Page 57 of The Oligarch's Daughter

All the guys seemed to dress alike—chinos, open-collar shirts, leather sneakers. It was a private equity uniform. Galkin and Mr. Frost dressed more formally, but maybe that was a signifier that they were the bosses.

“Seems like not a lot of women work here, is that right?” Paul asked. “I saw only two at the morning meeting.”

“Wasn’t it that way at Aquinnah?” Larsen asked.

“Same,” he admitted.

“So we’re not all that different from other investment firms in that sense,” said Larsen. “Just sexist in the usual way, I guess.” He paused. “But we’re different in other ways. You’ll see. I gotta get back to my desk.” Larsen waved and left.

“What did he mean?” Paul asked Chad.

Chad’s smile faded somewhat. “Wanna grab a drink later? I can give you the lay of the land, if you want?”

“Sounds good,” Paul said. It made sense to meet his colleagues informally outside work if possible. Why not the first day? “Thanks, Chad. I look forward to it.” He plucked a grape from the fruit tray. “Is the food always this good?”

“They don’t stint on meals.”

“The boss man himself warned me I’d gain weight here if I weren’t careful.”

“Who, Frost?”

“Arkady.”

“Galkin did?” Forrester chuckled.

“Yeah, and that from a guy with Dunlap’s disease.” He regretted saying it even as it escaped his mouth—a feeble old joke, referring to a condition in which the victim’s gut “done laps” over his belt, and Arkady had been nothing but welcoming. Whom was he trying to impress here?

Forrester winced, shook his head. “The walls have ears.”

*

There were people like that in every office, Paul decided.The walls have ears . .. Which was another way of saying “Beware, people gossip.”

He spent the afternoon getting up to speed, studying the portfolio, noting what he wanted to trim, what he wanted to add. He began to figure things out. Galkin’s firm had an asset value of around five billion dollars. Of that, about two billion was in U.S.-based stocks. That chunk was his responsibility. He wondered what had happened to the last guy in his job.

Chad stopped by his office at 7:30 p.m., just as Paul was starting to lose steam. “Time to knock off,” he announced. He was wearing a navy quilted vest over his blue button-down shirt and a Yankees cap to conceal his balding pate. He wore trendy, chunky black-framed glasses. His Stan Smiths were pristine.

“Good idea,” Paul told Chad. He texted Tatyana:Home late tonight. Drinks with new colleague.

The two men walked to the elevator, took it down to the lobby. Chad was about Paul’s height, maybe a little thinner. He had a particular bar in mind, a few blocks away. They talked as they walked.

“So you do emerging markets, right?” Paul asked. “What are you working on?”

“I invest in the new chip plant in India, solar power in Brazil, mining deals in Africa. You know. So . . . head of U.S. stocks, huh? Impressive. That a big jump for you?”

“Admittedly, yes,” Paul said.

They had arrived at a grand old bar, which had that iconic old New York look—tin ceiling, beautiful mahogany bar, beveled mirror behind it, old-style urinals in the men’s room dating from 1910.

They settled in at a beat-up-looking table.

“Welcome aboard,” Chad said.

“Great to be here—excited to learn my way around.” Paul clinked Chad’s beer bottle as a toast, took a sip. He noticed Chad’s watch, a Patek Philippe that must have cost tens of thousands of dollars. A lot of Galkin’s senior employees wore expensive watches, he’d observed, but that wasn’t much different from Bernie’s shop.

“What are our colleagues like? Finance bros?”

Chad shook his head. “It’s not bro-y at all. You’re working with smart people, quants, mental athletes. If you don’t put up numbers, you’re out. Up or out.”

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