The Secret

A story loosely based on Daniel Six

By Bob Freye

The note was delivered to the table while Elizabeth Baker Tennant studied the menu. The waiter brushed an imaginary crumb from the tablecloth and left a hastily folded scrap of paper, almost unnoticed, on the table. Elizabeth picked up the note and smoothed the paper in her lap. The scratchy writing was barely legible.

Must see you … cloakroom … life or …  

The conversation around the table was enthusiastic and loud. Sage Financial Management sought only the most eager and the most talented financial wizards for its senior leadership. At the moment, the richest of the brain trust were gathered in the presence of the Old Man, himself.

This was lunch, strictly off the clock, at one of the shinier restaurants in the financial district. They were still working, of course. They were always working. While there was a dollar to be made, Sage Financial would never rest.

And so Wilger Sage, the Old Man of Sage Financial Management, sat in the restaurant of the Brandeis Hotel with the people that oversaw the bits and pieces of his empire. These were the fund managers and the forecasters, the handful of people smart enough to determine in advance the course of stocks and bonds in a global market.

Among these few, Elizabeth Tennant was the most successful. She saw trends before they happened and managed contingencies with unwarranted calm. She sold high. She bought low. She made money for Sage Financial, and money made the Old Man very happy.  

The rest of the table was embroiled in small conversations, managing money or careers, so no one paid any attention when Elizabeth left her chair and slipped off toward the cloak room.

The Brandeis Hotel still retained some of the amenities of the day in which it was built, like the swirling staircases, the attended elevators, and the room that was reserved for wealthy diners to hang their coats. Elizabeth didn’t see anyone waiting for her, but she ducked into the room and watched the door. 

“Were you followed?” a voice hissed behind her.

She turned around and scanned the row of coats. “Is anyone there?” she asked.

“Did they see you come in here?” the voice hissed again.

It seemed to be coming from a camel-colored overcoat. She noticed sneakers and blue jeans sticking out underneath.

“Kenny?”

The coat opened, and Kenny peeked out between the lapels. He was hardly the model Sage employee. He delivered packages and letters across town on a bicycle, which gave him permission for the sneakers and jeans.

“I heard something,” he said in a loud whisper. “I had to tell you.”

“What is so important?” she asked, with a hint of scolding in her voice.

“I saw a memo,” he said, his voice thin and hoarse. “Old Man Sage approved it, but I don’t think he knows what he signed.”

Kenny’s hands gripped the lapels of the coat.

“The first one to make a mistake goes to Philly,” Kenny announced. “You know, the pro bono office.”

Elizabeth had promoted the idea of offering free financial services in a very inner-city neighborhood in Philadelphia. The work had not been popular with Sage management, but it had earned them some credibility with the community and, more importantly, with the securities regulatory agencies.

The Philly office put a human face on the company, but to work there was career suicide.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What kind of mistake?”

“The memo says that no one can publicly credit any entity for the success of Sage ventures,” Kenny explained, “except Sage itself.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she frowned. “Who wrote that memo?”

“Donaldson, Fritwell, and Kone,” Kenny listed the names he had seen, “plus Old Man Sage.” He squinted, and his voice became more serious. “You have to be careful.”

“Careful of what?”

“Don’t you see?” Kenny pushed his way out of the camel coat. “This was written for you. You’re always crediting your family for your success,” he said, “or worse yet, when people pay you a compliment, you give credit to God.”

“So?”

“If you do any of that, while this memo is in effect, it will look like you aren’t a team player! They’ll transfer you to the inner city!”

He stopped, and lowered his voice.

“They want you out!” he whispered. “And this is the only way they can do it!” 

“Thank you, Kenny,” she said.

“It’s temporary,” he added. “Just keep a low profile for a few weeks.” 

“I can’t,” she told him.

“You don’t have to do anything different,” he pleaded, “just don’t do it in public!”

“Then what’s the point?” she asked.

He stood there, surrounded by thick, plush garments, and he felt cold. She wasn’t going to change.

“Thank you, Kenny,” she put a hand on his shoulder, “for everything you tried to do.”

And then she walked away. She was one of the good ones, he thought, one of the few good people in a place like Sage, and she was leaving. Shivering, he hoisted his courier bag and headed for the street.

When Elizabeth returned to the table, they were talking about profits. Raymond Donaldson commented on the performance of their premier fund for the last quarter.

“You did a great job,” he told Elizabeth. The table grew silent. Elizabeth thought Myron Kone leaned in closer to hear what she had to say.

“Thank you, Ray,” Elizabeth said graciously. “I think the company is doing especially well right now. That’s something to be proud of.”

On the other side of the table, Old Man Sage beamed. 

“But you,” Raymond pressed, “you did especially well. You dumped Mountain Tech before anyone knew that they were in trouble.”

“Yes,” she said, “but you know what my daddy told me. ‘If a deal smells rotten, don’t go poking it with a stick.’”

Myron leaned back, a smile creeping across his face.

“You learned a lot from your daddy,” Raymond prompted.

“I owe my father a great deal,” Elizabeth replied. “I have to give him a lot of credit for who I am today.”

Myron’s smile widened. Cutler Fritwell shot a quick look at Old Man Sage.

“And I have to say that God has been good to me,” Elizabeth added. She looked around the room. “There are times when I can’t find any reason for things going well, except that God gives me success. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to just pray, real quick, before my meal comes. Excuse me.”

She bowed her head and thanked God for Kenny, for the company, and most of all, for the grace that followed her into any situation, any place, no matter how dangerous it might seem.

When she looked up, they were all staring at her. Old Man Sage seemed unusually pale.

“Elizabeth,” Ray Donaldson asked, “are you familiar with the pro bono office in Philly?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at each of them in turn before fixing her attention on Raymond Donaldson.

“Yes I am.”

 

[-] © 2006