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The Darlings
A Novel
A Bonfire of the Vanities for our times, by an author who "knows her way around 21st-century wealth and power" (The Wall Street Journal) Since he married Merrill Darling, daughter of billionaire financier Carter Darling, attorney Paul Ross has grown accustomed to all the luxuries of Park Avenue. But a tragic event is about to catapult the Darling family into the middle of a massive financial investigation and a red-hot scandal. Suddenly, Paul must decide where his loyalties really lie. Debut novelist Cristina Alger is a former analyst at Goldman Sachs, an attorney, and the daughter of a Wall Street financier. Drawing on her unique insider's perspective, Alger gives us an irresistible glimpse into the highest echelons of New York society—and a fast-paced thriller of epic proportions that powerfully echoes Claire Messud's The Emperor's Children and reads like a fictional Too Big to Fail. This is it, he thought, as he clicked on his left blinker. The end of the road. The sign for the bridge had snuck up on him. He had done this drive before, but not at 2 a.m., and he had never been much of a night driver. There had been a little traffic leaving the city, but now there was almost none. Every time a car passed him on the left he wondered who the driver was and why they were on the road this late. He wondered if they were thinking the same about him. More than one driver had turned to look at him as he passed by. Checking out the car, he thought. He probably shouldn't have brought the Aston Martin. Even in the dark it was a real showstopper. Of all his cars, it was his favorite. It was a near-perfect replica of the one driven by James Bond in Goldfinger and Thunderball. The original had sold at auction two years before for over $2 million; he would have bought it in a heartbeat if he had had the opportunity. But this was the next best thing: perfectly restored and refinished in classic silver; even to a professional's eye, it was almost indistinguishable from the genuine article. As he merged toward the bridge turnoff, a white Kia pulled up alongside him. For a moment, he locked eyes with the driver. The guy gave him an approving smile, a thumbs-up. Usually he got a little rush from impressing guys like that: some accountant from Westchester who probably made less in a year than he could in a day. This time it sent his heart racing, and not in a good way. It was a miscalculation. This wasn't the time to be attracting attention. He hated miscalculations. There had been a lot recently, which was, of course, how he had ended up parked at the base of the Tappan Zee Bridge at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday. Not exactly Plan A. His mind whirred as he parked the car and switched off the headlights. The engine fell silent and all he could hear was the white noise of cars crossing the bridge and the rush of his own blood roaring in his ears. He sat still for a minute, and stared blindly at the bridge. It looked different than it had last week. In the daylight, it looked like a steel cage suspended over the river, more like a carnival ride, a roller coaster with two peaks. The top beams were lit up and the reflection danced across the black water below. It was beautiful. This was harder than he had thought it would be. Maybe impossibly hard. He knew he had to stop thinking and just move, but his heart was pumping so hard that he felt faint, almost as if he were having an epileptic seizure. He reached for the bottle of Dilantin that he kept in the glove compartment. He had bottles stashed in every car, just in case. His hands shook as he twisted off the cap and the bottle slipped out of his hands. He scooped up the pills from the passenger seat—there were only two left—and put them in his pocket. You know this bridge, he told himself. It's three miles long and seven lanes wide. And there are four phones, two on each side. The storm was churning up the river. He couldn't see it in the dark, but he imagined it now, the cold, tufted rush of black water slipping endlessly beneath the belly of the bridge. Already there were sustained winds of up to 40 mph with gusts of up to 60 mph, so the current was moving faster than normal. If someone were to jump, his body would be pulled down and under into the river, swallowed whole. They might not even find the body; just a heart-deadening splash, and gone. In the past ten years, there have been more than twenty-five suicides from this bridge. They put in the phones to connect callers to a suicide prevention hotline. The weather is optimal. This has to be done now. Running through statistics and scenarios, especially the outside or unlikely ones, the ones that others might discount to zero, usually calmed him. His breath slowed a little, enough so that he could get out of the car. His shoe hit a patch of loose dirt, causing him to slip slightly. He stopped and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. He couldn't see the phone in the darkness, but he knew it was there. Just yards away. For the millionth time, he reminded himself that this wasn't just the best exit strategy; it was the only exit strategy. He had done the math, run the numbers, analyzed the risk. This was it: the only way out. Paul slipped in through the side door just as the applause was ending. He stood at the edge of the ballroom until the clapping faded and the music started up again. His wife, Merrill, was up front near the stage. She looked on as a photographer snapped pictures of her mother, Ines, the gala's chairperson. Around him, partygoers wafted from table to table; a giant amoebic mass, shimmering in the incandescent light of a thousand cocktail glasses and candles. As Paul wended his way toward his wife, he caught a couple of cold stares tossed in his direction. His hand shot reflexively to the knot of his tie, straightening it. It was one of his favorite ties; part of what Merrill called the "first-string rotation" in his closet. He felt good in it, usually. Tonight, amid the sea of tuxedos, it felt woefully inadequate. He kept his eyes trained on his wife and tried, without luck, to recall the name of Ines's charity. The live auction, it seemed, was over. This was a slight disappointment; he had been told it would be a spectacle. This was his mother-in-law's first year as chairperson, and she wasn't one to be outdone. For months, she had run around soliciting the most extraordinary auction items she could think of: a weekend at Richard Branson's house on Necker Island; private piano lessons with Billy Joel; a baseball signed by Babe Ruth. While Paul couldn't imagine someone throwing down six figures at a charity auction in the middle of a recession, Ines seemed unfailingly confident that she would raise more money this year than ever before. Bullheaded confidence was part of Ines's charm. She hired a Sotheby's auctioneer, ordered oblong bidding paddles with the name of the charity stenciled on the back in gold, and called in favors to get as much press buzz going as possible. She wheedled her way into the pages of some social magazine or other, posing with a handful of other women who also listed their occupation as "philanthropist." From the looks of the stage, Ines had been right. Posters of the auction items had been set up on easels behind the podium. Each one now bore a bright red Sold sticker, the kind that got put on car windshields at the dealership. On the last easel, the auctioneer was using a thick marker to ink a staggering "Total Dollars Raised" figure on a large placard. Ten yards short of Merrill, a hand reached out of the crowd and snagged him by the shoulder. "Bro!" Adrian appeared before him. "I was wondering if you were going to show." Adrian's cheeks were flushed and a mist of sweat had appeared at his hairline, from dancing or drinking, or both. His bow tie, a polka-dot number that matched his cummerbund, hung undone around his neck. Adrian was married to Merrill's sister, Lily. Even though he and Paul were the same age, it was hard for Paul to see Adrian as anything other than a younger brother. Paul went to shake his hand, but Adrian held up two bottles of beer instead. "Want one?" he said, offering it up. Paul suppressed an eye roll. "Thanks. I'm all right. Just came straight from work." "Yeah, me, too," Adrian nodded thoughtfully and took a swig of beer. This seemed highly unlikely to Paul. Adrian was in a tuxedo, for one thing, with those velvet slippers he loved to wear to formal occasions. Also, he was suspiciously tan. Now that he thought about it, Paul hadn't seen Adrian in the office since last Thursday. "I mean, not the actual office," Adrian added quickly. "I was down in Miami with clients for the weekend. Had to run here from the airport." "Looks like you got some sun." "Weather was killer down there. Got in nine holes of golf this morning." With a big grin, Adrian drained the beer. "Mother's milk," he said, with an approving nod. "You sure you don't want this one?" Paul shook his head. "Glad you had fun," he said, turning away. It was, he recognized, Adrian's job to entertain. But the market had been bouncing all over the place, and the call volume from clients was up nearly five times, and Paul's patience for anyone at the firm who wasn't working at least eighty hours a week was limited. As he glanced over Adrian's shoulder, Paul saw Merrill slipping farther into the crowd. "Hey," he said, "I've gotta go find Merrill. I'm already late as it is." "Yeah, yeah, go do that. She was asking where you were. You coming to the after-party?" "I don't think I can swing that. I'm pretty shot. It's late." Adrian shrugged. "East Hampton tomorrow? Lily and I are going to leave around lunchtime to beat the traffic." "Doubtful. Work, and all that. We're planning to drive out Thursday morning." "Cool. Gotta be there by 12:30 p.m., though, to see the kickoff . Darling family tradition." "Who are they playing this year?" "Tennessee. Looks tough. Okay, Bro. We'll look for you before we hit the after-party." Adrian threw Paul a "you-da-man" nod and dropped the empty bottle on a passing waiter's tray. "Right. Later, then." Paul watched Adrian roll off like a tumbleweed, hands in his pockets with signature nonchalance. He joined his brothers at the bar. All four were tall and thin as matchsticks, with thick heads of charcoal-black hair. The oldest, Henry, was telling a story while Griff and Fitz, the twins, laughed riotously. From all sides, women instinctively slowed as they passed by them, like stars getting sucked into a black hole. The Pattersons were so handsome that each had his own magnetic pull; together, they became the universe's gravitational center. When Adrian pulled up, Henry tossed his arm casually about his shoulder. Perfect white teeth flashed as they greeted each other. Adrian wasn't as stuffy as Henry, and he wasn't as frivolous as Griff or Fitz. He was actually a reasonably nice guy, the kind of guy that Paul liked in spite of himself. As Adrian laughed with his brothers, Paul wondered briefly if there was any way he could find Adrian's total indifference to stress inspirational instead of infuriating. He was trying to be more understanding with Adrian now that they worked together, though market conditions were making that tough. A light touch on his arm stirred him from this consideration. "There you are!" Merrill said. She was flanked by Lily; both were dressed in blue. Or perhaps it was Merrill who flanked Lily: Lily bloomed at these sorts of social events, unfurling her petals like a flower in a hothouse. Her cornstalk blond hair had been spun into a complex series of braids, not unlike that of the dressage horses she still rode on summer weekends. From her ears dangled two teardrop diamonds, each stone larger than her engagement ring. Her father had given them to her, Paul knew, on the occasion of her wedding. Merrill looked quietly beautiful—the simplicity of her dress brought out the blueness of her eyes, the tone of her shoulders—and though she was smiling, her face was taut with frustration. Paul sensed that he was about to be reprimanded. He leaned in, kissing both sisters on the cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late," he said preemptively. "And I know I'm supposed to be in black tie. I came straight from the office. You