Lamb To The Slaughter

The rising lift stopped on the sixth floor. Everyone got out except Nathan Lamb. He pressed 7 and then noticed that someone’s heel had scuffed the black polish on the toe of his shoe. He stood on one leg and, using his elbow to balance as the lift lurched up, he tried to rub off the scuff mark against the sharp seam on the back of his suit trousers.

As he checked his shoe, the doors opened on the seventh floor. The reception desk opposite was a marble block, with the logo of Bouchier Capital etched into its front. The woman behind the desk was speaking into the boom mic of her headset, her face partly obscured by an extravagant vase of white lilies.

Nathan approached the desk across a rich expanse of softly lit Persian carpet. He stood, waiting while the receptionist continued to talk, with his laptop bag over his shoulder and a cardboard box under the other arm. The receptionist looked up at him and smiled with her glossy red lips. He cleared his throat in preparation for his explanation.

“No!” she said sharply, erasing her smile. She raised her index finger with its perfect acrylic nail. “I’ve already told you no.”

“I’m sorry?” said Nathan, his brow creased.

“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, taking off her headset, and resetting her smile. “Can I help you?”

Nathan nodded. “Uh, yeah, hi. I’m the new guy. Reporting for duty.” He gave her a mock salute and a small smile.

“I’m sorry, who are you, honey?” 

Nathan recoiled. “Nathan Lamb? The new fund manager on global equities?”

The receptionist shook her head.

“I was hired by Frank Bouchier. Last month,” he said. “You weren’t told?”

“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, “Frank’s not in. He’s walking in Spain.”

“Oh, wow,” said Nathan. “My wife and I did that for our honeymoon last year, Camino de Santiago. More spiritual than physical, really.”

The receptionist raised her sharp eyebrows and waited.

“Perhaps there’s someone you can ask about me?”

“I’ll ask on the floor,” the receptionist said. 

She paused in front of a frosted glass door and quickly smoothed her skirt over her hips. She pushed open the door and let it hiss closed behind her. Nathan could dimly see the movement of human forms on the other side. He took off his glasses and cleaned each lens with the tip of his silk tie.

After a minute a dark figure approached and opened the frosted door. The receptionist motioned with her head for Nathan to follow. Through the door a large square room was bright under fluorescent lighting. 

“These are the PMs,” said the receptionist, pointing to a group of men in jeans and t-shirts, seated at an island of desks in the middle of the room. The desks were arranged in two rows of three, with a seventh on the end. At this commanding desk sat a muscular man with a shaved head, staring at his bank of Bloomberg screens. 

“And these,” she did a little twirl with her manicured hand to indicate an outer ring of desks facing inwards, “these are the analysts.” Nobody looked up.

“What did you say your name was again?” the receptionist asked.

“Nathan Lamb,” he said, lifting his voice into the room. “Global equity PM.” 

Someone in the centre island farted loudly, and someone from the perimeter sniggered. 

Nathan looked around the room and noticed that one of the desks in the outer ring was unoccupied.

“I’ll set up here for now,” he said, and placed his cardboard box on the edge of the free desk.

The receptionist leaned close to Nathan, her perfume sweet and heavy. She nodded to a glassed-off meeting room at one end of the floor and said in a low voice, “They call that ‘The Butchery’.” She turned to go and her trailing hand knocked Nathan’s box off the desk. Someone from the island gave a low whistle as the receptionist slid out through the frosted door.

Nathan got down on his knees to gather the spilled contents of his box. He hurriedly put into his trouser pocket a string of black prayer beads that had been given to him by his wife. He reached for an old white paperback but it was picked up by another hand. Nathan looked up hopefully. 

The muscular PM with the shaved head stood over him and slowly read aloud the book’s title: “Red Cavalry And Other Stories.” He tossed the book face down onto the floor, and it landed with a smack. “We don’t have time for fairy tales here.”

“Oh, it’s Isaac Babel,” said Nathan, standing up. “One of the Russian greats.”

“We don’t like communists either,” the muscular PM said over his shoulder. “Right, gang?” 

“Right, Chief!” came the reply from the island.

“Junior!” Chief barked at a pale young man in the desk next to Nathan’s. “Butchery in two,” he said, holding up two fingers. “And you’d better not screw up again.”

The other PMs got up and followed Chief into the meeting room while Junior gathered his laptop and some loose pages.

“You’re presenting?” Nathan asked.

Junior nodded without making eye contact. “BoldFin.”

“Oh, I’ve done some work on that stock,” said Nathan.

Junior brushed past. Nathan watched him through the glass wall as he shakily plugged in his laptop. At the opposite end of the long table sat Chief. One of the PMs kicked the door closed and said something. The others looked out at Nathan and laughed.

Nathan put his hand in his pocket and felt the smooth cool beads. He ignored the surprised faces when he opened the door of the meeting room. There were no untaken seats at the table so he went and stood against the wall behind Chief. The PMs looked at Chief.

“Get on with it, Junior,” said Chief. “You’ve got ten minutes to make your case.”

The young analyst ran through his deck of slides, a series of spreadsheets and charts, until Chief stretched and laced his fingers behind his head. Nathan noticed that Chief wore a wedding ring made of swirly-patterned Damascus steel.

“Time’s up,” said Chief. “Your recommendation?”

“I think it’s a buy, Chief,” said Junior, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “It’s still a buy at these levels.”

Chief looked around the table at each of the PMs. Before anyone could say anything, Nathan walked up to Junior and jabbed him hard in the chest.

“All of that,” said Nathan loudly, pointing at the blank screen where the slides had been projected, “is already in the price. You have no informational edge, no analytical edge, nothing. That’s all completely worthless noise.” A speck of Nathan’s spit landed on Junior’s glasses. “And you’re worthless. Less than worthless, because you cost this firm money. What are you even doing here?”

Nathan stalked back to his desk, sat down heavily and opened his laptop. Blood pounded in his ears as he pretended to read. He sensed someone approaching. He felt a hand tighten on his shoulder and looked up to see Chief.

“I’m taking the gang out for drinks later,” he said. “You can come.”

“Oh, okay,” said Nathan. “Sure.”

“The place is a bit rough,” said Chief, running his hand over his shaved head, the wedding ring glinting under the naked fluorescence, “but they’ve got these great Russian dancers.”

“Okay, great,” said Nathan, touching the beads in his pocket.