Gary Grimstead, Great Guy, says: Compliance had no choice, baby, and now the SEC is involved, and they’re seeing something they don’t like. Anything you want to tell me? If you tell me now, if you come clean, it will be better. Trust me, baby.
Gary Grimstead always uses the diminutive “baby”; he fancies himself an incarnation of Vince Vaughn’s character in Swingers. Patrick has never liked being called “baby” by someone who is actually eleven months younger than him and who went to an inferior college and business school and yet is his boss. But Gary Grimstead is one of those magnetic people everyone loves and falls over themselves to please. Gary has never lorded his authority over Patrick; he treats Patrick like an equal. They are friends who golf together and sit together in the corporate suite at Red Sox games, bonded by the fact that they both hate the Sox. Patrick grew up a Yankees fan, and Gary likes the Angels. Patrick knows Gary has Patrick’s best interests at heart, but, even so, it feels dangerous to tell him the truth. Can he say the words out loud?
“The SEC?” Patrick says, his tone conveying the maximum amount of incredulity. “Because of the perks? I can see Compliance giving me a slap on the wrist, telling me I have to be more judicious about who I accept favors from, but it’s an industry-wide pathology, Gary. I mean, I’m hardly the only private-equity guy on the East Coast taking perks.”
“It’s not the perks,” Gary says. “It’s the amount you invested with Panagea. It’s a lot of money, baby. It sent up a red flag. They’re looking into all your shit. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Panagea is a gamble,” Patrick says. “That’s what we do in this business. We gamble.”
“So, here’s the thing. Panagea has had nothing going on for years; I mean, how long has their stock been at twelve dollars? I’ll tell you how long—since October 2006. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you pour twenty-five mil into this company? And you think nobody’s going to notice?”
You didn’t notice, Patrick thinks.
“I’ve been reading their R and D reports for years,” Patrick says. “I’ve always had a feeling about them. You know I always go with my gut.”
“They have a new drug,” Gary says. “MDP. Cures leukemia in kids. That’s no secret.”
Patrick holds his breath. He simply doesn’t know how much to admit to.
“Twenty-five point six million is a hell of a gamble,” Gary says. “If that leukemia drug isn’t FDA approved, you’re sunk. If the drug is approved, it looks like you know something. Do you know something?”
“No,” Patrick says, but his voice gives him away. He sounds too defensive. “So, how was the party? You didn’t do any Irish car bombs without me, did you?”
“Patrick,” Gary says. “This is serious. My ass is on the line, too, baby. Tell me what’s going on.”
Tell him, Patrick thinks. Gary’s ass is on the line. He won’t go to jail, but he might lose his job. Patrick sinks to the kitchen floor and rests his elbows on his knees, one hand grabbing a hank of hair, pulling until it really hurts. What has he done? What should he do?
Deny, deny, deny, he thinks. If he tells the truth, he’s cooked. If he continues to lie, there is still hope. They can’t prove anything.
“Nothing is going on,” Patrick says. “They can look, but I’m clean, man. And, seeing as it’s Christmas Eve, I should go. I’m taking the family to church.”
On the other end, Gary is quiet.
Patrick says, “Man, I’m serious. I’m clean.”
Gary says, “Okay, baby, I hope so. I really do. Merry Christmas.”
Patrick inhales all eight eggs and half the caviar; then he feels queasy. He is now not only a cheat but also a liar. He hurries down the hall to the master bedroom; he’s going to be sick. He stands over the sink and presses his forehead against the bathroom mirror. They won’t catch him; they can’t prove anything. Then he thinks, Of course they’ll catch me. They catch everyone.
The Boston bombers got caught in four days.
Twenty-five point six million. If the drug is approved, this number will hit the stratosphere. Patrick was tripped up by greed. It’s a deadly sin; now he knows why. He sees the bottle of Vicodin—ten pills left. Would ten Vicodin be enough to kill him?
He’s too much of a chicken to kill himself. He loves life, he loves Jen and the kids, he loves this house, the city of Boston, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; he loves America.
He throws some clothes and his Dopp kit in a duffel bag and goes out to the living room. The tree is a sparkling wonder; the entire month of December, people have been gathering on the sidewalk below to point and gaze. And it smells good—rich and piney. It pains Patrick to turn the lights off, but he has no choice.
He is going to Nantucket.