both look great, as always." "You're here now," Merrill conceded. "You missed Mom's speech, though," Lily protested. She blinked her big eyes impetuously at him. "I know. I'm sorry. How was the party?" "Great," Lily said absently. He had already lost her attention. Her eyes scanned the room just beyond his shoulder. "Are you guys coming to the after-party? Looks like things are winding down." "Of course," Merrill said. "Doubtful," Paul said, in tandem. They stared at each other, and Lily let out an awkward laugh. "I'll leave you guys to discuss," she said. "I think you should come, though. It'll be fun. Even Mom and Dad are stopping by." Lily turned and flounced off, the bustle of her dress trailing behind her. The dress was cut low in the back, and Paul noticed how uncomfortably thin she was. He could see the articulation of all her vertebrae, and small hollows beneath the blades of her shoulders. Lily was forever dieting. She had an evolving list of foods to which she claimed to be allergic. Sometimes Paul wondered if she had cut out food entirely. "We have to go to the after-party," Merrill said once Lily was out of earshot. Her voice was strained. "Tonight's important to my parents." Paul pulled in a deep breath and let his eyes flicker shut for a half second. "I know," he said. "But I've got to weigh that against sheer exhaustion. I've been working around the clock. Which is important to your dad, too, by the way." "There are things he values other than work." Paul ignored the snappishness in her voice. "Look, I'm doing the best I can. I'm just exhausted. I'd love to go home and just fall asleep with you." The crease in Merrill's forehead relaxed. "I'm sorry," she said, and shook her head. She reached up and wrapped her arms tenderly around the back of his neck. Paul pressed his nose against her golden brown hair; he could feel the slope of her skull beneath, and she smelled warm, like maple syrup. When she pulled back, she kept her hands resting on his shoulders. He slipped his grasp to the small of her back and held on to her, admiring her at an arm's length. "I really do understand," she said, and sighed. "Work's been crazy for me, too. I barely had time to change. I look terrible. I didn't even do my hair." "You look stunning, actually. Great dress." Her eyes lit up. "You're sweet." Her round cheeks flushed, the color of peonies. She smoothed her dress at the hip. "You should see my mother's. She's literally been talking about it for months. She had it made by some Latin designer." They both looked over at Ines. She was basking in the attention of Duncan Sander, the editor of Press magazine. Duncan's hands fl uttered like birds' wings as he spoke, and Ines was laughing grandly. It was the kind of image that would end up in the Styles section of the Sunday Times. Press had run a two-page spread on the Darlings' home in East Hampton the previous summer, called "The Darlings of New York." Ines loved to reference "the article" in casual conversation, and she spoke of Duncan Sander as though they were old friends. In truth, it wasn't really an article, but more of a blurb attached to a glossy photograph of Ines and Lily, inexplicably attired in white cocktail dresses, frolicking on the front lawn with Bacall, the family Weimaraner. To Paul's knowledge, Ines never saw Duncan except at events like this. Tonight, Ines's dress was long and emerald green, festooned with a ruffle that looked as though a python were in the process of consuming her whole. "I really do appreciate you being here," Merrill said, staring cynically at her mother. "Of course. It's a great cause. Dogs? Cancer? Dogs with cancer? Remind me." "Tonight's New Yorkers for Animals. Jesus, Paul. Pay attention." "I'm for them, myself. The groups against animals just seem so heartless." Merrill burst out laughing. "They auctioned off a rescue dog," she said. "For eight thousand dollars." She stared at him, allowing him to absorb that information. "That's possibly the most absurd thing I've ever heard." "I think it's nice!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide in mock seriousness. "It's for charity. The poor thing was so sweet. It's a retriever or something, not a pit bull. They actually had him out on stage, wearing a little bowtie." "Mmmm. One of those rescue retrievers." Unable to help herself, she laughed again. "It's for charity," she sighed. "Anyway. The bowtie was from Bacall." Bacall was Lily's year- old line of dog accessories and clothing. It was her sartorial nod to her family, a first and only attempt at gainful employment. Merrill was convinced that the enterprise was costing their father nearly twice what it was earning, though to Lily's credit, it appeared to be staying afloat, despite the market crash. In the background, the band had started playing their last reprieve before the clock struck the witching hour. The band leader swayed around the mic, summoning his best Sinatra baritone. Paul couldn't think of a black-tie event in Manhattan that didn't end with "New York, New York." It had been the last song at their wedding. Now, they stood together on the edge of the dance floor, watching as the last few dancing couples slid by with varying degrees of grace. "Want to dance?" Paul asked, though he was a bit too tired for it. What he really wanted was a drink. "God, no. I think what we need is a drink," Merrill said. She slipped her hand into his, leading him in the direction of the nearest bar. The bar was stacked three deep and the bartender was topping off last- call orders. As Paul and Merrill waited their turn, Merrill's father appeared behind them. "What's going on over here?" Carter asked good naturedly, clapping them both on the back. He was tall enough that he easily captured them both in his wingspan. "Paul, who let you out of the office?" "You're working him too hard, Dad," Merrill said. "Yes, well. It's been an interesting two months, hasn't it, Paul? Opportune time to come over to the investment side." Carter laughed lightly. Though he was, as always, perfectly groomed, behind his glasses his eyes were small and seemed rimmed with fatigue. His hair was thinner, too; a little more white than silver these days. He wore it well, but for those who knew him, the change was perceptible. The market collapse had come at a bad time for Carter. Word around the office was that he would've retired at the end of the year if the markets had stayed on course. Now he was working more of a junior analyst's schedule than a CEO's, seven days a week, sometimes sixteen hours at a stretch. "Lily and Adrian look as though they're leaving," Merrill said, looking over Paul's shoulder. "I'm going to go tell them we may not make it to the after-party. Don't talk shop while I'm away." She flashed them a sweet smile and then was gone. Father and son-in-law stood together in comfortable, familiar awkwardness. "This is a nice event," Paul offered as they surveyed the landscape. "Isn't it?" Carter nodded vigorously. He seemed grateful for the introduction of a topic. Paul found that casual conversation with Carter often felt like a high-wire act, and it was even more difficult now that they worked together. To discuss work felt overserious, anything outside of work, frivolous. He sensed that Carter felt similarly unsure of how to navigate their new dynamic. "Ines put a lot of effort into this," Carter volunteered. "It was hard to get people to open their wallets this year. They lost all the corporate tables, too—Lehman always used to take one and AIG and, of course, Howary. It's amazing to think that all those firms are actually gone now." Paul nodded. He remembered seeing his old boss, Mack Howary, at this same event the previous year. He had been holding court at the Howary LLP table, entertaining a few clients and their wives. Mack was grotesquely fat and very loud for a lawyer, and his ego was still soaring from a recent write-up in Barron's that had crowned him as one of "the Street's most influential power players." Mack had waved Paul over and introduced him ("One of our rising stars," he had said to the table), but only after he saw Paul standing with Carter Darling and Morty Reis, the founder of Reis Capital Management. Paul wondered where Mack was tonight. He had heard rumors that he was under house arrest at his estate out in Rye, a piece of property so enormous that it didn't really seem like much of a restriction. Howary LLP had gone under only ten weeks before, fewer than two months after Mack had been indicted for six forms of tax and securities fraud. It had been a swift fall from grace. For more than a decade, Howary LLP had been the golden child of Wall Street law firms. Mack, the firm's founding partner, was one of the few attorneys who enjoyed almost mythical status among young associates and law students. Paul had seen him pack a lecture hall at NYU, students sitting on stairwells just to hear him speak about structured transactions. When Paul had interviewed as a second year law student, associate positions at Howary were by far the most coveted. Howary had always been an unorthodox sort of place. With only 150 attorneys on staff, it was a small shop, but it punched way above its weight. The firm specialized in corporate tax and capital markets transactions, advising clients on derivatives and structured products offerings, cross- border equity deals, privatizations of public companies. It was a sophisticated, highly lucrative practice, and Howary was the best in the game. Unfortunately, it turned out that Mack was really more of a corporate tax evasion specialist than anything else. The authorities had been watching him for years, waiting for him to make a mistake. When one of his largest clients admitted to laundering close to a billion dollars of Colombian cartel money through a bank in Montserrat, the end was swift and merciless. Within days, the IRS, the Department of Justice, and the New York State Attorney General's office were picking through everyone's desks like vultures, subpoenaing files, desktops, expense reports, e-mails, anything that wasn't nailed to the floor. Client work stopped entirely. Assisting the Feds became a twenty-four-hour seven-days-a-week job. Paul slept nights on a couch in his office, going home only to shower and kiss his sleeping wife. Though the end terrified him, he was grateful when it finally arrived. It had been like manning the deck of a sinking ship. When Howary LLP folded, it got less press than it might have in normal market conditions. But it was the fall of 2008. Next to Freddy, Fanny, Lehman, AIG, Merrill Lynch, the loss of a 150-person law firm was a paper cut on a carcass. Still, the shot of Mack in cuffs outside his Park Avenue pied-à-terre graced the cover of every newspaper on the newsstands. The other partners simply disappeared to houses in Connecticut or Florida or the Caribbean, where they hunkered down and waited for the storm to pass. Some took other jobs, but most didn't; no one wanted to hire a Howary partner. The Howary name reeked of illegitimacy. It was the stuff of cocktail party chatter, another Bear Stearns or Dreier. The associates were unceremoniously dismissed via e-mail. Not knowing what else to do, Paul had gotten drunk and gone to the movies. He still dreamed about it sometimes, waking up in a cold sweat. The first night he was unemployed, Paul couldn't sleep. Merrill was cradled tightly in the crook of his arm, and as her breath rose and fell against his skin, he ran the numbers in his head, over and over, until light crept across the ceiling. He had been well paid at Howary. Extremely well paid in fact, but the problem was that they lived well, too. He could sustain their lifestyle for six months. That wasn't long; he could see the sand running through the hourglass. After that, he would have to cut back substantially, draw from Merrill's trust fund, or he would have to find a job. The former two options made him sick with worry. The latter would prove nearly impossible. The Street was crawling with the unemployed. None of the big law firms would touch a Howary associate with a ten-foot pole. Seven years of practice had positioned him decently well for an in-house job at a hedge fund, but the vast majority of those funds had either blown up or battened down the hatches. It was a bleak situation. A few days after the