The following is the second installment of the book, Bankers Hours, by Amanda Biers-Melcher, which we will be serializing every Friday on BankersBall, probably cutting it off in the most suspenseful part. To write Bankers Hours, Amanda took a part-time job at a major New York investment bank. Where she spied on you. Just kidding about that last part. Actually, I’m not, maybe you’ll recognize your asshole self in the book. Who knows.

More about Amanda: Amanda Biers-Melcher earned a B.A. in Classics from Brown University and a masters degree in journalism from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism. She has worked as a journalist, a public relations executive and a writer for film and television. Today she lives in Los Angeles with her husband Steve, a television writer/producer, and their two children, ages 8 and 3. She is president of Lululinc Productions, a production company that creates and develops programming for broadband and TV.

**************************************************************************************

Silence. Then, “Seriously?”

“What, do you think I’d make this shit up?”

He said he’d send somebody right up. “Don’t touch anything,” the guy told him.

Don’t worry, Monroe thought. “You better stick around a second,” he said to Kevin.

Kevin nodded. “Better call my supervisor.”

Monroe pointed to the phone on Carl’s desk and sat down in the chair behind his. He put his head in his hands. His heart was still beating fast. Please God, he thought to himself, don’t let this get ugly on me. He’d never had his own trouble with the police, but he’d been around enough to know he had plenty of reasons to be nervous. Shit, he thought to himself. Why’d he have to be the one to find the body?

He let his breath out slowly. Monroe felt funny just leaving that girl lying in there like that, all alone and shit, but there was no way he was going back into that storage room until Security got there. She was a pretty little thing. You almost would have thought she was sleeping or passed out or something except her body was all stiff and her skin was all funny looking. Damn shame was what it was.

If Monroe had to guess, he’d say someone had choked her. He hadn’t seen no blood or anything, and around her neck, there were these grayish-purple and, like, yellow bruises, like a necklace. That’s what it looked like in the movies when someone got choked. Monroe had never seen a dead body for real.

Who would want to do that shit to some girl? he thought to himself. Some kind of fuckin sicko or something.

Kevin finished his call and sat down in Carl’s old chair at the other desk. He didn’t say anything or even look at Monroe.

Security was sure taking its time. Monroe looked at his watch and crossed his arms over his chest. Didn’t look good for the 4:30 mail run.

* * *

Abbot Oakley finished leaving Vince Hoageland a voicemail, hit speaker to disconnect and looked up. Through the glass wall of his office he watched Maureen’s head disappear under her desk as she bent over. When she sat up again she reached for the magazine spread open on her desk, closed it and stuffed it into the canvas tote bag she always carried. He watched her eyeball her desk methodically, as if checking off a mental list. Once she seemed sure she wasn’t forgetting anything, she stood up and looked over the cubicles behind her, toward the center of the room where a hallway led to the reception desk.

Abbot noticed the impatient look on her face. Maureen was transparent that way — kind of on the moody side. She didn’t keep it a secret if you were pissing her off. But Abbot liked his secretary. There were so many really shitty secretaries out there, he thought, as he watched her. It made a big difference to have someone who was nice without being completely incompetent.

Maureen was pretty. At least Abbot thought so. And cheerful. And clean-looking, for that matter. She wasn’t pretty like Tori, who looked every bit like the pearls and cashmere-clad product of the Town & Country lifestyle into which she’d been born (and in which she expected Abbot to keep her). Maureen was pretty in a sort of American way. She was Irish (a name like Maureen Mahoney left little doubt) and had delicate pinkish pale skin, lightly freckled, and the darkest, shiniest hair Abbot had ever seen. Most days Maureen wore it tied back in a barrette but every once in awhile she’d let it loose so it puffed around her head and flew out behind her and Abbot could smell her shampoo when she came into his office to drop off his messages. On those days, he had to admit, he found it a bit more difficult to concentrate than usual.

Abbot hit the mouse next to his computer and activated his calendar. He typed in a few letters and called up the number for Glen Teretsky, the CFO of Endlinger Plastics. Now that he was a Vice President, he supposed he could keep his rolodex on Maureen’s computer and ask her to look up numbers for him, but it seemed silly. Not that she’d complain, Abbot thought to himself, but he didn’t feel comfortable bringing it up with her. It did only take a second to do it himself.

