All the Things You Are by Declan Hughes Page B

They catch you cold in the street, you’re out of your mind on
drugs
,
you’re partying with teenage
girls
, you’ve bought your stripper girlfriend a
condo
…’
    Glatt nods and does the philosophical shrug again, an ‘all the same to me’ look in his eyes.
    â€˜No contest. Am I going to deny I turned into four-fifths of an asshole there? Lead us not into temptation, you know what I mean? They didn’t make that prayer up for no reason. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life likely as not incarcerated, and my wife and daughters are never going to speak to me again. And as I am a man, let me be a man, and live with what I have done as a man. But what I want to say to you (because you might find it a help) is this: Jonathan Glatt was not a fantasy. Jonathan Glatt was not Bernie Madoff, my friend. The funds my investors placed in my trust were in turn invested, widely and wisely. Just, a) when returns weren’t as eye-catching, or as brisk, as you wanted (I don’t mean you personally, I mean The Public At Large), we proceeded to b) bolster the yields with a little help from the new accounts. Which is strictly speaking not permitted. But hey, it’s what everybody wants, am I wrong? These days, everyone wants to think he’s the smart guy with the edge on everyone else. Everyone has an entitlement complex. Everyone wants more than he deserves, believes he deserves more than he does. No one wants to wait in line. And as long as new clients kept arriving, and the old clients were happy with their dividends, as long as we kept all the chairs in the game, nobody lost. As long as we didn’t stop the music, everyone was dancing. You wanna know something, Mr Brogan? And I concede, I took my eye off the ball there, what with the drugs, and the girls, and so forth, Jonathan Glatt is human, all too human, and he only has himself to blame, but, and I believe this: if everyone had kept their heads, and not called their money in, hey, we’d all be dancing still.’
    Danny can’t take any more: his head slumps and he holds his hands up above it, palms out, imploring Glatt to halt.
    â€˜This is not why I’m here in any case,’ Danny says. ‘I mean, not that I don’t think you’re a delusional fuck who will never get what he deserves, which is probably, I don’t know, death by public burning or some such, maybe that medieval thing where they disembowel you but you’re still alive—’
    â€˜Hung, drawn and quartered. I saw that on the History Channel. Or was it BBC World? First they—’
    â€˜Shut the fuck up and listen,’ Danny says. ‘I am not a member of your general public. I used to put my savings, when I had any, in the bank. You were recommended to me by an old schoolfriend of mine, name of Gene Peterson. An old friend I believed I could trust. Do you remember him? Gene Peterson? We met you for dinner.’
    Glatt makes a thinking face, like a politician on TV pretending to consider a question, then he goes in his notebook.
    â€˜Gene Peterson, Gene Peterson. Yes. Gene Peterson. He brought a few investors my way, not just you.’
    â€˜All right. Well listen up, Mr Glatt. I’m not here to remonstrate with you or to ask you why you stole my money. I’m not even here to abuse you, although obviously the temptation is great. And I certainly don’t want to hear your justifications and rationalisations, your, uh, “philosophy of life”, such as it is. All I want you to answer, a couple questions about Gene Peterson. First, give me the names of the other investors he brought to you.’
    â€˜I don’t think that would be …’
    Glatt tails off, and makes a vague gesture with one hand.
    Danny laughs.
    â€˜I’m sorry. What was that? Ethical? “I don’t think that would be ethical”, is that what you were reaching for there? You’re a riot, do you know that, a