pictures of a handcuffed and angry Mack became tabloid fodder, Paul got a call from Eduardo Galleti, an old classmate from Harvard Law. Eduardo had been a JD/MBA at Harvard, and was one of the smartest people Paul had ever met. They studied for finance classes together and quickly became drinking buddies. When Eduardo found out that Paul was interested in Merrill, he offered to teach him Portuguese. "Latin women, they want to know they can bring you home to Mom," he said one night over beers. "To get in good with a Brazilian mom, you've got to speak her language." By the end of law school, Paul spoke Portuguese with reasonable facility, though he wasn't sure if this, or anything he did, would ever impress Ines. Though Eduardo had been a groomsman in Paul and Merrill's wedding, they had lost touch during the intervening years, both bogged down by family obligations and grueling work schedules. They e-mailed from time to time. Paul had heard that Eduardo had recently taken a senior position at Trion Capital, a private equity firm in the city that invested heavily in Latin America. The firm was doing well, one of the few that was actually expanding. Though he wasn't feeling particularly sociable, Paul took the call. "Hey, man," Eduardo said when Paul answered. "Glad you picked up. Figured your life is pretty crazy right now." "That's one way to put it. Good to hear from you, sir." "Listen, I heard about Howary. I don't know what you're thinking in terms of next steps, but I've got an out-of-the-box proposal for you. We're building up Trion's office down in São Paulo. I'm moving down there myself next month and taking a small team with me. We could use an attorney who understands international tax and has an accounting background, and it's gotta be someone who speaks Portuguese. Not perfect, but you know, passable. Merrill's fluent, isn't she? Anyway, if you're interested, come on down to the office." Eduardo's voice always had an infectious clip to it; fast and enthusiastic, as if not a minute could be wasted. Paul's heart rate quickened as he considered the possibility of escaping New York altogether. He had always wanted the chance to live abroad, and this job sounded like a dream opportunity. São Paulo! The thought exhilarated him. It took him only a moment to dismiss the idea. Eduardo was right—Merril was fluent—but still, she would never go for it. He didn't even want to ask her. New York wasn't just a city to Merrill, it was a part of her being. Though he told Eduardo that he would sleep on it, Paul's mind was made up by the time he hung up the phone. "I got a call from Eduardo today," he said to Merrill casually that evening, as they were getting ready for bed. "How is he?" Merrill replied. She pulled back the duvet and crawled in. "Oh, my God. Bed feels great. I'm beat." She closed her eyes, her face peaceful. "Seems like he's doing really well. He's at Trion Capital. Actually, he sort of offered me a job with them, but in the São Paulo office. He's moving there next month." Merrill opened her eyes. "Oh?" she said. She sat up. "What did you say?" "I said thank you, and I'd think about it. Didn't want to be rude. I was going to call him tomorrow and say that, you know, we love New York and have no intention of moving." "Oh," she said, and nodded thoughtfully. After a minute she slid back down and closed her eyes again. "Listen, did you still want to talk to Dad?" She sounded sleepy. "He's serious about the general counsel position, you know. He's gonna hire someone soon anyway, and I know he thinks you'd be great." She had floated this option by him a few days before. He had hedged, saying he wanted a few days to think about it. In another market, he wouldn't have considered it. Paul firmly believed, or he had up until then, that the only way to be a part of a family as powerful as the Darlings was never to take anything from them. Otherwise, they owned you. Of course Adrian had worked for Delphic for years. Paul imagined that Adrian didn't have a wealth of offers at other hedge funds in New York, but Carter graciously employed him as a salesman, putting him in front of clients at dinners or on the golf course where Adrian fit in best. It was a quiet yet obvious arrangement: Carter provided for Adrian, Adrian provided for Lily. It wasn't the kind of arrangement that sat well with Paul. But with São Paulo and unemployment as his other two options, working for Carter seemed like the obvious solution. "Really generous of him," Paul said. " I'd like to. Very much. You sure this is okay?" Merrill reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Absolutely," she said. "I think it's a perfect fit." There was no Howary table at the New Yorkers for Animals benefit that year; no Lehman table, no Merrill Lynch table, no AIG table. Still, it seemed as though most of Manhattan was present. Paul had to hand it to Ines: She knew how to get things done. "There's practically no floral budget," Ines declared when she had been named committee chairwoman. "We'll have to get creative. Opulence is out, anyway." She wasn't lamenting; Ines simply stated unpleasant facts with a sort of stoic fortitude. She was right, of course; no one wanted to see orchids at a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate charity event, not with the Dow hovering around 8,400. Instead, the tables had been sprinkled with tiny silver stars, which were turning up everywhere, stuck to lapels and elbows. Yet it looked festive somehow, not cheap. The food, too, was spar-tan but passable: chicken Marsala and some kind of wilted root vegetable. But then, no one really ate the food. As he looked around the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, Paul wondered how many of the guests had also been laid off. Everyone appeared confident and relaxed, seemingly unaffected by the financial maelstrom. They laughed as they always had, exchanging stories about their children, swapping plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. The mood was slightly more somber than it had been the previous year, but not by much. The women had turned out in couture. Maybe it was last season, but Paul couldn't tell the difference. Necks still dripped with jewelry, the kind that spent the rest of the year locked away in a safe. Town cars and chauffeured Escalades idled their engines out front. Of course, it was all an illusion. It had to be. This was a finance-heavy crowd in a finance- heavy town. There wasn't a single person in this room—not a one—who could claim they weren't worried. They all were, but they were dancing and drinking the night away as they always had. They had to know the end was coming; it was probably already here. It was like the final peaceful moments at the Alamo. "There's Bloomberg," Carter said to Paul, tipping his glass in the mayor's direction. "Did you see him? Bill Robertson was here, too, but he left before the dinner started. Everyone's talking about how he'll run for governor in the fall." "I'm sure there will be some folks here glad to see him gone as attorney general," Paul said drily. Over the past few years, Bill Robertson had become an increasingly controversial figure in New York politics. Though his own father and brother had made fortunes in finance, Robertson had garnered a reputation as the so-called Watchdog of Wall Street. He had tripled the resources of his white-collar crime division, and had successfully prosecuted several high-profile financiers for various securities- based scandals, everything from insider trading to market timing to tax fraud. He had made enemies along the way. Wall Streeters saw him as a turncoat. Attorneys and politicians christened him a power-hungry megalomaniac. He was routinely flogged in the press for his antics in court (his rodentlike features lent themselves particularly well to caricature), which some saw as nothing more than grandstanding and obvious campaigning. And still, his power grew. When Robertson was in the room, everyone, even men like Carter Darling, took notice. Mayor Bloomberg was standing twenty feet away, slightly apart from a cluster of very serious-looking men. Leaning in on his left was a woman in a strapless black evening gown. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she was nodding at whatever he was saying, her arms crossed at her chest. She had a razor-sharp jawline and cheekbones, all angles assembled in the most striking way. Unlike most of the women at the party, this woman wore no jewelry and almost no makeup except for a sweep of crimson lipstick. Still, she was drawing attention. To her left, a few young men in tuxedos chatted among themselves. They seemed to be on call; every few seconds, their heads would rise slightly as if to check on the mayor and the woman with the red lipstick. Paul wondered if they were her staff or his. "Who's the woman he's talking to?" Paul asked. Though she was well out of earshot, she looked up like a deer, sensing that she was being watched. For a brief second she locked eyes with Carter. To Paul's surprise she nodded at him in acknowledgment before turning back to her conversation. "Oh, you know her?" "That's Jane Hewitt." Carter said, sounding grim. "She runs the New York office of the SEC. We've met through Harvard College fund-raising." "Ah. More adversary than friend?" Carter let out a dry chuckle. "A little of both, I suppose. There was an article in today's paper saying she's on the short list to be the next commissioner. That's why everyone seems to be staring at her." Carter himself was staring. Paul shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the SEC and turned to find a surface on which to place his empty glass. "Speaking of the SEC," Paul said, clearing his throat, "That lawyer keeps calling around. David Levin. I've pushed back, but he's . . . well, he's persistent." Carter grunted. He signaled a passing waiter with two fingers. "Probably some low- level staff attorney trying to impress his boss. What's he after now?" "I'm not entirely sure. He's been asking questions about some of our outside managers. RCM, mostly. Just the stuff I mentioned to you last week." "Well, call him back, but don't give him anything you don't need to." Carter handed the waiter his glass. "Another round," he said. The waiter seemed to know what he meant. Paul was certain it was his customary ginger ale out of a wineglass. Though he hardly ever drank alcohol, Carter liked to give the impression he was having fun. "Tell him we're running a business here," Carter said gruffly. If they want more stuff from us, they need a subpoena. Period. We don't have the time to pansy around sending them shit." Paul began to say something, but thought better of it. "Sure," he said instead. "I'll take care of it." Carter nodded, which meant the conversation was over. From across the room, Merrill waved. She was listening to Lily, who was midstory. When Lily finished gesticulating animatedly, Merrill clapped her hands and beamed at her sister with a smile that was equal parts encouragement, indulgence, amusement. Paul had seen that scene countless times before. Though Lily was more classically assembled, Paul found Merrill's innate, unstudied gracefulness endlessly appealing. There were moments when it took the wind out of him, how unfathomably lucky he was to be her husband. "She looks beautiful, doesn't she?" Carter said, his voice tender with pride. "All my girls do tonight." "I'm a lucky man, sir." "We both are. It's been a tough fall, but we have plenty to be thankful for in our family." "Indeed. I know I do." Carter patted Paul on the shoulder, acknowledging Paul's gratitude. He had told Paul to stop thanking him for the job, but Paul continued to do so, in quiet ways. The band had stopped playing, and the crowd had begun to trickle out in groups of two and four. Carter pointed toward Ines and Merrill and said, "Should we get the girls to the after-party?" Paul hesitated. "I think we may head home," he said finally. "It's my fault; I'm a little tired tonight. Will you be in tomorrow?" "Ines wants me to go out to East Hampton with her and get the house ready. I'll be on my cell, if you need me, or call me at the house. Ines gets testy when I take too many work calls on what she considers to be 'family time.' I've been doing a lot of that lately, so I'm a bit in the doghouse." "Understood. I'm sure nothing will come up that I can't handle." "Good man. You're coming out Thursday morning?" "Yes, sir." The men shook hands. "All right, son. Be there in time for the game. The Lions need all the fans they can get this year. Tennessee's going to give us a run for our money. I'm counting on you." Paul stood outside the Waldorf for a few minutes before Merrill emerged. He watched as she said good-bye to a couple he didn't know, and from the way she lingered at the hotel entrance, he could tell she was about to stand him up. "Shall we walk home?" Paul said when she finally slid beside him. He extended the crook of his elbow to her. "I think I'm going to stop in quickly at the after-party," Merrill said. She busied herself with her fur coat and stared at the ground, knowing she was disappointing him. "I'm sorry! Lily convinced me. I'll only stay for a drink." "Okay," he said. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised. "Why don't we walk together, though?" she offered quickly. "The party is just up the street; it's on your way home. These shoes are actually pretty comfortable." She laughed as she lifted the hem of her evening gown, the cold night air pricking at her exposed toes. Her toenails were painted a deep vermillion red. Her fingernails were short and unpolished. Merrill never got manicures; she claimed she couldn't sit still for that long without using her hands. "That can't be possible," Paul said, shaking his head, "but I can carry you the five blocks." She laughed. "It'll feel warmer if we start walking." She burrowed into his side. Feeling her head against his shoulder bolstered his spirits a bit. They started up Park Avenue together, moving as briskly as her dress would allow. Paul noticed when a man passing in the opposite direction checked Merrill out; it gave him a small burst of pride and he hugged her closer to him. Even at night, Paul loved this walk. After so many years in New York, midtown Manhattan still felt like the epicenter of the world. The steel buildings glowed with life. Outside, sleek black town cars lined the curbs while young bankers and lawyers stood in the lobbies, awaiting the delivery of their dinners. In their offices, the deals that would make tomorrow's papers were being negotiated; large sums of money were changing hands; wealth was being created. It was reassuring to see the lights still on. They walked quietly together for a few blocks, their feet falling in rhythm on the sidewalk. "Your mom did a great job tonight, I thought," Paul said, after a time. "Good crowd." "She really did. It was so hard this year, with everything that's going on. It was strange, didn't you think, to have so many people missing?" Merrill shivered involuntarily, pulling her fur tight to her body. "I certainly noticed Mack not being there." "You know who else wasn't there? Morty. I was surprised. He was supposed to be at Mom and Dad's table." "He probably got stuck at work. It's been rocky lately. RCM's had a lot of redemption requests." "He's spending Thanksgiving with us," Merrill said softly. She drew to a stop on the corner as the light began to flash Don't Walk. "I worry about him sometimes. Julianne is apparently off skiing with her friends in Aspen." She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly. "Can you imagine us not spending Thanksgiving together? I mean, for God's sake. It's a family holiday. She should at least pretend to enjoy her husband's company." "Well, I suppose second marriages can be different." Paul said, as diplomatically as possible. An image of Julianne in a white bikini and mesh sarong popped into his mind, which he tried to dismiss. This happened anytime anyone mentioned Julianne; it was what she was wearing the first time Paul met her. Julianne had a tight body but she was still just a little too old for most of her wardrobe. Her hair was thick and slightly too orange and when she smiled, Paul got a distinct sense that someone was about to be conned out of something. "We have such a good thing, you and me," he said. "I'm so lucky." Merrill laughed. "I'm no trophy wife, that's for sure." "You're my only wife," he said. "Only one I'll ever have." She smiled. Before the light changed, she drew close to him, her lips lingering at his ear. "I'm the lucky one," she whispered. As they passed the Delphic headquarters, Paul looked up at his office. The Seagram Building was a colossal steel structure that shimmered bronze, even at night. At the time it was built, it was the most expensive skyscraper in the world. The solidness of it gave Paul a strange sense of confidence, as though the weight of the building assured him that his job would be there in the morning. I'm still here, he thought to himself, pulling his wife closer. "Here's where I leave you," Merrill said, when they reached the corner Paul pulled her in for a quick kiss. Their lips lingered on each other's, soft and familiar. She tasted like chocolate cake, and he could smell the faint trace of champagne on her breath. "Please come home soon," he said. "I miss my wife." Merrill smiled. "I will," she said, and kissed him again on the cheek. "Just one drink, I promise." His eyes followed her. Just before she turned the corner, she looked back at him and gave him a little wave. The collar of her coat was up, obscuring her elegant, slender neck from view. He loved that neck. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out her BlackBerry and held it up to her ear as she disappeared into the night air. As Paul made his way uptown, the offices gave way to residential buildings. The sidewalks grew quiet, populated only by couples walking their dogs or coming home from a late dinner. The temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up, ruffling the awnings overhead and the branches of the trees. By the time Paul reached home, his nose was raspberry red. He sprinted the last block, straight through the lobby, and pulled off his tie while he was still in the elevator. Too tired to do anything else, he stripped off his suit and crawled into bed without brushing his teeth. When Merrill crawled in beside him a few hours later, he was already in a deep and dreamless sleep. For once, the morning news was focused on something other than the turmoil in the markets. Traffic reports streamed in, along with lighter fare about holiday weight gain and teaching kids the true meaning of Thanksgiving. The local channels were all focused on the winter storm that was approaching the Northeast. It had moved quickly up the Florida coastline and was threatening to clog roads and delay flights from Washington, D.C., to New Hampshire. While the coffee was brewing, Paul flipped aimlessly through the channels. He paused on CNBC in the hopes of a market update. The Squawk Box anchors were discussing the debut of Papa Smurf, the newest balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade. They were dressed casually, in turtlenecks. After the footage of the balloons stopped, one commentator said with a bland smile, "Everyone needs a holiday right now, don't you think? I know Wall Street does." Paul raised his mug. Cheers to that, he thought. He was fighting a mild hangover from the night before, and his temples were pulsing. Even a scotch or two got him drunk these days, and he wasn't used to staying out late on a Tuesday. The other anchors nodded in concurrence and then went to black as Paul clicked off the screen. "It's gotten chilly out there, Mr. Ross," said Raymond, as he opened the lobby door for Paul. He was wearing a navy overcoat atop his doorman's uniform, and black leather gloves. Raymond was a beefy Irishman, with light blue eyes and fingers like salamis. The kind of man who seemed to thrive in cold climates. If Raymond was wearing a coat, it was cold. Raymond's ruddy cheeks glowed as he made this pronouncement. He always liked to comment on the weather. "That coat's not going to do it for ya this morning, I don't think." He said, nodding at Paul's Barbour jacket. "Thanks, Raymond," Paul said. He paused just inside the lobby, zipping up. "Still early. Hoping it'll warm up a bit." "You and Mrs. Ross taking off for the holiday?" "We are. Driving out to East Hampton first thing in the morning. Are you working tomorrow?" Raymond shook his head. "No sir. You couldn't pay me enough to work on Thanksgiving. They pay us double, you know, so some of the boys like to take the holiday shift. But nothing more important than family. Not for me, sir." "Couldn't agree with you more, Raymond. Nothing more important than family." Paul turned up his collar and walked out onto Park Avenue. The Wall Street Journal was tucked beneath his arm. He felt bleary-eyed, and the air hit him like a punch. It wasn't yet 7:30 a.m. and the sun was still lingering behind the buildings to the east. For a moment, he thought about returning upstairs for a scarf. He checked his watch and decided against it. "Have a good holiday," he called over his shoulder to Raymond, his breath hanging heavy in the morning chill. It had been two months since Paul had started at Delphic, almost to the day. He had only just begun to find a rhythm. It was hard to feel settled; the markets undulated so wildly that even seasoned professionals felt unhinged. Every day began with a quiet hush, like horses lined up at the gate, pawing nervously at the dust. Though everyone was polite and apologetically busy, no one at Delphic had the time to show Paul much more than the men's room. Paul had never filled a general counsel role and Delphic had never had a general counsel, so the job was largely a project of mutual invention. Paul's only form of orientation had happened at the same time as his interview. When Carter had called Paul into his office, Howary's doors had been closed less than two weeks. From the window behind Carter's desk, Paul had watched the flow of dark suits on their pilgrimage down Park Avenue. For years, he had gone to work just two blocks north; a part of him couldn't entirely believe that it was over. The surreality of sitting in a leather armchair in his father-in-law's office, resumé in hand, implicitly begging for employment, made the situation almost bearable. Carter started off the meeting graciously, almost apologetically, as if Paul were doing him a favor by showing up. He gestured for him to sit, then pressed an intercom button and asked for coffee. "I appreciate you coming down, Paul," he said. "Do you want anything to eat?" "I'm fine, thank you." "I was glad to get Merrill's call. It's been a crazy quarter, and we could really use another hand on deck." "I appreciate you thinking of me, sir." The door opened and a woman came in, wheeling a silver cart. After they had helped themselves to coffee, Carter thanked her and she disappeared wordlessly back into the hallway. Once the door was closed, he said, "So here's the thing. My job used to be eighty percent offense, twenty percent defense. Now, it's completely inverted. I barely have time to respond to all my preexisting clients, much less go out and get new ones. Everyone wants to redeem out. If they aren't pulling their money, they're thinking about it. They want to talk about it. Investor Relations has turned into a triage center." Paul nodded soberly. "How many people do you have in the IR department?" "A couple top guys. But it doesn't really matter." Carter shook his head. "I've had relationships with a lot of these folks for years. Some of my clients have been with me since JPMorgan. They don't want their hand held by some pretty Investor Relations girl wearing a nice suit. They want to talk to me, or to Alain, or at least someone who works directly for me or Alain." "How far down are you?" Paul asked. Carter began to clean his glasses. Paul wondered if he wasn't supposed to be asking questions. Still cleaning, Carter said, "Good question. Some of the funds are doing better than others. We're divided into five main funds, each with a different tilt. An inside manager here at Delphic oversees each of the funds. Alain oversees all the inside managers. As you know, we're a fund of funds, so our inside managers aren't directly managing the assets under their control: They're hand selecting outside managers. Only one of our funds, the Frederick Fund, is a single-manager strat. That means a single outside manager holds primarily all of its