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  TOP

  PRODUCER

  TOP

  PRODUCER

  NORB VONNEGUT

  Minotaur Books

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

  TOP PRODUCER. Copyright © 2009 by Norb Vonnegut. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  [http://www.thomasdunnebooks.com] www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  [http://www.minotaurbooks.com] www.minotaurbooks.com

  Book design by Rich Arnold

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vonnegut, Norb.

  Top producer : a novel of dark money, greed, and friendship / Norb Vonnegut. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-38461-6

  1. Investment advisors—Fiction. 2. Success in business—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction. 5. Wall Street (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3622.O678T67 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2009012731

  First Edition: September 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Mary, Wynn, and Coco.

  You bring me joy every day.

  Mary, it was Friday night—not Saturday.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you for reading Top Producer. It was a long journey from idea to publication. Writing this novel was like chartering the Queen Mary II inside my head. And I must tell you, the late-night parties rocked.

  So many people contributed to this book. Caroline Fitzgibbons and Tad Smith referred me to my agent. Their introductions to the media world were significant gifts, especially for a rookie author. Caroline and Tad, I will always be grateful for the way you cheered me on from the start.

  Scott Hoffman is an outstanding agent. He is my friend and relentless advocate from Folio Literary Management, the agency he cofounded. Scott’s business and editorial counsel is always wise. He works with talented people, like Kate Travers, the marketing director at Folio, and Celeste Fine, who promoted Top Producer around the world.

  Scott paired me with Pete Wolverton of Thomas Dunne/St. Martin’s Press (SMP). Pete edited Top Producer and made it a much, much better book. It is a privilege to work with Pete and his colleagues: Sally Richardson, Tom Dunne, Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, John Murphy, Dori Weintraub, Matt Baldacci, Katie Gilligan, Monica Katz, Sarah Melnyk, and Liz Byrne. Special thanks to Hector DeJean, a terrific publicist at SMP who fielded my bazillion e-mails with can-do enthusiasm.

  My great friends—Jon Ledecky, Tony McAuliffe, Scott Malkin, Dewey Shay, Tim Scrantom, Mark Director, Peter von Maur, Peter Raymond, Brooks Newmark, Eugene Matthews, and Chris Eklund—help me understand the world every day. Without our good times together and their appreciation for what makes people tick, I could not articulate the thoughts of my fictional characters. I owe additional thanks to Jon’s mother, Berta Ledecky, for encouraging me to write for as long as I can remember.

  For many years, Cam Burns, Matt Arpano, and I worked as a team and managed money for wealthy families. I learned so much about financial services from Cam and Matt. And while the observations in Top Producer are all my own, I will forever be grateful for their sound judgment and market savvy.

  Top Producer includes several Polish expressions. I don’t speak a word. Kuba Kierlanczyk, while a high-school sophomore, translated text for early drafts. Thanks, Kuba, dude. Malgorzata Marjanska guided me with the jargon. I highly recommend her Web site, at [http://www.thepolishtranslator.com] www.thepolishtranslator.com.

  What is a book without lawyers? Thalia Cody reviewed the SEC law and suggested an important plot point. David McCabe fielded questions about trusts and estates. Adam Snukal reviewed the contracts that keep me out of trouble.

  Jon Orseck helped with passages about derivatives. Jay Coleman offered insights into I-banking. Michael Liebeskind guided me on important financial topics. Michael Roberts explained the Hollywood angle. Jack Bourger and Selena Vanderwerf spread the word and introduced me to the American Foundation for the Blind, an organization that expands possibilities for people with vision loss. Mark Harrington and his outstanding team taught me how to work with the media.

  Other friends, who advised or helped in some way, include: Bob Poirier; many, many champions with the American Diabetes Association; Ryker and Tina Young (“Maui Maui”); Jenny McAuliffe; Shari Director; Gwill York; Emily Benedek; John and Suzie Edelman; Jordana Davis; Bob Grady; Marlon Young; Bill Sorensen; and Tracy Chesman a.k.a. “cheesechick” on Twitter.

  Over breakfast several years ago, Mark Vonnegut described writing as the “family business” in his home. Mark, who delivers keen insight in the most amusing manner, was so right about the experience. Great thanks to: Marion Vonnegut, my mother and first fan; Micki and Jack Costello, Buni Vonnegut, and Chris Nottingham; Wendy and Joe Vonnegut; and Andy Graves. My dad could not be here. But he was the role model I needed to get out of bed every morning at five A.M. and start writing.

  Nightly dinner conversation at home creates great source material. My children each possess wry humor that found its way into the novel. Thank you, Wynn and Coco. You are my inspiration. There would be no Top Producer without Mary, my wife and love. She encouraged me. She read the novel a thousand times, cutting, cursing, and chuckling with every pass. She made the good guys better, the bad guys more evil. She kept me going and tolerated my insane hours. I can only say, “Thank you, sweetie.”

  There is one absolute truth I have learned as a first-time author: No voyage is complete. No story is worth telling. No book is worth writing, unless someone reads it. Thank you for reading my book.

