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Basically, I’m doing some bullshit programming. I am essentially a spreadsheet jockey.”
    “That’s it?” Dylan asked.
    “What else can I do? That’s all they’ll give me.”
    “That’s what I was afraid of.”
    Binky had a degree in computer science and had been the expert programmer on the derivates trading desk. Binky’s father ran a hedge fund, which Binky would no doubt take over one day. He was preparing for the future at a firm different from his father’s, easing the transition into the family business. When Dylan had left the firm, they had reduced Binky’s role to that of a computer programmer. Though he was still officially classified as a trading assistant, he had been reassigned to a group of people that supervised trader operations; essentially back office personnel who helped facilitate the operations that occurred on the trading floor. Out of pride, Binky had refused to quit, laboring on despite the drop in status.
    “Look, Bink, there’s a reason I wanted to speak to you. I want you to come and work for me.”
    “Work for you?” Binky asked, as if it were the shock of his life. “As what?”
    “As my trading assistant. You would help me structure the trades and execute them.”
    “After what happened? I don’t know.”
    “Look, I know you got screwed when I left. That’s why I want you to come work for me. You know what I always say, ‘Loyalty is my priority.’ I promise that if you come and work for me, you will be taken care of financially if we make money trading. No corporate politics, no pecking order, no end-of-the-year speeches about the bonus pool. You will be paid based on how much money we generate trading … and on your contribution. I give you my word on that.”
    “That’s what you said last time. So how much could you pay me?”
    “What are you making now?”
    “125K.”
    “About what I figured. Listen, Binky. We’re prepared to go up to around 175.”
    “Without a bonus?”
    “Of course without bonus. Trust me,” Dylan said, “You will do well. Just give me a little time to work on it. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
    Dylan took another hit from his beer. Binky was checking out the women sitting next to him, as he fancied himself a ladies man.
    “You still playing dodgeball?”
    “Oh, yeah. Where else am I going to score so easily?”
    “Always got an eye out, huh?”
    Binky played dodgeball in a league downtown, comprised mostly of sweet young co-eds looking for fun. He was the captain of the team, and his relationship with the ladies extended far beyond the dodgeball court. Binky had slept with at least three of them.
    “I thought,” Dylan said, “that you had gotten serious with Carol.”
    “I had. Then Becky came back to town. Now, I can’t decide.”
    “It must be tough.” Binky laughed.
    “What about you? No permanent woman these days?”
    “Nope, just me and Picasso.” Picasso was a small tuxedo cat that was given to Dylan by a friend.
    “Well, at least you don’t have to decide.”
    “No, that I don’t. But I’ll hear from you soon?”
    “Sure,” Binky said. “Give me a day or two to think about it.”
    “No problem.”
    “Hey,” Binky said, as he raised his glass. “Thanks for the beer.”

Chapter 5
     
    On his first day of work, Dylan arrived at the Corbin Brothers office at precisely 7 a.m. Anxious, he hadn’t slept much the night before. He had gotten up at sunrise and made himself breakfast, and had then gone to the gym to workout. So as not to arrive too early, he had spent an hour killing time at a Starbucks. The wait seemed like an eternity.
    He thought back to the jobs he had had since college. There had only been a few. Dylan took pride in. Thankfully, he had not jumped around from job to job, from employer to employer. Some of his friends were professional quitters; they changed jobs like the seasons, often on a momentary whim. He had viewed each rung as a place of achievement, a place to take one more step up