, he’s under no illusions of what is and isn’t possible. Maya regrets calling him an optimist and wonders if he was acting earlier, trying to light a fire in her and goad her into an argument.

  Robbie impresses her by trying to compel the room to action, but he presents reasonable small steps that won’t be instantly ignored by the wealthy crowd. He talks about being kind and showing compassion and emphasizes how small steps can lead to real change. He also makes sure to thank everyone for attending several times and strokes the egos of the Wall Street titans. It’s a smart move that keeps them from tuning out as he causally talks about taking away their money.

  As soon as he finishes speaking, Maya bolts from her seat. She tries to work her way backstage but has no luck finding Robbie anywhere. No one knows where he disappeared to after his speech, or at least no one’s willing to tell her.

  Her press badge can only do so much. Around all these wealthy and secretive Wall Street tycoons, it seems to lock as many doors as it opens.

  Chapter Two

  “Who’s ready to make some money?” Robbie yells as he emerges from the elevator.

  Disappointingly, hardly any reaction greets him. Luka gives a meek wave over his computer terminal, a sign of support for his boss but not the response Robbie’s looking for. Pushing the sleeve of his suit up and checking the Rolex on his wrist, he confirms most of the traders won’t be arriving for another hour. The analysts and computer techs currently filling up the office are a quiet bunch, focusing on their computers rather than indulging their boss.

  Robbie walks through the cluster of desks to his office without saying anything else; there’s no sense in wishing good morning to people trying to tune you out with noise-canceling headphones.

  He gives Luka a slight nod to confirm he sees the waiving hand so he can withdraw the pathetic thing back behind his monitor.

  At least Luka recognizes his existence; the rest are trying to avert their gaze and admire each other’s shoes as Robbie walks by. He knows they all respect him and aren’t doing it to be rude, but he wishes they feared him less. He doesn’t know what he’s done to build this reputation around the office, no one treats him like this anywhere else. A small part of him suspects Luka promotes this attitude and spreads rumors about Robbie. The Russian immigrant loves to use fear as a motivator and thinks it's far better for leaders than respect from the workers lower in the chain of command.

  Jalen’s already sitting in Robbie’s office, waiting for him with his feet up on the desk. Robbie taps his shoulder as he walks by to inform Jalen of his arrival and remind him to take his shoes off the desk. Like so many of the others, Jalen doesn’t notice. He’s too busy swiping through pictures of guys on the latest dating app to take New York by storm.

  “Our office is too quiet,” Robbie says as he drops his briefcase on his desk and takes off his coat. “Do you ever miss the days of arrogant traders ruling Wall Street?”

  Jalen looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. “The ole days,” he says with a mocking twang in his voice. He decides antagonizing Robbie is more interesting than any of the guys left on his phone and slides it back into his pocket. “Are you having some early midlife crisis on me here? You’re not even forty yet.”

  “Things have changed too much, they’re changing too fast.”

  “Buddy, we were in diapers during the heyday of traders. This is the only version of Wall Street we’ve ever worked in. And no, I don’t think I’d enjoy the old version. There weren’t a lot of gay black guys working here back then.”

  “Well, I don’t like how quiet these guys are.”

  Robbie opens the mini-fridge under his desk and pulls out a pair of energy drinks. He throws one at Jalen’s head harder than he should, hoping to make his frustration clear.

  “They’re working, busy making you money,” Jalen says as he smirks and finally takes his feet off the desk. He cracks open the cold can and takes a small sip to get his morning started.

  Robbie takes a big gulp from his can and walks over to the glass wall facing the rest of the office. He watches as his employees work away on their computers and wonders where the sense of camaraderie is. How can they be a team when everyone works so independently and quietly? How can he trust them if they’re not his team?

  “Not enough of it,” he mutters.

  “Oh, please. We’re closing another record quarter with almost three billion dollars in new contributions.”

  “Are these guys supplying any good, new investment ideas?” Robbie interrupts. “It would be nice if we could deploy those contributions to generate some real returns.”

  Jalen stands from the chair and walks over to the window. He puts his arm around Robbie’s shoulders and joins him in watching their employees.

  “Nothing that gives me great confidence. Let Luka keep messing around with the short-term high-frequency stuff. I’ll let you know when someone has a proposal worth your time and money.”

  “That’s something else I miss about the golden age of Wall Street. We rely way too much on machines here. I want to buy and sell companies because I trust my gut, not because the computers are telling me some guy in one market is willing to buy shares for three cents more than a sucker in another market is selling them for.”

  “Your golden age was full of corporate raiders cutting jobs, gutting unions, and ruining people’s lives. You don’t miss that, and I certainly don’t. The machines are better. We’re not tied down this way, and we don’t have to take responsibility for the long-term actions of any of these companies.”

  “What responsibilities? The courts in this country don’t let anyone hold any of the oil companies responsible for climate change. Not to mention the obesity epidemic, courtesy of fast-food and drinks full of corn syrup.”