  I hope you enjoy Top Producer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six weeks ago I was a rising star at a white-shoe investment bank and brokerage firm. I was Babe Ruth on my way from Boston to New York City, John F. Kennedy connecting with crowds during the presidential elections. The markets were rocking during the first half of 2007. And it seemed clear that one day I would become a titan of finance, a fixture on the business pages of The New York Times.

  My job is the occupation formerly known as “stockbroker.” But it has been years since anyone called me that. “Stockbroker” sounds oily. Glengarry Glen Ross. The word makes clients twitch. Even brokerage houses, institutions that profit from legions of smiling, dialing, cold-calling robotrons, cast about for less unctuous titles. Stockbrokers are “investment professionals” over at Goldman. Morgan Stanley can’t decide whether its people are “investment representatives” or “financial advisers.” Another competitor is toying with “private bankers.” After eight years in the industry, I have grown numb to all the angst.

  I focus on a different name. Wall Street calls its most successful salespeople “top producers.” Think of us as rainmakers, the folks who butter the bread. We are a brash bunch at the office. We have opinions about everything and say what we want, for we understand three axioms about our industry.

  One: Investors hire advisers with strong points of view. The more impassioned our convictions, the better.

  Two: As long as we generate revenues, bosses tolerate our quirks and leave us the hell alone.

  Three: Wall Street firms pay ridiculous money to top producers. And that, my friend, is a beautiful thing if you’ve ever been poor.

  I was a top producer, the captain of a cramped cubicl
e rigged with a twenty-one-inch flat-screen monitor and an even bigger television hanging from the ceiling. Around my desk the stacks of investment research often crested five feet before toppling like dominos into nearby aisles.

  Who needs space to make money?

  I managed ideas, not clutter. My job was to cut through all the market chaos and sniff out the truth. Wall Street coughs up so much investment phlegm. If I wasn’t on the phone guarding clients, “my guys” to use the industry vernacular, I wasn’t making money. Bold, opinionated, you bet. I had all the answers and then some.

  On hedge funds: “Would you let someone play Vegas with your money and give them twenty percent of the winnings?”

  On McKinsey’s alumni, the ex-consultants infiltrating the ranks of Wall Street’s management: “Fucking revenge of the nerds. One day, those people will suck our industry dry of testosterone and everything good.”

  On money management: “Wall Street is the only place in the world where thirty seconds swing ten million dollars into place. Try buying real estate for the same amount and you’ll grow old as lawyers negotiate the fine points.”

  Finance was fast. It was furious. And I thrived on the frenzied pace. I had broken into the big leagues of capitalism and brought my “A” game to the office every day. So I thought. The last six weeks changed everything. My world unraveled the night Charlie Kelemen hosted his wife’s birthday bash in the New England Aquarium. Best friend, savior, a man who wore Brioni suits the way sweet Italian sausages split their fatty innards over open flames—that was Charlie Kelemen. He did so much for me. He did so much for all his friends. I still can’t believe what Charlie did to us.

  The signs were all there. We should have seen it coming.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “No, Grove. It’s not happening,” Charlie argued over the phone, his voice firm.

  I just had to persist. And now I live with the guilt. “The aquarium is the perfect place to surprise Sam.”

  “Won’t happen. I’m hiring a yacht to cruise around Manhattan. It’s romantic. It’s glamorous.”

  “It’s boring. Been there. Done that.”

  “But the aquarium is in Boston,” Charlie objected.

  “What do you care?” Whenever I argued, my faint Southern drawl intensified. “You almost live there now. You’re always visiting your in-laws on Beacon Hill.”

  “Sam’s parents would rather fly here. They love New York City.”

  “Trust me. Boston gives them home court advantage. They can help with the preparations. Besides—”

  “Besides what?” he interrupted.

  “It’s the only way to surprise Sam. She’ll never suspect Boston. You know how she is.”

  “A card-carrying snoop.” He chuckled with a touch of Truman Capote in his voice. His nervous laughter signaled fading resolve.

  “Everybody knows she’s a snoop.” Repeating key words was a proven sales technique. By emphasizing “snoop,” I was selling hard, employing all those time-tested skills of a top producer.

  “What about all our New York friends?” Charlie asked without conviction. His objections were dropping like Custer’s men at Little Bighorn.

  “Charlie, you could fill the aquarium with your friends from Boston. But we’ll all come from New York. Tell everybody a road trip is the only way to keep Sam’s party a surprise.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed, his surrender complete. “I like it.”

  That was how it all started. That was how I helped my short, squat friend with the humongous head plan his wife’s ill-fated birthday party.

  The Giant Ocean Tank at the New England Aquarium soars four stories high, contains 200,000 gallons of salt water, and hosts about 150 different kinds of creatures from the sea. The names of its marine inhabitants attest to the fertile imaginations of oceanographers. The “Horse-eye Jack” and the “Scrawled Cowfish” suggest rustic Montana ranches rather than gilled beasts from the murky abyss. The “Sergeant Major” and “Blackbar Soldierfish” hint at distant military campaigns during the height of British imperialism. Some monikers refer to guns, like the “Permit” and the “Sargassum Triggerfish,” a nasty little creature prone to biting the staff during feedings. Taken together, these names paint an exotic world thriving under the sea’s endless cover.