As he started to dial, he noticed Maureen talking to someone outside his office. Another woman, tall and thin with long, stringy reddish-blond hair. He’d never seen her before. Her outfit was stylish, although rather dressed-down for the office. She looked like one of the women he’d seen walking in Soho. She appeared to be young, but she didn’t look like an analyst, or, for that matter, like one of the secretaries. She didn’t look like she belonged here at all in fact, so Abbot was surprised to see her sit down at Maureen’s desk.

He left Glen Teretsky a voice mail and started to look over one of the models in the book Crispin Conover had left on his chair earlier. Maureen knocked gently on his door before pushing it open.

“Okay, Abbot, I’m gonna take off now. Do you have everything you need for Denver tomorrow?”

Abbot rustled through the stack of papers at the top of the pile that rose a sloppy foot-and-a-half out of his in-box until he located the blue-printed envelope from American Express Travel. He held it up to her.

“I put you on the three o’clock into Newark on the way home, but if your meeting runs late there’s a 4:10 on American that flies into LaGuardia,” she told him.

“Perfect.” Abbot smiled.

“We have a new night secretary. Kayla. Do you want to meet her?”

Abbot peered out his window at the willowy figure behind Maureen’s desk. She was sitting back in her chair calmly flipping through an employee directory. She seemed completely oblivious to him. Oblivious to everything happening around her, in fact. He hoped she wouldn’t be too much of an idiot.

“I have a few calls to make. I’ll introduce myself later.”

Maureen shrugged. “All right. I’ve got to go. Tommy’s coming over tonight so I want to get home and work out. He’s going to look at my air conditioner, finally.”

Abbot smiled. “Stay cool.”

“Have a good trip.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder and headed out of his office. Abbot noticed the way her skirt — tiny black and white checks, man-made materials but cute and short, revealing an inch or two of the flesh over her knees — pulled just a bit over the round tight curve of her bottom. Her legs looked strong and muscular. He imagined her stomach was as tight as her backside until thinking about it made him uncomfortable.

He picked up the receiver and dialed.

“Tori Millington’s office,” answered the perky voiced secretary employed by Millington, Cressey & Dinkwell to answer the phone of the senior partner’s daughter and the firm’s newest associate.

“Hi, Donna. This is Abbot. Is Tori there?”

“This is Melissa. Donna left.”

She paused as if waiting for his editorial comment. Abbot rolled his eyes. His fiancee went through assistants faster than pantyhose.

“Tori’s in a meeting.” Melissa got back to business. Can I take a message?”

Abbott thought about it. “Uh, yeah. We’re going to the ballet tonight, I think she said, and she wanted to have dinner.”

Abbot thought he could hear a phone ringing and wondered, briefly, if Melissa was about to put him on hold to answer it.

“Okay.” She was rushing him.

“I thought I could make it, but it looks like I might be tied up. So, she might want to have dinner without me, or. . .”

“Do you want her to call you?” She was becoming impatient.

Abbot tried to pick up his pace. “Yeah. I was going to say, I might not make the ballet. I might have to work late again but. . . I guess, yes, please, just tell her to call me.”

“Okay. I’ll give her the message.” Melissa clicked off without taking a breath, leaving Abbot to the drone of the dial tone.

He put down the receiver and sighed. Tori wouldn’t be happy. But, hell, it’s not as if he was particularly happy. Working fucking late again. My life fucking sucks, Abbot thought to himself. He picked up Conover’s model again and started double-checking the numbers.

* * *

Still hotter than shit out here, Maureen thought to herself as she stepped out of the climate-controlled lobby of Crain Hanover and into a wall of muggy air that clung to her like a wet sheet. She slowed her step enough to reach into her pocketbook and pull out her pack of Marlboro lights and her purple Bic lighter. She’d quit for awhile, but now with the wedding to plan and everything else going on she’d started up again. Just one or two a day, but Tommy would kill her if he found out. He’d told her he didn’t want the future mother of his kids puffing on cigarettes and she’d said okay; everyone knew smoking would kill you. But it wasn’t easy. Not with the stress she’d had lately.

She took a quick inhale and continued toward the A train, following the clusters of people who walked ahead of her toward the subway like some kind of procession. Look at us. We’re like sheep, she said to herself. The thought depressed her.