assets; in this case, its RCM, Morty Reis's fund. Our other funds are generally subdivided among multiple outside managers, between three and ten depending on the fund and the timing. Some of the outside managers are doing fine, a few are doing abysmally, and one I'm going to get rid of in"—Carter stopped to glance at his Patek Philippe watch—"about twenty-five minutes." He placed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "We'll discuss details later," he said, nodding quickly. It was clear he felt almost as awkward about this interview as Paul did. "I don't keep a big staff here at Delphic. We've been resisting the idea of getting a general counsel for years. For a few years we had a CFO with a law degree so he wore both hats, so to speak. But we lost him a year ago, and we've been on autopilot since then, relying on outside counsel when we need it. But with the markets the way they are, it's just too risky for us not to have someone in-house. Candidly, it would be of particular use to me to have someone whom I can put in front of clients as my proxy. If they can't see me, they can see my son-in-law. See what I'm saying?" "I'm not a pretty Investor Relations girl wearing a nice suit." Carter chuckled. "Don't sell yourself short, Paul. You deserve this job. But you're also great with people, and right now there are a lot of folks who need seeing. When things calm down, we'll get you back into more of a traditional GC role if that's what you want. But for the moment, I'd like it if you could come help me out with the client side of the business. You don't ski, do you, son?" "No, sir. Last winter in Vail was my first time." "Was it?" Carter's left eyebrow rose in slight amusement. "Didn't show." He couldn't tell if Carter was being serious. Paul had spent the entire vacation with his knees turned into an uncontrollable pizza wedge, hoping not to run into his wife. All of the Darlings were expert skiers. Every President's Day weekend, the family spent four days together out in Vail or Gstaad or Whistler. Paul had been able to plead his way out of the trip in years prior, claiming one work obligation or another, but the previous year, Merrill had insisted. When she found out that he had never set foot on a ski slope in his life, she surprised him by arranging for a private instructor—a peppy woman named Linda—to babysit him all weekend. It was one of those misguided presents, simultaneously thoughtful and completely thoughtless. Generous and hopelessly emasculating. "I started alpine skiing at the age of six," Carter announced. He had told Paul this before but Paul smiled encouragingly anyway. Carter always seemed to relax when he talked about one of his sports. "I still enjoy it, but telemarking is my true love. Do you know what telemarking is, Paul?" "No, sir." "I like to think of it as a blend of cross- country and alpine skiing. The binding of the boot attaches only at the toe, so your heel can come up off the ski. You get the rush of downhill, but with the flexibility of cross-county. Best of both worlds, I think. The boots allow you to really feel the mountain, to work with it." Carter's eyes grew soft and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I think good investors tend to be good skiers," he said. He leaned in, as though he were sharing a trade secret. "They stay on their toes. They react fast. Even if that means changing course on a hairpin." Paul shifted in his chair, trying not to look bemused. "Given my performance in Vail, sir, I'm not sure that bodes well for me." "Ahh, we'll make a skier of you yet, Paul," Carter said solemnly. "Point is: These markets require agility. If we're going to survive, we're going to have to stay flexible." "Indeed." Paul concurred, wondering if he was in over his head. It was a done deal now. Maybe it had always been, and everyone but Paul had the prescience to understand that. "It's going to be hectic around here for a while. You'll have to hit the ground running." "I understand." "Take a day or so to think it over, if you like. Come back to me when you're ready and we'll talk compensation. And Paul?" "Yes, sir?" Paul said, jumping to his feet. "Call me Carter, for chrissake. I was just going to say, think up a title for yourself while you're at it. General Counsel, SVP; don't care what it is, as long as you don't come off sounding like a member of the Windsor family." In his first few weeks of work, Paul was surprised to discover how big an operation Delphic actually was. He felt as though he had opened the back of a giant clock: The bullpen computers buzzed, the conference rooms sparkled, secretaries slipped quietly up and down the halls like well- oiled gears. Even the day before Thanksgiving it hummed along like a machine. As Paul swiped in through the large glass doors, a rush of filtered air and kinetic energy hit him. The lights were on and a few associates sped past him down the hall. Paul was surprised to see so many people at work. He nodded to Ida, Carter's secretary, who was talking into her headset. She signaled him over with one hand, like an air traffic controller bringing him in for a landing, and he waited in front of her cube as she wrapped up her call. The firm's mascot, a gleaming bronze lion, stared at him with unmoving eyes from across the hallway. The statue stood perpetual guard over Carter's office, a gift from Carter's lawyer, Sol Penzell. "Terry's out today," Ida said crisply, when she hung up. She gave Paul an efficient smile. "I'm filling in for her. Anything you need, you just give a shout." "Thanks, Ida," he said. "I appreciate it." He turned toward his office. His was the next door down from Carter's. Paul still found the proximity vaguely unnerving. "Oh, Paul," Ida called. "A woman from the SEC named Alexa Mason called for you. She said it was urgent." "Alexa Mason?" Paul stopped and turned around, his hand still on the door handle. "This early? Did she say what about?" "She left a voice mail. She said she's working with David Levin. She told me to say that." Paul nodded. "Thanks, Ida. I'll get back to her." "Do you need her number?" Ida asked, but Paul had already shut the door. In the safety of his office, Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His shoulder blades rose and fell gently against the wall. The message light on his phone flashed an insistent red. It elevated his heart rate just to look at it. I'm not ready to talk to anyone at the SEC, he thought. Even Alexa. He sat down at his desk and, after a minute, turned the phone to face the wall so that he couldn't see the light. By noon, Paul had worked his way through a stack of agreements that needed his sign- off. Since most of the senior management was out of the office, he had kicked off his loafers and was sitting crossed-legged on his desk chair. He had forgotten Alexa's call, or, at least, pushed it to the recesses of his mind. Outside his window, the November sky had turned to silver. The few pedestrians he could see on the sidewalk below were swaddled in hats and coats, their faces tucked up behind lengths of fabric. Paul regretted not having his scarf. They were predicting that the snow would hit earlier than expected; a shiver of excitement passed through his body as he checked the weather report online. One thing he loved about New York was the sharpness of the seasons. There was something electric about winter coming to the city. It was gritty and cold but also wondrously beautiful. The dark army of trees on Park Avenue came alive with lights at night; the store displays on Fifth Avenue were gaudy and gorgeous, as were the throngs of holiday shoppers that clogged the sidewalks. Snow in New York turned quickly into a blackened slush along the curbs, but for the first brief moment, it would dust the sidewalks like confectioners' sugar and transform the city's skyline into a perfect, tiered wedding cake. Suddenly, Paul was itching to leave the office. He put on his headset and dialed Ida. "Ida, it's Paul. Listen, please go home. No one else is here and I doubt anyone's going to call. You can roll Carter's line over to me if that makes you more comfortable." "Are you sure that's okay?" Ida said gratefully. "It's only lunchtime. I'm happy to stay." Paul was about to wish her a happy Thanksgiving when she said: "Actually, a call is coming in now. It's Merrill. Do you want to take it?" "Sure, just forward it to me. Now get out of here." He switched his phone to line two and put Merrill on speakerphone. "Hi there," he said affectionately, relaxing back into his chair. "Almost done with work?" Merrill had planned on taking a half day so that she could pack for the weekend. "Any chance you're stopping by the drugstore on your way home?" There was a pause. When she spoke, her voice was hollow, as if the air had been sucked out of her. "Who is this?" she said. "It's Paul, Mer," he said, snatching up the receiver. His body instinctually flushed with adrenaline; something was wrong. "Ida's rolling your dad's calls to me." "I need to talk to him. I called his cell phone, but it's off. Where is he?" "I think he's driving. What's going on? Talk to me." Merrill was mute. He could hear the television on in the background. It buzzed like white noise, the sound reverberating on the line between them. "Turn on the television," she said quietly. "It's on every channel." "What is?" "Morty's dead." "I'll call you back from the conference room," Paul said, fumbling beneath his desk to put on his shoes. "I have to go. I'm at the office. There's a deposition." "You don't need to go to that," he said, trying not to raise his voice. "You don't need to do anything if you're upset." "No, I can't—I just can't. I'm sorry; I'm a little overwhelmed right now. I'll call you later. I love you." And then she was gone, before he could say, "I love you." Before he could say anything at all. "Alger's novel is a realist fiction that marks the revival of the finance novel today. . . . Never before have stories seemed more important. It's one of the virtues of Alger's novel that it brings this point home to us—from finance, into fiction. And (hopefully) back." —Los Angeles Review of Books "Alger, who has worked at Goldman Sachs as well as at a white-shoe law firm, knows her way around 21st-century wealth and power, and she tells a suspenseful, twisty story." —Wall Street Journal "What happens to the Darling family in the course of a weekend is what carries this tale along, but it's Alger's description of quintessential New Yorkers, and how they survive, that adds the extra layer. . . . Alger has what it takes, in the best sense of the phrase." —USA Today "Forget Gossip Girl: If you really want a peek into the scandalous lives of New York City's elite upper class, Alger's debut novel—set during the financial downturn of 2008—gets you pretty close. . . . The Darlings moves so fast that it feels more like a thriller than a social drama." —Entertainment Weekly "Penned by a former banker, this is a dishy yet thoughtful portrait of greed gone too far . . . A page-turner." —Good Housekeeping "Two parts Too Big to Fail, one part The Devil Wears Prada, Alger's debut is taut and compelling." —Publishers Weekly "Probably the most compulsively readable fiction to come out of the Wall Street financial scandal so far. . . . Alger knows the ins and outs of both Wall Street and an upscale NYC lifestyle, nailing all the details . . . Delicious reading." —Booklist "…A financial thriller with a tone that fits somewhere between the novels of Dominick Dunne . . . and Tom Wolfe's The Bonfire of the Vanities." —Library Journal "Cristina Alger is so good, you just know she's an inside trader—as intimately familiar with the inner workings of Wall Street investment banks as she is with haute Manhattan social life. She's also a gifted storyteller. The Darlings is an utterly compelling novel, as knowing about family as it is about money and social status, and may be the best literary product of the financial crisis to date." —Jay McInerney, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Life "For those who have only gazed up at the palatial residences of Manhattan, this is a glimpse from the penthouse down." —Tom Rachman, New York Times bestselling author of The Imperfectionists "Cristina Alger's debut novel offers a fresh and modern glimpse into New York's high society. I was