  Or perhaps they foreshadow dangers from the deep. There are three “Sand Tigers,” two males and one female. These sharks, each with three thousand spiny teeth arranged in eight jagged rows, undoubtedly reign as the tank’s scariest residents. Their fierce eyes betray the absence of souls, black pupils floating in yellow-gray irises. To them, every vision is a potential meal. No matter how often biologists feed Carcharias taurus, they cannot suppress the sharks’ natural instinct to hunt. Smaller fish sometimes disappear, victims of endless appetites.

  I can spend hours gazing into the saltwater prism from every angle and depth. The wide, ever-rising footpath corkscrews round and round the Giant Ocean Tank all the way to the surface. Fish of every shape and color slowly circle the monstrous Caribbean coral, sometimes breaking ranks from their languid order to flip here or paddle there. They are my Svengalis from the sea. They whisk me from the day-to-day chaos of my world, away from the hoot and holler, break-ins, and other communication tools with names that hint of Wall Street’s violent discourse. Ordinarily, I can lose myself in the tranquility of the tank’s infinite views as finned creatures keep time to a silent beat only they can hear.

  But not on Sam’s birthday that Friday night in mid-July. By 8:45 P.M. the cavernous aquarium rocked from laughter and jazz and the randy vibes that accompany endless tides of cocktails. Men in black ties scoped out the cleavage, their keen eyes probing one chest after another. Women in evening gowns knocked back cosmopolitans, their libidos rousing from alcohol and the dance floor’s musky scents. I doubted anyone else in the crowd had been celibate for the last eighteen months. The jostle and the noise, however, made it impossible to dwell on this dark thought. The five hundred voices inside the atrium roared like coastal thunder on a stormy night.

  There was one constant among the conversations. At Charlie’s parties, always a bacchanalian mix of liquor and music, guests inevitably dropped their guard. Squeezing through the crowd, I overheard it all that night. In no particular order, with no particular focus, the conversations played like sound-bite medleys from reality television.

  “Don’t look now, but the duct tape on her boobs is showing. . . .”

  “Three more drinks, and we’re out of here. . . .”

  “Did you hear about Burkie? He wore a baseball hat right after getting Botoxed, and now he has permanent ridges on his forehead. Looks like a fucking Klingon. . . .”

  “I bet that redhead is going commando. . . .”

  “Her dress is so last year. . . .”

  “Another Botero butt . . .”

  “Blonde at twelve o’clock. I need my wingman. . . .”

  When I finally reached the bar, a tall brunette with great bangs ordered a frozen margarita and told her friend, “Jill, you look fabulous. How did you ever fit into that dress?”

  “Colonic irrigation,” Jill whispered into the din. “Speaking of which, I really need to find the ladies’ room.”

  Too much information. Jill scuttled past me with purpose, her singular focus betraying the gotta-go shuffle known to all ages. She had been oblivious to my eavesdropping.

  Great Bangs, however, caught me red-handed. She smirked once and then let me off the hook. “Hey, Red,” she said, referring to my strawberry-blond hair, “I’m free Monday of next week. If that doesn’t work for you, we can make it Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.” She wore a strapless royal blue evening gown with a plunging neckline. The cut made me wonder what was holding everything up.

  I struggled to say something witty, but my brain failed to deliver. No brilliant repartee. No charming chow mein. Instead, I flashed my most winsome smile.

  Great Bangs, undeterred, sipped greenish froth through a straw. Her la
rge brown eyes held mine with the promise of an excellent evening. Maybe more. The look said, Step up to the plate and swing for the fences. Really tempting. But even after eighteen months, I wasn’t ready.

  Frankly, the penguins made better conversationalists than me. In the vast reservoir surrounding the Giant Ocean Tank, they all joined the chatter. The little blues squawked that their smelt was too fishy or their sardines too salty. The African penguins cajoled passing humans to exercise civil disobedience. “Throw us snacks,” they demanded in penguin-speak. “Throw us snacks.” The rockhoppers gossiped about their neighbors and griped about getting fat. All three breeds pummeled the staff with incessant orders. “We could use a few lounge chairs down here. And bring some rum cocktails while you’re at it. Maybe a Frisbee or two.” Like the party on the landing above, there was no symmetry on penguin beach, just kinetic revelry for the joy of life.

  At 9:15 P.M. the band’s lead singer tapped his microphone and called us to attention. His black hair looked like it had been styled with a garden tool, possibly a rake but more likely a weed whacker. “We’re turning things over to our host,” he said, slurring his words with hazy musician cool.

  From every nook and cranny of the New England Aquarium, five hundred people searched for Charlie Kelemen. At five-six and 230 pounds, Charlie waddled more than he walked. No matter. Friends and fans overlooked the layers. His star persona would have done justice to the lankiest matinee idols from the 1950s. We became silent as he approached the microphone.