Black Box, Chapter One

Part I – Close Your Eyes

Wall Street, 1989

“That’s a nice coat,” Susannah said.

They were alone in the elevator, the girl and the man. She spoke first, to put him at ease, because he was the new manager of the new London branch, visiting the New York home office for the first time. Her remark came out surprised, because along with the coat she noticed the Italian suit with the flowing trousers and the rust suede wing tip shoes. No one dressed like that in her office, not here on Wall Street, not then, in 1989.

His open face -- early thirties, she guessed -- arresting not for any single striking feature but the cheerful coordination of the whole: square jaw, short nose, dark blond hair and slightly sallow skin creasing at the corners of light brown eyes, set wide apart as a pit bull’s.

The man -- whose name was Gavin -- had been smiling, and at her compliment his smile grew more broad, and seemed to say, How funny that you should try to put me at ease. Or, Of course I have a nice coat, what else would you expect?

What he did say was, “Wanna buy it?” in a fake film-noir American accent, rustling the creme colored silk lapel. No wedding ring. He leaned against the wall, daring a response.

Later, she came up with several. “How much?” She could have archly asked. Whatever sum he named, she would reply, “Too much. You couldn’t feed a bird on what I make.” This would open the way for a subversive conversation about the office. But as P.R. girl, the official cheerleader and white-washer, she was the last person to foster mutinous gossip.

Or, she might have said, “I wouldn’t buy it, but I might steal it. How much would you pay to get it back?”