  “What about that utility company that was found liable for the forest fires in California?” Jalen counters. “Or the states suing the drug makers for the opioid crisis?”

  “Few and far between,” Robbie says as he turns away from the office and walks back to his desk. He settles into his chair and powers the computer on while Jalen’s still watching the office. “I have my sights set on a huge potential investor. Could set up next quarter’s contributions to be even better.”

  “Too soon for details?”

  “I think so. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow night. Hopefully I can tell you more next week.”

  “American money or international?” Jalen probes.

  “Oh, very American. May as well be the descendants of whoever invented apple pie.”

  ***

  Maya checks the time on her phone as she rushes across the street, and she curses to find out it’s almost nine already. She’s hoping to talk with a few people before her editor’s morning meeting and is disappointed to find out she only has about ten minutes.

  Maya works her way through the crowds in the building’s lobby and clutches her coffee tight to her chest as everyone jams into the elevator. The last thing she wants is for anything to happen to her coffee — she can’t stay awake through that meeting without this precious liquid. It’s already her third of the morning and won’t be her last. She didn’t arrive home to her apartment until late in the morning after spending too much time looking for Robbie Locke after his speech.

  Now, escaping the elevator to the bullpen of her newsroom, Maya makes her way to the desk cluster where the style and events reporters are chatting.

  “Morning,” Maya says, interrupting their conversation. “Who was covering the museum gala last night?”

  One of the columnists silently nods her head to indicate she was there while crossing her arms. Maya takes it as an invitation to continue, but a tentative one. She brushes her hair behind her ear and opens her notepad as if she needs it
for reference to remember Robbie’s name and hasn’t been thinking about him all night.

  “I’m covering Senator Redman’s campaign for the paper. After his speech, he introduced Robert Locke as the night’s host and they shook hands while looking very friendly. Do you have any idea who Mr. Locke is?”

  The group of style reporters all laugh at Maya’s question. The laughter makes her feel self-conscious, and her body subconsciously takes a step back from the group. She now realizes she should just Google him.

  “Of course I do, sweetie,” the reporter says. “He’s one of New York’s biggest philanthropists. He’s responsible for last night and a bunch of other major events this year.”

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  “Well, he’s not huge on the party scene. Unlike most Wall Street guys, he seems to throw the galas with the intent of helping people, not to have his picture taken. Most of his events are to combat poverty and hunger or some other local cause. He runs some hedge fund, so you might have better luck learning about him from some of the business guys.”

  “Thanks. Besides the galas and fancy events, do you know if he does anything to actually help people?”

  One of the other columnists snorts and starts scrolling through his phone. After a minute of no one answering her question, he turns his phone to show Maya the screen. It’s an article from the New York Star, probably one he wrote himself. The picture at the top shows Robbie in the projects handing toys out from the back of a truck.

  “That was last Christmas,” the reporter tells her. “He made headlines by taking the amount he paid his entire fund in year-end bonuses and matching it with donations to New Yorkers. He spent days handing out toys, canned food, Christmas decorations, and turkeys all over the city.”

  “How come I didn’t hear about it?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t care about having his picture taken.”

  Maya hears the derision in her voice and decides not to ask any more questions.

  “We did one story on it, like a few other papers, but he didn’t offer any interviews or give the press a heads up about where he’d be donating each day. Made it too difficult for us to cover. I think he’s also really big with the city’s shelters and the children’s hospital, but who isn’t? The smiles on those kids’ faces can warm anyone’s heart.”

  “Thanks for the info, guys,” Maya says as she backs away and starts wandering over to the business section.

  She only has a few minutes before her meeting starts, but the more she learns about Robbie, the more curious she becomes. Unfortunately for her, the business section reporters and the style section sit on opposite sides of the newsroom. Making the journey between the groups eats up most of her time before she can even ask a question.

  “Hey, what can you guys tell me about Robbie Locke?”

  One of the business reporters glances up from his computer with a wary eye. They’re not having a friendly conversation like the style section; they all look grumpy with their heads down and fingers typing.

  “Why? Is he attached to some political scandal you have coming out?”

  “I don’t think so, I just ran into him while covering Senator Redman’s campaign, and I’m trying to learn more about who he is and their connection.”

  “Hedge fund guy, one of the best reputations on Wall Street. He has a few enemies, like everyone else in the business, but it’s mostly guys who are jealous or think he’s too good to be true.”

  “So, he has a lot of money?” Maya asks as she tries to remember everything she said about the rich and the war on poor people. She hates herself for feeling the need to complain so often.

  “Not as much as he could if he would stop donating all of it. Honestly, I don’t know how the guy can afford everything.”

  “Maya!” She hears her boss yelling into the newsroom.

  She’s officially late for their meeting.

  “Would you mind sending me any of the recent articles we’ve written about him?” Maya asks as she starts backing away from the business reporters.

