The Final Detail - By Harlan Coben Page 0,24

agony. Money was won and lost. Dice were rolled and wheels were spun and cards were dealt. The men constantly glanced up at an electronic ticker, awe in their faces, ardently watching the stock prices like gamblers waiting for the wheel to settle on a number or ancient Israelites peering up at Moses and his new stone tablets.

These were the trenches of finance, armed soldiers crowded together, each trying to survive in a world where earning low six figures meant cowardice and probably death. Computer terminals twinkled through an onslaught of yellow Post-It notes. The warriors drank coffee and buried framed family photos under a volcanic outpouring of stock analyses and financial statements and corporate reviews. They wore white button-down shirts and Windsor-knotted ties, their suit jackets neatly arrayed on the backs of chairs as though the chairs were a tad chilly or preparing for lunch at Le Cirque.

Win did not sit out here, of course. The generals in this war-the rainmakers, big producers, heavy hitters, what have you-were tented on the perimeter, their offices running along the windows, cutting off from the foot soldiers any hint of blue sky or fresh air or any element endemic to human beings.

Myron headed up a carpeted incline and toward the left corner suite. Win was usually alone in his office. Not today. Myron stuck his head in the door, and a bunch of suitheads swiveled toward him. Lots of suits. Myron couldn't say how many. Might have been six, maybe eight. They were a lumpy blur of gray and blue with streaks of tie-and-hankie red, like the aftermath of a Civil War reenactment. The older ones, distinguished white-haired guys with manicures and cuff links, sat in the burgundy leather chairs closest to Win's desk and nodded a lot. The younger ones were squeezed onto the couches against the wall, heads down, scratching notes on legal pads as though Win were divulging the secret of eternal life. Every once in a while the younger men would peer up at the older men, glimpsing their glorious future, which would basically consist of a more comfortable chair and less note taking.

The legal pads gave it away. These were attorneys. The older men probably over four hundred bucks an hour, the younger ones two-fifty. Myron didn't bother with the math, mostly because it would take too much effort to count how many suits were in the room. Didn't matter. Lock-Horne Securities could afford it. Redistributing wealth-that is, the act of moving money around without creation or production or making anything new-was incredibly profitable.

Myron Bolitar, Marxist Sports Agent.

Win clapped his hands and the men were dismissed. They rose as slowly as possible-attorneys billed by the minute, sort of like 900 sex lines minus the guaranteed, er, payoff-and filed out the office door. The older men departed first, the younger men trailing not unlike Japanese brides.

Myron stepped inside. "What's going on?"

Win signaled for Myron to sit. Then he leaned back and did the steeple thing with his hands. "This situation," he said, "has me troubled."

"You mean Clu's cash withdrawal?"

"In part, yes," Win said. He bounced the fingertips before resting the indexes on his lower lip. "I become very unhappy when I hear the words subpoena and Lock-Home in the same sentence."

"So? You have nothing to hide."

Win smiled thinly. "Your point being?"

"Let them look at your records. You're a lot of things, Win. Honest being chief among them."

Win shook his head. "You are so naive."

"What?"

"My family runs a financial securities firm."

"So?"

"So even the whiff of innuendo can destroy said firm."

"I think you're overreacting," Myron said.

Win arched an eyebrow, put a hand to his ear. "Pardon moi?"

"Come on, Win. There's always some Wall Street scandal or other going on. People barely notice anymore."

"Those are insider trading scandals mostly."

"So?"

Win paused, looked at him. "Are you being purposely obtuse?"

"No."

"Insider trading is a completely different animal."

"How so?"

"Do you really need me to explain this to you?"

"Guess so."

"Fine then. Stripping it bare, insider trading is cheating or stealing. My clients do not care if I cheat or steal-as long it is done for their benefit. In fact, if a certain illegal act were to increase their portfolios, most clients would probably encourage it. But if their financial adviser is playing games with their personal accounts-or equally awful, if his banking institution is merely involved in something that will give the government the right to subpoena records-clients become understandably nervous."

Myron nodded. "I can see where there might be a problem."

Win strummed the top of his