hooked from page one." —Lauren Weisberger, New York Times bestselling author of Last Night at the Chateau Marmont "A rare, glittering glimpse into Manhattan's banks, bedrooms, and private clubs, a material and psychological world rendered with extraordinary detail. A smart, gripping tale . . . complex and mesmerizing." —Sarah Houghteling, author of Pictures at an Exhibition "Cristina Alger has written a racing, vivid, multi-vocal chronicle of the new gilded age, with equal shades of Jay McInerney and Bernie Madoff. Start reading it and in three hundred pages or so you'll feel like a consummate New York insider, too." —Charles Finch, author of A Burial at Sea After graduating Harvard, you joined Goldman Sachs as an analyst in the Investment Banking Division, then attended NYU Law School and worked as a corporate attorney for the prestigious law firm WilmerHale. Now you've written your first novel, quite a departure from your other jobs. What inspired your decision to give up your corporate law career? Have you always considered yourself a writer? I had always hoped to consider myself a writer. When I was little, I used to sit in the bathtub for hours and dictate stories to my mother, who dutifully recorded them in a spiral-ring notebook. I wrote stories in high school and college, and spent a lot of time hanging around school literary magazines. But I can be awfully practical, and at twenty-two, calling myself a "writer" sounded neither practical nor realistic. So I took a job that provided things like a paycheck and healthcare, and I'm grateful that I did because it was an excellent education. I wrote The Darlings entirely for myself, because it was the kind of book I wanted to be reading and that I wasn't seeing on bookstore shelves. It was a wonderful surprise to find out that other people might want to read it, too. While I do now write full-time, I still have trouble considering myself a writer. I imagine astronauts and ballerinas feel similarly; what wonderful luck to grow up and be exactly who you wanted to be when you were five. In your novel, the Darlings are a high society New York family who run a successful hedge fund. Your father and uncle built a firm together and over the years have employed several family members, including yourself. Are any scenes from The Darlings based on your own experience being a part of a family business? What are some of the pros and cons of working for a family business? I think family businesses are fascinating. They provide a perfect stage for all those delicious, prototypical family issues – rivalries, loyalties, jealousies – to play out. There's nothing in The Darlings that's specifically based on my family's firm, but I certainly drew upon my experience of growing up around a family business when crafting the characters and the ways in which they interact, both personally and professionally. You had the unique perspective of working as a corporate attorney in New York during the financial crisis of 2008. There are dozens of non-fiction books about this remarkable period in time, but yours is one of the first novels. Why did you decide to set your novel during this time and offer the perspective of the financiers and their families? I vividly remember having a firm-wide meeting at my law firm the day after Lehman declared bankruptcy. During the meeting, all I could think was that I was actually watching history unfold in real time. The fall of 2008 was an incredible, terrifying, highly fraught time for Wall Street, for New York, and for the world. I thought a chronicle of the Darlings, a family whose ascent and ultimate fall from grace was so highly correlated to Wall Street, offered an inner glimpse of the city during that period. Fiction is wonderful; it allows you to sneak past the facts and figures and into the hearts and minds of the people behind them. The Darlings captures New York at a moment in which the greed and corruption on Wall Street is under national scrutiny. Do you think the bankers and CEOs on Wall Street deserve the amount of criticism and scorn that they've received from the media and Main Street America? Unquestionably, a great number of people on Wall Street behaved unethically, and many cases, criminally, and deserve due criticism for their actions. What I kept wondering, though, was why? What drives someone to risk their reputation, their families' well being, and many cases what were already lucrative and prestigious careers, for more money? I think in many cases "greed" is too simple an answer. In life, as in literature, there are few villains and few heroes. I think there's a little of both in almost everyone. The Darlings is a delicious look inside a cloistered, monied world set on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and the Hamptons. As a born and bred New Yorker, do you consider yourself part of this world? Did you draw on personal experiences when writing about the high society depicted in the novel? Well, yes, I suppose I don't have a very big imagination! I did draw a lot on personal experience when writing about the Upper East Side and the Hamptons. I have to say, that was part of the fun for me; I absolutely love this city and have so many wonderful memories here. And truth be told, I think writing feels so much more authentic when it actually is. What are you working on now? Do you have any plans to return to the corporate world? I am working on a second novel. While I suppose I ought to never say never, it's hard to imagine giving up what I have now; I wake up every morning feeling deliriously happy to do what I love, and to pretend that it's my job. |
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Australian researchers said Thursday they had established the existence of vast freshwater reserves trapped beneath the ocean floor.
A dense crystalline 'rain' falling into Earth's mantle could explain how a mysterious seismic boundary forms beneath the crust.
The sound of icebergs breaking apart in the ocean could make the seas a noisier place.
The microorganisms can survive underground despite the extreme dearth of light and nutrients.
With five satellites scanning the globe, DigitalGlobe has collected impressive imagery of planet Earth this year. Check out their top 20 images here.
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Giant Saguaro Lights Up Oracle/Drachman Monday April 5
Thursday, April 1st, 2010The Giant Saguaro Neon Sculpture. created by Tucson Artist Dirk Arnold, will be lit up Monday April 5, at an official lighting ceremony. A little history of the neon sculpture can be found at my previous article.
It was designed in the spirit of the enduring neon signs of the Miracle Mile area. It stands in the median of Oracle Road, just north of Drachman Street. It's the public art component of the intersection reconfiguration that removed the roundabout.
The official lighting ceremony will be Monday from 6:15 until 7:00 pm. College Place at 1601 N Oracle Rd is the official gathering place near the sculpture. It's the former Del Webb's Hiway House/Statler Hilton hotel on the west side of Oracle. There is plenty of street parking on the side streets on the east side of Oracle.
The Oracle/Miracle Mile area is presently experiencing a major renovation and it is definitely coming back from the degenerated area of the past decade. To see and experience the renewed area I recommend you attend the third annual Miracle Mile Festival, one of the early outcomes of the Oracle Area Revitalization Plan.
This event will be Saturday, April 24, from 9am until 5pm, with the festivities centered by the Oracle and Drachman intersection. This year's celebration of the Miracle Mile area as Tucson's historic main motor gateway is sponsored by the area's new Gateway Business Alliance. There'll be classic cars, tours of nearby historic sites, food, artists and more. Visit www.celebratehistorictucson.com for more info about the event.


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Dr. Serajuddin joined St. John's University in 2008 as a Professor of Industrial Pharmacy after working over 30 years in the pharmaceutical industry. His previous position in the pharmaceutical industry was as the Executive Director of Pharmaceutical R&D, Novartis Pharmaceuticals Corp., East Hanover, NJ (2002-2008).
Educational Background
St. John's University, Queens, NYMajor: Industrial Pharmacy Degree: Ph.D. Columbia University, New York, NYMajor: Pharmaceutics Degree: MS Dhaka University, Dhaka, BangladeshMajor: Pharmacy Degree: B. Pharm. (Honors)
Awards & Achievements
AAPS Research Achievement Award - Year: 2010 The American Association of Pharmaceutical Scientists (AAPS) is the largest and most prestigious association of pharmaceutical scientists in the world, and the research achievement award is one of its highest recognitions.
APhA Fellow Award - Year: 2006 The American Pharmacists' Association (APhA) Fellow is one of the highest recognitions of APhA, the largest association of pharmacists in the USA
Novartis Leading Scientist Award - Year: 2005 Novartis Pharmaceuticals Corporation's Leading Scientist Award is the highest recognition of Novartis for exceptional scientific contribution
AAPS Fellow - Year: 1998 The American Association of Pharmaceutical Scientists (AAPS) is the largest and most prestigious association of pharmaceutical scientists in the world, and Fellow is one of its highest recognitions
Research Interests and/or Sponsored Projects
Research grants from the Pharmaceutical Industry
Publications, Patents & Presentations
Courses Taught at the University
Undergraduate courses:
Graduate Courses:
Contact Information
Abu T. M. Serajuddin Professor Department of Pharmaceutical Sciences College of Pharmacy & Health Sciences St. Albert's Hall, G012Phone: 718-990-7822 Fax: 718-990-1877Email:email@example.com


text:
Days Of Our Lives Recaps
DAYS Week of October 8, 2007
At the hospital, Phillip urgently tended to Lauren, explaining to the nurse
that she'd fallen while running down hospital stairs and sustained a head
injury. He encouraged the patient to hang on and asked if his son is alive.
A weak Lauren whispered yes. In the meantime, Belle had accompanied Shawn
back to his room, where he admitted that he was in pain. Nurse Gilliam gave
the burn victim a lecture and some painkillers. Afterward, Belle dangled
setting a wedding date as an incentive to get well. Shawn blamed himself for
Lauren getting hurt, saying he didn't go after her for Phillip, he went
after her because the sooner Tyler is found, the sooner he'll get Belle all
to himself. She apologized for making him feel insecure by getting so
wrapped up with Phillip.
EJ watched as Sami mopped up olive oil at the Brady Pub, fussing over her
doing manual labor in her "condition." He offered to help, but she told him
to "get the hell away" from her. Bickering ensued as he suggested that she's
upset at the thought of nearly losing him. She lashed out about being forced
to divorce Lucas and marry him to end the vendetta. EJ maintained that she
has a choice. She promised to make their marriage a very unhappy one.
Samantha bristled when he mentioned sharing a bed and informed him there
would be none of that. The reluctant bride-to-be also demanded that they
live somewhere other than his apartment, to help spare Lucas. He continued
to argue that to end the vendetta, she must be his wife in every
As Phillip was questioning Lauren, she went into cardiac arrest. Frantic, he
offered her money to tell him where Tyler is, but she refused, then she
flatlined. Phillip went to Shawn's room where he reported what happened and
thanked Shawn for all he'd done to help. As Phillip bemoaned his slim chance
to find his son, Billie showed up and said they would find the child. She
wondered what Lauren was doing at the hospital in the first place, which had
also been on Shawn and Belle's minds. Phillip realized Tyler may have been
in Salem all along.
Discouraged by his conversation with Sami, EJ went to drink alone. Tony
spotted him and teased his brother about his grim romantic situation. EJ
protested that Sami will love him in time. Tony thought otherwise.
Meanwhile, Hope came along, saying she was there to check on Grandpa Shawn
and Caroline. She also assured Sami that nobody expects her to go through
with this marriage, then tactfully wondered if Sami has feelings for EJ.