  “Look them up yourself,” he says before rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to the screen in front of him. “I’m not a researcher for the political section.”

  Maya does her best to offer a polite smile before breaking into a jog to reach her boss’s office before he can yell again. Practically the entire newsroom is looking at her as she takes a deep breath outside the office door and tries to compose herself. She doesn’t have a brush for her hair so her hand will have to do. Maya doesn’t expect her grumpy old editor to notice the out-of-place hairs or wrinkles on her shirt. He is a man, after all.

  “Nice of you to join us this morning, Maya,” her editor says as she enters the office. Most of the political team is already sitting around the room. “Did Redman do anything noteworthy last night?”

  “No, just his usual bland comments on inequality.” There aren’t any seats left in the office, so she leans against the door frame, wondering if the rest of the newsroom is still staring at her back.

  “And that’s why he’s losing so much ground to Senator Lola,” her editor responds as he shuffles some papers around on his desk. He isn’t looking up at Maya and doesn't seem to care that she can’t find a seat. It’s a wonder he noticed she was late for the meeting at all. “Lola’s gonna snatch this nomination right out from under him and get her ass kicked in the general election.”

  “Redman’s a fool for stepping down and not running for Senate re-election,” one of the other reporters chimes in.

  “Speaking of which, who’s available to attend Chris Clark’s fundraiser tomorrow night?”

  The ground suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the office as all the reporters drop their heads and hold their arms firmly by their sides. With no one volunteering, none of them want to be the first one to lock eyes with their editor when he looks up. They aren’t eager to spend their Saturday night in New York City attending a second-rate candidate’s fundraiser a full year before his election.

  Clark’s running to replace Redman in the Senate. Or, more accurately, he’s trying to buy Redman’s Senate seat. He comes from old money, one of New York’s richest families, and has reached the age where rich men decide they need to enter politics. He’s already outspending his opponents by several multiples, but the voters aren’t warming up to him. Polls have him trending up as he burns through a pile of money a year out from the election, but he’s still in a distant second place. And who knows if any other potential candidates will step forward in the coming months. Tomorrow’s fundraiser is as much about press coverage as it is the funds; he’s already using the family fortune to bankroll his campaign.

  “Maya, you got to look fancy at the gala. You can take one for the team and show up to Clark’s cocktail hour.”

  Suddenly, Maya regrets being late for the meeting. Standing through it isn’t enough of a punishment to placate her editor.

  “I think Redman’s giving a speech in Buffalo,” she says, hoping it’s enough to keep her on the campaign trail.

  “His speeches are all the same. If there’s news, we’ll run the wire’s story on it. You can rejoin the campaign next week. I hear they’re flying down to South Carolina, so enjoy some barbecue for me.”

  “I’ll try to smuggle you back some shrimp and grits,” Maya says in an attempt to be a team player.

  She accepts her fate and knows any further fighting is fruitless. His mind is already made up, and anything she says would only prolong this meeting.

  Chapter Three

  Christopher Clark’s fundraiser is nothing like the gala at the museum. Going in, Maya expects this, so she’s able to wear one of her own dresses this evening without feeling out of place.

  Maya arrives at the typical Manhattan hotel hosting the fundraiser and rides an escalator up to the second floor to find the ballroom. The invitations call it an evening to get to know Chris, but his press secretary has made it clear that he won’t be answerin
g any questions from reporters. Apparently, the only people who are allowed to know Chris Clark are the ones writing him checks and the New York power brokers he’s desperate to please and win over to his side.

  Rolling her eyes as she enters the ballroom, Maya scans the walls decorated with posters asking for donations to support the campaign. Most of the people in attendance have already written one check to buy a table at the fundraiser; now Chris is asking for a second as a straight-up donation.

  Maya will never comprehend the nerve that rich people are able to have.

  She doesn’t understand why anyone would buy a table here this evening, especially when the invitations warned there would be no meal served. The only food Maya can spot in the ballroom is a few hors d’oeuvres being carried around by waiters. She’s starving after working through her lunch and doesn’t want to pay for a full dinner in Manhattan, so she does her best to follow the path of the waiters.

  After a few minutes of heavy sampling from the trays, Maya discovers the event doesn’t even have an open bar. She lets out a deep sigh as she climbs onto one of the barstools. As far she’s concerned, this is just another attempt for the rich to screw the working class out of more money. Looking around the bar proves her point, as most of the other stools are occupied by fellow reporters; faces she recognizes as being forced to attend this unnewsworthy event by their editors. Nobody volunteers to cover a losing candidate’s boring fundraiser with a cash bar and limited food.

  Maya places her clutch on the bar and waves for the bartender’s attention. Ordering a double bourbon, she knows it will break the bank but senses that she’ll need it to make it through the event.

  “Look at all of these political reporters in their natural habitat, surrounding a watering hole.”

  Maya recognizes the voice instantly and spins around on her stool to face him.