Ten years ago, in high school, Maureen never would have imagined she’d end up a secretary. She swore she wouldn’t, in fact — said it was the last thing she’d do. She’d always planned on going to college and getting her degree and maybe teaching or something. At one point she’d even thought about being a lawyer. She was always good at defending an argument and thinking things through.

But now, with the wedding coming, they needed the money, so she wasn’t about to quit her job or do anything crazy. She could always go back to school later anyway. Once Tommy was settled with the business and if, God willing, they had a couple of kids, once they were in school, then it would be easier. Besides, she made good money. Most people with college didn’t love their jobs either, she reminded herself.

She took one last inhale of her cigarette and tossed it on the sidewalk only half-smoked. It was too hot. She stubbed it into the cement with the tip of her Reebok. Her ankles itched like crazy where her white scrunchie socks covered her pantyhose. She should have taken her hose off and just worn her sneakers home, but the building was air-conditioned and she’d forgotten how hot it was. She started down the steps to the A train. She’d be home in fifty minutes anyway and could take the damn things off then.

Sometimes she wished she had a job like her sister in the bakery and could just wear shorts in the summer. It seemed stupid to have to get all dressed up like an executive just to answer Abbot’s phones every day. It’s not like anyone saw her, and Abbot wouldn’t care.

She thought about Abbot and smiled to herself. Poor guy. He was a complete workaholic. All of these bankers were. Sometimes it seemed to Maureen that even if she had as much money as they did, it wouldn’t be worth it. They had no time to spend it all anyway.

At least Abbot was nice to her — always asking her how her weekend was and telling her to order lunch for herself too whenever he had sandwiches brought in for a meeting. Not like that last asshole she worked for. Maureen shivered remembering the rolls of fat hanging over Bob MacAtee’s collar and his thick stubby fingers, which always seemed to be finding a reason to touch her. Thank God I got out of that mess, she thought to herself glumly.

The train platform was crowded and the air underground suffocating. With each breath of hot air she inhaled, Maureen felt her lungs ache as if someone was squeezing her chest very tightly. This just isn’t human, she thought as a woman with packages stepped next to her, standing a little too closely. No one should have to go through this just to get to their job.

She was, luckily, in front of the door when the A train pulled up. A few people got off but most of them were continuing on until Brooklyn. Maureen spotted an empty seat and threw herself into it. A man in a suit took the space right in front of her and, as the door closed, rapped her in the knee with his briefcase. She glowered up at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, without seeming to mean it.

Jerk, Maureen thought, but instead of getting into something with him she just nodded. People were crazy in this city. It wasn’t a good idea to go looking for trouble.

Maureen opened her canvas tote and pulled out the magazine. Country Bride. Denise had lent it to her and she’d paged through a bit of it, haphazardly glancing at some of the dresses. The whole thing was ads. There was practically no magazine.

She sighed and chuckled over a photo spread of turquoise bridesmaid’s dresses covered with feathers. She should choose something like that, just so her friends would have to feel like idiots wearing them. She had a closet full of peach Scarlet O’Hara dresses, Little Bo Peep hats and black and white hookers’ outfits of her own, after all. What goes around comes around.

She spotted a plain-looking wedding dress with just a little beading around the neck and folded the corner of the page down. It wasn’t too crazy like a lot of them she’d seen. She continued flipping through the magazine absently. She still had almost a year before the wedding and couldn’t believe she was actually doing this, but everyone was pestering her to get started with the planning. Sometimes she thought her friends were more excited about the wedding than she was. Not that she didn’t want to marry Tommy. It’s just she didn’t know why she was supposed to want to spend all her time thinking about it — talking about dresses and reception halls and bridesmaids’ dresses and looking at photos from people’s sister-in-law’s and cousin’s and boyfriend’s sister’s weddings.

She always turned her engagement ring around when she rode the subway, but she could still feel it gripping her sweaty finger. She wished Tommy hadn’t gone so crazy with it. But it was beautiful. Everyone said so. A white tear-drop diamond, on a band with three colors of gold. His sister had gone with him to pick it out and told Maureen privately that it had cost him. Maureen wished Ann Marie hadn’t told her that. Her stomach turned over whenever she thought of it.