Afterward, EJ returned to Sami and agreed to sleeping in separate beds,
explaining that he'd let Stefano think otherwise. She was suspicious of his
turnaround, but EJ insisted that there were no strings attached, he's doing
this because he loves her."
newContent += "The South Pacific."
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// write HTML to new window document
newWindow1.document.close() // close layout stream
} else {
// window's already open; bring to front
//-->What location did Tony suggest for EJ's honeymoon? Click for Answer
At the Cheatin' Heart, Stephanie stood at the door admitting a long line of
boisterous frat boys to see the football game. A young man named Ford Decker
recognized her from her racing and introduced himself. Inside the bar,
Chelsea told Steph their sorority sisters were on their way. Max scoffed at
the notion that the fellows will turn off the game to take part in a
bachelor auction for a "chick charity," especially since they'd been conned
into attending. Stephanie rose to the challenge and they bet on whether the
girls' plan would work; the loser would donate to the charity. Showing off
her cleavage, Stephanie slunk off. The crowd booed when she turned off the
game, smirked when she offered the chance to go out with one of the sorority
sisters and threw things when she mentioned that the charity helps battered
women and children. One of the, uh, gentlemen called out that the girls are
probably all "dogs." As Max looked on smugly, Chelsea went to her friend's
aid as the frat boys chanted to turn on the TV. Giving up, the girls allowed
the guys to go back to the game. Ford approached and apologized for his
Kappa Theta Sigma brothers, then urged the girls to give it another shot by
turning on the waterworks. Chelsea gave a brief feminist speech about not
stooping to such techniques, but when it was show time, she got herself
ready for such techniques by taking to the stage and weeping. Then she said
she couldn't go on with the facade and directly asked the boys to help them
to help innocent people who are down on their luck. The frat boys looked
mildly ashamed of themselves, but still wanted to see the game. When a bunch
of sorority sisters strolled in; Morgan wanted to know what Chelsea and
Stephanie had in mind, pointing out that the cupcake sale yielded almost
$300. The frat bros were hesitant to step up, but Max got the party started
by taking off his shirt and making sexy racing metaphors. The ladies whooped
their approval and eagerly started the bidding with $100. Stephanie frowned
when Morgan offered up a whopping $500. Take that, cupcakes.
In Shawn's hospital room, Billie questioned Phillip about the chain of
events that led up to Lauren's tumble down the stairs. He realized that his
son must be there in the hospital. Meanwhile, Kayla brought in an ailing
Pocket and ran into Hope. The doctor informed the women that the baby showed
signs of poisoning and he'd have to report the case to Child Protective
Services. Hope advised Kayla to get a lawyer.... Back in Shawn's room, Belle
put the pieces together and realized that Steve and Kayla have the baby.
Phillip hurried out. At that very moment, a CPS agent came to take custody
of Pocket, suggesting that Kayla say good-bye.
Lucas tried to drag Sami out of the Brady Pub, but she pleaded with him to
hear EJ out. The Brit explained that his marriage to Sami will be in name
only and just for the duration that dying Stefano hangs on. Lucas furrowed
his brow, branding EJ, "the biggest liar [he's] ever met." Sami took her
husband into the back and asked him to believe in her. He passionately
declared that he does, but needs her to believe in them. Sami insisted that
she knows what she's doing and reasoned that nobody can make her do what she
doesn't want to do. "What if he forces himself on you again?" her husband
asked. Lucas turned on his heel to leave with a teary Sami at his heels.
Back at the bar, EJ was drinking alone when Stefano wheeled in and handed
him papers: an annulment from the Catholic church of Sami and Lucas's
marriage. "Let's just say the DiMeras have been very generous to the church
and leave it at that," explained The Phoenix. When Sami and Lucas came out,
EJ suggested they sign the papers and it would be like their marriage never
The sorority girls whooped it up at the Cheatin' Heart as Max strutted his
stuff for the bachelor auction. Morgan made the winning bid with $500, which
ticked off Stephanie. Chelsea handed over the mic to Adrienne, who acted as
auctioneer while Ford Decker launched into shirtless booty-shaking. Chelsea
thanked Max for saving the fundraiser; Stephanie, however got in some digs
about Morgan. Max chided her for not appreciating how he helped her out and
strolled off to kiss Morgan's hand as Steph knitted her brow. Stephanie
turned her attention to Ford, entering the bidding war on behalf of a
speechless Cordy, who got in the spirit and won. After briefly bickering
with Chelsea, who she accused of playing matchmaker with Morgan and Max,
Stephanie totally didn't try to make Max jealous by bidding on one of the
frat brothers (she was outbid). Later on, Stephanie apologized to Max. Then
she snooped around to find out what he and Morgan talked about, warning him
that Morgan is "slumming." Annoyed, Max said Morgan was going " to get her
$500 worth and a whole lot more." By the end of the evening, the fundraiser
yielded $1,695 and Chelsea and Stephanie were officially welcomed into the
sorority. Stephanie had other things on her mind, suggesting to Chelsea that
they spy on Max and Morgan's date.
At the Brady Pub, Lucas scoffed at the annulment papers Stefano had drawn
up, telling Sami they are probably fake. As DiMera wheeled away, EJ vowed to
his pop that he'd get Sami to sign.
At the police station, Kayla told Steve that authorities are taking away
Pocket because poisoning was found in his system. She rejected his
assurances, saying they would have lost custody anyway because of his
televised, gun-wielding notoriety. Kayla calmed down and stepped into
Steve's embrace, but they were interrupted by Phillip, who announced that
the boy's name is Tyler. Philip gave the puzzled duo a summary of his baby
drama. Steve insisted that he's not giving up the child unless a judge
orders him to do so. When Kayla admitted that CPS was investigating the
poisoning, Philip demanded to know what Steve had done, which led to a
scuffle. After a cop broke things up, Philip left and Steve urged Kayla not
to give up. Another hug was interrupted, this time by Stefano, who announced
that he'd dropped charges against Steve. A suspicious Steve asked if Stefano
wanted him on the streets so that he could "whack" him. Stefano explained
that he freed him in honor of Benjamin's memory, then left the stunned
couple. Philip returned with Mrs. Meyers, who he said can build a case
against the Johnsons. Meyers pointed out that the case was premature and
took off. Kayla tried to make peace with Philip by showing him a picture of
the baby, which he asked to keep.
Back at the pub, Lucas urged Sami to wait on the annulment, but EJ was
against it. Sami said she needed 24 hours and left with Lucas. EJ noted to
himself that a lot can happen in a day.
While out to lunch at the Cheatin' Heart, Belle ran into Philip who was
laying in wait for Mrs. Meyers. He announced that the caseworker lunches at
the same time every day and he was planning to search her office, explaining
that Tyler/Pocket was living with Steve and Kayla and got sick. Belle warned
Kiriakis not to be impulsive and offered to help him go about things in a
law-abiding manner. "Now I'm doing things the Kiriakis way," he said. As
they chatted, the social worker walked in. Belle politely approached the
woman, who made it clear she was on her lunch hour. Still, Belle sat at her
table and filled her in on Philip's record as a war hero. After Belle
persuades Meyers to organize a visit for Phillip, the delighted dad pulled
her into a kiss.
Bo and Hope and John and Marlena were sitting together at the Brady Pub when
Lucas arrived and filled them in on the DiMera-procured annulment papers,
noting that Sami has 24 hours to decide. Sami, who unbeknownst to her was
being trailed by EJ, joined the family meeting. As the clan assured Sami
that the threat is over, EJ strolled in and forced his way into the
conversation, despite the hostility from Team Brady, who took turns telling
him off. EJ pointed out that Sami had remained unusually quiet. She and
Lucas broke the news that she will not sign the annulment papers. Wishing
her luck, EJ turned on his heel and left, but not before he whispered a
veiled threat against Will, rattling Sami. She returned to the family and
put a damper on their end-of-vendetta celebration by crying that it's not
over. Team Brady warned that if she gives in to EJ's demands, she'll put her
unborn babies in peril.
Stefano sat at a sleeping Andre's bedside, saying he should kill his nephew for
what he did to Benjy. "But, no. I cannot punish you, because you're not the
one who killed Benjamin," sighed Stefano, who blamed himself for his son's
"despicable acts." "I will take care of things, I will fix it," vowed The
Phoenix. Grandpa Shawn entered the hospital room and questioned DiMera about
Andre's prognosis. Before long, an argument over Colleen and Santo ensued.
Stefano admitted that he deliberately told Shawn that his own mother was
alive. Gramps was irate that DiMera used him to destroy his own sister.
"Damn you," he cursed as he ambled out.... EJ showed up and reported on the
Sami situation, assuring his dad that he'll get his way via Will. But
Stefano was taken aback by Elvis's request that he hurt a child. Fooling
with Brady women has been the family downfall sniffed Stefano, who said
Sami's not worth it and refused to help.
After breaking away from her smooch with Philip, Belle left the Cheatin'
Heart. EJ saw her.... When Stefano was out of Andre's room, Shawn went back
in. Andre reached for the call button. Shawn pulled it away from him, then
slipped his cane through the door handles to block the room.
In Andre's hospital room, Grandpa Shawn blocked the door with his cane and
menacingly announced "This is for Colleen," while he placed his finger on
the life-support button. He was stopped by a ghostly vision of Colleen, who
urged her brother not to go through with it.
At the Team Brady meeting at the Pub, a pensive Sami clutched her annulment
papers. With Lucas and Co. urging her on, Sami ripped the documents. As
Lucas drew her into a hug, Sami said she hoped "nobody gets hurt." At that
moment, Belle pulled up in her car at a remote spot. Uh-oh. She called Shawn
to remind him that it's her first night at the Salem Clinic, then got out of
her car on the dark, lonely street. The only person in sight was EJ, clad in
a cap and rubber gloves and lurking in his car.... Back at the pub, John
told Sami he's proud of her. She lovingly said that's good because he's her
dad, too. Awww!
While Caroline was informing an alarmed Bo and Hope that Grandpa Shawn is at
the hospital, they fretted over his mental state. At University, Shawn
threatened Andre some more, then turned away, unable to go through with it.
Andre, however, hit the button himself, turning off his respirator. As
medical staff banged on the door, Shawn sat down and watched his foe die.
