Discretion by David Balzarini Page B

my office, consisting of glass walls along the south side; the entry way double doors are glass except for a minimalist gold frame. The SCG logo is etched on both doors. I join a dozen people in the room, taking the seat next to Bob Garafola, my old mentor.
    I turn the leather chair and shake his hand. Short, dark hair compliments his five foot eight inch lanky frame. He wears brown slacks and a starched white shirt with a solid tie like the old Catholic he is—strict on rituals, loose on morals. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney. He looks about fifty, but I can’t remember his age.
    “So Colin, what happened this weekend?”
    “Sorry, Bob, I wanted to be there. I had plans by the time you called.”
    “You missed a fun evening. We were out until around three, I think.” A sinful grin forms on his face.
    “You sound unsure on the time, so you must’ve had a wonderful evening.”
    “Yeah, we had a good time. Daniel is making plans for next weekend. You’re coming, right?”
    “I could be.”
    Bob has been a portfolio manager for ten years and was my mentor when I got promoted to the position. He was an ass when I met him, which made sense. He was trying to quit smoking and having a hard go of it. One of the team members actually lit a cigarette for him in a meeting. She didn’t last long at the company, but did all of us a big favor that day. He and I became friends not long after. As a joke one time, when he got a little more hammered than normal on a Friday night, I suggested an AA meeting. Bob politely said
fuck you
, and didn’t talk to me for a week.
    He wants to change departments and posted for an investment consultant position. Stress is getting to him.
    The performance standards at SCG push every employee, making burnout high and stress a killer. It takes nearly a lifetime of impeccable work to reach the portfolio manager level, and a few years or less to crumble under pressure.
    I lean toward him. “So I hear they have an opening for an IC.”
    A peculiar look forms on Bob’s face. “Who told you?” His words were barely audible.
    “That’s not important. But we have to talk later.”
    “No!” he says, a whisper that is like a scream. “Who told you?”
    “The board told me.” I shrug. “You know it’s public.”
    He sighs. “I didn’t think you’d check…are you looking?”
    I restrain from laughing but it does little good. “Not a chance.”
    The firm has an open-door policy on posting to other positions and movement is encouraged. Most departments have a visitor’s day. The boss insists everyone needs to know how the process works.
    The chatter in the room quiets down; the lights dim and the projector mounted to the ceiling comes to life with a brightly colored background and a 3D Seaton Capital Group logo in the middle.
    “Showtime,” I whisper.
    I spin the chair and drink a soda. Jennifer, my director, gives an update with Anton Ricciardelli from compliance. Then my introduction, followed by standard applause. Bob gives me an attaboy pat on the back. I take my place at the front, facing my peers with years of experience beyond my own.
    I speak on the specifics of three different client accounts, giving detail to the management process, the technical analysis for the specific holdings, but also for the trends, combined with a fundamental outlook and interaction with the client.
    The returns are staggering. From the passing thoughts of those in the room, the presentation is of little help, though encouraging that a teammate is producing this. They simply cannot match the performance I generate day in and day out, which is a fair assessment. Christel is a resource so valuable I cannot explain with mere words—only dollar signs will suffice.
    Most of the PMs are forced to use conservative strategies to limit risk. Because of Christel, I can take more risk, because I know the outcome in advance and no one understands how I have a godlike ability to detect short-term