Rigged by Ben Mezrich Page A

different generations, perhaps more. It was really an impressive gathering of material, and David could only imagine how much it was worth. Not that Giovanni would be selling it anytime soon; it was the kind of collection that a die-hard New Yorker took with him to the grave.
    The more David learned about Giovanni, the more he was in awe of the man and what he’d accomplished. During his recovery from his appendix bomb, David had had a chance to refresh his knowledge of the man he’d come to work for—a sort of “eye on the prize” exercise he’d put himself through to erase the bad taste of Gallo’s prank with the enemas. Seeing this incredible sports collection—and knowing that, as a kid, Giovanni would sneak into Brooklyn Dodgers games because his parents, immigrants from the old country, couldn’t afford to buy him tickets to see his beloved team play—was inspiring. David knew that Giovanni had switched his allegiance to the Yankees around the same time he’d dropped out of high school to start a landscaping company with two cousins who’d been Yankee fans from the start. After he’d rolled his landscaping profits into his first real estate success—a run-down tenement building in Borough Park he revamped and sold back to the city for twice what he’d paid for it—he’d bought season tickets, and his true love affair with the championship team had begun. Now that his family—three sons, two daughters, and six grandchildren between them—had inherited his passion for the team, he’d exchanged the season tickets for a box, which alone was no doubt more expensive than the first home he’d shared with his wife of thirty-one years. Giovanni was a true American success story, and his chairmanship of the Merc was just one more exclamation point on a résumé that spanned half a century.
    Another few minutes went by as David alternately eyed the sports paraphernalia and the Italian pastries; both seemed equally off-limits, the trappings of a world he hadn’t yet earned his way into. He contented himself with watching the seagulls dart and spin by the picture windows, flashes of glorious life in an otherwise characteristically gray sky.
    Finally, Giovanni finished with his call and came around theside of his desk. Instead of sitting across from David, he put a hip against the windowsill, palming the hilt of a Louisville Slugger miniature baseball bat that even from a distance David could see had been signed by none other than Mickey Mantle.
    “Everyone’s talking about your exchange a few minutes ago on the trading floor.”
    David raised his eyebrows. That was fast. Giovanni grinned.
    “This place lives on stories, rumors, and innuendo. Interesting tactic, kid. Dago. Personally, I probably would have decked you. But it was smart thinking. That trading floor is a schoolyard, and you gotta play by schoolyard rules.”
    David blushed, embarrassed that Giovanni knew about his trading badge, but thrilled that the man had complimented the thought behind it. And if Giovanni had heard the story, by now everyone in the building probably had too.
    “Don’t worry about Gallo,” Giovanni continued, reading his mind. “He’s a pathetic dinosaur. It might surprise you to know that we’re about the same age. I know he seems three decades older—because while I’ve been swimming forward for the past fifty years, he’s been treading water in this lucrative swamp of his. He’s made a fortune in this place—and he doesn’t see any reason to let anything change. From dairy to potatoes to heating oil to crude, these guys were tucked away in their insulated little corner of Manhattan, and nobody was watching—they had it all to themselves. Getting to work at nine-thirty and leaving at two. If they didn’t have the NYMEX, they would be shining shoes. Gallo’s got to understand—things are changing, David. Fast. Which is why I hired you in the first place.”
    David watched as Giovanni lifted the little baseball