Hospital workers and an officer burst in. The officer asked Grandpa Shawn
why he didn't open the door. A drained, wheezing Shawn asked the cop to call
his son, then sat quietly and waited. Stefano was informed of Andre's death
and bade his "soldier" a sad farewell with a kiss. Then he glowered at
Grandpa Shawn and wheeled up to him for a stare-down match. The Vendetta? Oh
yeah, it's on! "My Andre's murder will not go unpunished," he threatened.
DiMera then ordered a cop to arrest his nephew's "murderer." Shockingly, the
Salem police are not so interested. When Bo arrived, Stefano tattled to him,
but again, Bo not so much about justice for Andre. In fact, he helpfully
suggested that Stefano, "put a bullet in his own brain.... Now that would be
Marlena joyfully called Belle to announce that her sister is not going to
marry EJ. Speaking of, he continued to watch his prey (who had left her keys
in the driver's seat.) Before he could engage in evildoing, EJ received a
call from Sami, summoning him to the pub. "It's your lucky night, Belle," he
said to himself as she obliviously walked away. When he showed up at the
pub, he ran into John and Marlena, who were on their way to get Belle's
keys. EJ entered the pub, where Sami let him know she's not marrying him. He
launched into the veiled threats, but she stood firm.
Grandpa Shawn recounted to Bo how Andre took his own life. Bo filled in
Stefano, who wasn't hearing it, insisting there would be a trial. "There's
no jury in this country that would find my pop guilty," retorted Bo. He then
told the Phoenix to get out of town.
At Belle's car, John and Marlena cutely flirted as they worked on getting
into it and retrieving their daughter's keys. John was standing at the
driver's door when headlights loomed on the rain-slicked street. The car hit
John, who flew in the air. "Nooooooo!" screamed Marlena.
At the pub, Lucas ordered EJ to get lost. He turned to leave, but not before
Sami received a call from her mom, who was next to blood-soaked John. Lucas
immediately believed that EJ was somehow responsible, while a sobbing Sami
blamed herself. "Lucas, what have I done," she cried.... Back in the alley,
Belle was walking toward her car when she saw her mother kneeling beside her
bleeding dad. Marlena blamed Stefano for the tragedy, then went back to
begging John to hold on.
newContent += "October."
newContent += ""
// write HTML to new window document
newWindow1.document.close() // close layout stream
} else {
// window's already open; bring to front
//-->In what month did Caroline say Shawn is usually in a very bad mood? Click for Answer


text:
Love creates happiness! Happiness gives harmony and makes people close and blessed!
a great woman , yes a big word, if she pass just in front of him will he realy see her?
it could be me or some one else, the first is the jujment of the apparence!
interesting and funny indeed thank you sir
I would like to spend some time with you.
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Jacksonville, FL | 0 active jobs | Company Website
Founded in 1994, CSI Healthcare IT takes pride in participating in one of the nation's greatest challenges – Improving America's healthcare delivery system. CSI Healthcare IT is a specialized staffing firm with extremely strong recruiting engines in hard to find skill sets. We provide consultants and project teams to hospitals and health systems via contract assignments (temporary staffing), contract-to-hire (temp-to-hire) and direct hire (permanent placement). We also offer executive search services for key positions.
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text:
- Product Details
Nissan Frontier 2005-2013, Full Polished Stainless Steel Grille Guard by Onki®. Protect the front end of your truck, van or sport utility from surprise dangers, and add style with all-stainless steel polished brightness. A full wraparound design gives a greater level of headlight assembly protection where others fall short. Easy, no-drill installation.
- Easy no-drill installation with all mounting hardware and instructions included
- Crafted from high grade T-304 Stainless Steel
- Contoured to the lines of each specific make and model truck
- Unique wrap-around design fully protects sides of headlight assemblies
- Heavy-duty 3-piece modular construction
- Removable headlight guard sections
- Features pre-drilled holes for easy mounting of auxiliary lights
- Limited lifetime manufacturer warranty
Not only does Onkis Full Stainless Steel Grille Guard provide a dazzling, unadulterated look of all-stainless steel, it provides full protection from brush, game, and other objects that suddenly appear without warning. Unique, wrap-around designs are tailored to each vehicle and fully protect side areas of headlight assemblies that easily get damaged in side-corner incidents. Onkis Full Stainless Steel Grille Guard mounts easily with no drilling, and comes with all mounting hardware and instructions. Headlight grille sections are removable for vehicle cleaning, and pre-drilled holes on the grille guard allow no-fuss mounting of auxiliary lights. Onkis high level of commitment to customer satisfaction and quality control quickly becomes obvious when looking at any of its products, and this grille guard is no exception. After being crafted from stainless steel with the use of precision-fitted joints and hidden welds, assembly line quality checks are performed by laser to ensure all tolerances are within specification. After that, the stainless steel finish is polished to perfection for a seamless appearance that would look proper on any ultra-luxury vehicle. Onki offers a limited lifetime warranty so you can be sure the grille guard will last as long as you own your vehicle, and add to its resale value when you sell it.
997.92Brand: Onki Part Number: 647738Founded in California during the late 1990s, Onki Corporation has grown as a supplier of innovative sport utility and truck products due to their focus on high quality and customer service. Running boards available with creative colorful expressions and backlighting, grille guards, nerf boards, exhaust tips, and a selection of Hummer H2 accessories are just a few examples of the stylish and durable offerings from Onki. The companys goal is to become one of the leading auto accessory manufacturers and distributors in the United States, and Onki works hard to listen to customer needs and demands as they grow into tomorrow.
Product Reviews (1)Every Customer can leave a review about our service and the product that was purchased. In order to leave your review for your new product, please follow the link in the email you receive after completing your purchase. You can rate appearance, ease of installation, price/value and product quality.
Onki® - Full Stainless Steel Grille GuardAverage Rating: 4 of 5APPEARANCEEASE OF INSTALLATIONPRICE/VALUEQUALITY(4)APPEARANCEEASE OF INSTALLATIONPRICE/VALUEQUALITY - More Accessories
- Product Reviews


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Here's your chance to win Frabill's Frabill FXE Task Glove in this months Gear Giveaway! ENTER NOW
Advanced Anglers' newest generation of ProSeries On-Board Marine Battery Chargers boast updated, all-digital microprocessor-controlled charging technology. ENTER NOW
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Trade tips and tricks, ask questions, and meet other members.
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Read reviews on great fishing products.
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Tweets by @NAFishClub


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From summer sandals to elegant court shoes, we've a wide selection of women's shoes at Julipa for all occasions, whether it's for casual everyday wear or for a special occasion like a wedding. And what's more is that we've also a lovely choice of women's wide fitting shoes too from D to EEEE width shoes. Don't miss our comfort range either, designed to keep your feet feeling cushioned all day long for the best in comfort.


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The actress's makeup artist spills on how she achieved her soft glow.
"First I prepped Emma's skin with a few drops of Kate Somerville Quench Hydrating Face Serum and used Christian Dior Créme de Rose balm on her lips. Using a Beauty Blender sponge, I lightly applied Chanel Vitalumiere Foundation in shade 010. Before a light dusting of loose powder, I blended Stila Convertible Color in Peony on the apples of her cheeks. For her eyes, I used a bone colored shimmery shadow all over the lid. Using Make Up For Ever's Aqua Cream in 27, I lined her upper lashline and slightly winged out the corners. Finally, we decided to do a light lip with just a hint of color so we used Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick in Gracile."


text:
One Quick Handwriting Transcription Challenge Every Day-for the genealogist in you
Lena Adams
I agree Lena Adams
I will say Lena Adams, too.
Looks like Lena Adams to me.MicheleM
I make it unanimous! Lena Adams.
Add me to the slam dunk: Lena Adams. Katie
Lena Adams is it. Another sister to my gg-grandmother and a sister to the lady who was yesterday's post.


text:
Play Cricket with the tip of your finger against opponents around globe
Cricket is a complex game, so it's no surprise that one of the newest Cricket games in the App Store for the iPad is a flick game -- one that makes the game more accessible and enjoyable for a wide audience of both diehard and casual cricket fans. Even still, the app has its fair share of menus and options that will take some time to get used to as you start playing. Fortunately, the developer has included a very concise tutorial that walks you through the basics of the matching system, how to set up new matches, and … Read more


text:
Copyright 2012 Scripps Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Posted: 03/05/2013
Copyright Associated Press
Special Reports
Inside the Baltimore Police Department's watch center is the hub from which city police can view hundreds of crime cameras, pull up street corners and follow suspicious activity sometimes in progress; fancy hardware increasingly complimenting witty software.
ABC2 Investigators uncover Baltimore Police officers making huge amounts of overtime as the agency downplays the total amount spent on OT.
Scripps reviewed dozens of lawsuits and spoke with former insiders who all allege the companies that handle Berkshire Hathaway Inc.'s asbestos and pollution claims, wrongfully delay or deny payment to cancer victims...
Harmless lung cancer? A provocative study found that nearly 1 in 5 lung tumors detected on CT scans are probably so slow-growing that they would never cause problems.
After two years of working to build Maryland Health Connection, Executive Director Rebecca Pearce has resigned.
This is a study that might make moms pretty mad. According to the University of South Carolina's Arnold School of Public Health, modern moms are spending more time watching television and less time doing housework.


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Herman Cain 6P - 9P |
Brought to you by Red Pepper Grille
Monday, November 12, 2012
A 31-year-old Midland City man faces a drug charge after authorities say he used his 5-year-old son to hide marijuana in the trunk of a car.
The Henry County Sheriff's department says Anthony Darrell Smith was arrested after a deputy pulled him over Saturday night in Abbeville for a minor traffic violation. He was charged with first-degree possession of marijuana. Two other people were also charged.
Authorities say Smith told them he did not want to open the trunk because it would wake up his 5-year-old son, who was asleep inside.
When deputies opened the trunk, they say they found the boy asleep on top of a plastic garbage bag containing more than 2 pounds of marijuana.
The sheriff's department and the local Department of Human Resources are investigating.
Texas death row inmate charged with 2003 murder of Alabama woman
Department of Revenue reminds online shoppers about taxes
Anniston man arrested on charges of sexually abusing a minor
Anniston filmmakers tell story of homeless veterans in upcoming short film
Keywords: drug charge ,5-year-old son , Henry County Sheriff's department , marijuana ,Abbeville ,trunk ,
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