She’d have to work out before Tommy came over. He got mad if she got on the treadmill while they were watching TV. She wondered what he planned to do once they got married. She, for one, did not plan to let herself go and get all dumpy like his sister-in-law Debbie had after the baby. Maureen liked working out anyway. Not just because of what it did to her body. It cleared her mind and helped her think and even after a really shitty day it made her feel better.

Wednesday, she thought to herself. That meant her mother would be making rigatoni. She sighed. It was too hot for something so heavy, but there was no point in arguing with her mother about dinner again. When she had her own house she could cook what she wanted to. On hot nights like this she’d bring in some deli or just make a salad, she thought to herself, and if Tommy complained he could make his own dinner.

She closed the bridal magazine leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Five stops until she was home. Then she just had three blocks to walk. Rigatoni. She’d have to spend a little longer on the treadmill to work off the extra calories. Maybe she’d do that new butt video she’d bought at Bradlees last week.

* * *

Crispin Conover slammed down the phone. “Fuck.”

J. P. Moran smirked and spit a stream of vile brown water into an Evian bottle. He was draped over Crispin’s cubicle rummaging through the CD collection which he kept in the top drawer of his desk. “Problem, Crispix?”

“Stop fucking calling me that.”

“My, my. The plebe is a mite testy today,” JP drawled in authentic Texan. He ran his fingers through his blond quarter-inch crew cut (a throwback to his days in the service) and adjusted the wad of tobacco he was housing under his bottom lip.

“These CDs fucking suck. Don’t you have anything decent?”

“Get your own fucking music, sailor boy,” Crispin snapped, slamming his drawer shut.

JP pulled his fingers out of the way just in time. He chuckled. “Whoa. Down, boy.”

He opened the drawer again and quickly plucked out a couple of Crispin’s CDs. Crispin watched silently. All the associates are assholes, he thought to himself. JP in particular.

The Texan straightened and started back to his cube on the other side of a row of waist-high file cabinets. “And remember, fuck-face,” he said over his shoulder. “Sailors are Navy wusses. You’re dealing with a Marine, so you’d better show some respect if you know what’s good for you.”

“Fuck off, Moran. I’m not in the mood for your military bullshit.”

He didn’t turn around when JP nailed him in the back of the head with a Nerf ball. He silently picked it up off the floor and rested it on his desk before turning back to his computer.

The Marine appeared in front of his cube again to collect his projectile. “Holy Hannah! Are you on the fuckin rag today or what?” He spit some more drool into his bottle and grinned widely. “What bug crawled up your ass and laid eggs?”

Crispin smiled reluctantly. JP was totally sick. “I’m fucked on Endlinger,” he told him. “Totally fucked.”

JP smirked. All the analysts were always complaining about how much work they had. They did jack compared to what JP did when he was a scut analyst. JP had kept a pillow under his desk back then and on most nights he’d used it. It just took some discipline. Even now, JP wasn’t adverse to pulling an all-nighter now and again. Nothing wrong with working hard. It’s how you got to be Vice President before thirty and retire with a few mill before you hit forty-five.

Crispin was still bitching. “I gave Oakley a draft of the book for the Endlinger meeting this morning and he still hasn’t fucking looked at it, and when he’s done I’ve got to fax it to Bob Harris so he can sign off on it and then I get this fucking call from the print shop that they don’t know if they can get it finished tonight unless we get it down there by nine at the latest. There’s no fucking way.”

He let out an angry breath. “I was here until three last night. I do not want to pull another fucking all-nighter just because fucking Oakley was playing with himself all day instead of reviewing my models.”

“You did all the models?”

“No, fucking Mackey did half of them,” he said gesturing in the direction of Allison Mackey, a second-year analyst and the M&A group’s only woman. As usual, she was not at her desk. “Which means we’ll probably have to do them all over again.”

JP shook his head. Fucking girls always fucked things up. Totally lacked discipline. “Where the fuck is she?” he asked, nodding in the direction of her empty cubicle.

“How should I know? Probably getting her fucking nails done or hanging out at the gym or something. She was here with me last night pretending to be working.”

JP snorted. “I’m going to go work out. Order me dinner.”

“I’m not going to order your fucking dinner. What do you want?”

“Chicken parm hero, two salads and a Snapple.”

“Who else is ordering?”

“I don’t know. Everyone probably. But a couple of those faggot-assed first-years are ordering sushi.”