On a soggy Sunday morning: Mark was the first to stir as the sun’s rays began streaking through the clouds shading the coastal city, the night’s clear sky had given way to a mist he could almost touch. The onetime Wildcat looked outside, then around the cabin while searching for his phone.
After yawning and stretching where he could Mark mumbled to nobody in particular “it’s 8:30, doesn’t look like 8:30…does it?”
Once the door was open and the nominal captain climbed out he heard a familiar voice.
“Going somewhere Solo?”
Mark turned to find Claire was not only awake, but had rolled down the window and was pointedly staring at him.
“Just heading to the front desk to check in and get our keys, wanna’ come with?”
She laughed, then replied “sure, I could use a little exercise.” Continue reading
Somebody in George W. Bush’s inner circle of advisers had to have been aware of Afghanistan’s reputation before he sent American troops over the border in 2001. The landlocked central Asian nation is known as the “Graveyard of Empires,” having turned back armies led by Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan, as well as British invaders and Soviet forces. That history colors Al Qaeda’s Great Escape in a prologue that includes a few eloquent passages from Winston Churchill’s coverage of the nineteenth century “Malakand Expedition” for the Daily Telegraph. His commentary haunts everything that follows, as does Philip Smucker’s occasionally dark thoughts about front-line journalism, an experience he equated with returning from an “abyss populated by bloody babies and headless rebels.” Continue reading
This long night in Santa Barbara: The group huddled, but before anyone could cast their vote an Arco sign appeared in the distance. A purple square fronted the neighboring store, one with orange letters that spelled out Rainbow Donuts. They had arrived, but were going the wrong way and already passed the first available left turn lane. It was quiet that night, but there was enough traffic on the road to prevent a quick U-turn: a Subaru passed by, then a Kia and a pair of black-and-white cruisers with their lights on and sirens off.
Gwen pursed her lips. “That’s weird.”
A moment passed before the Nissan circled around to make its way toward Seaside Estates and those warm beds within. When the car’s headlights found its gates they shone on a pair of modest, turquoise pillars and a sliding gold-flecked gate; the push-button box mounted on the median was their way in. Mark pressed the big, square button under its speaker. The reply was unexpectedly blunt.
“Hi, yeah, I have a reservation for Edith Tilton,” Mark replied. “We’re friends of hers…she’s not here, but she called ahead, talked to Adam about this.”
The box squawked, “Just a minute,” then went silent. Continue reading
As their paths crossed again: The midnight-blue Nissan was cruising South on Highway 101, ninety minutes out of San Francisco, carrying a quartet of old friends and a trunk stuffed with backpacks and roll-away luggage. They were headed to the southern California coast for a week-long vacation when Zeke piped up and the first notes of Last Night faded from the Sentra’s speakers.
“How did you pull this off?”
Mark cocked his head, signaled a lane-change, and responded to his co-pilot.
“What part did I miss? My sister has a friend in the neighborhood she cat-sits for who owns this place, but can’t use it now. Brooke can’t get away either, so it fell to me…and since there are three rooms and nobody objected I brought all of you.”
“I got that, but these time shares have a bad rep. Supposedly, they make newbs sit through presentations and pressure ’em to sign contracts.”
“But we’re not fresh meat. The place is bought-and-paid-for,” Mark grinned, “if they do try something like that I’ll refer them to Claire.”
For a moment the redhead in the back seat looked upset, then those green eyes flashed and she shot back, “Okay, but it’s going to cost you.” Continue reading
On a quiet September afternoon, Colonel Vasily Petrov received a satchel and a pair of sealed envelopes from Moscow that contained a short, coded message: the satchel held three 9mm pistols, two submachine guns, and several spare magazines for each weapon. A year of planning and preparation had ended. It was time to commence “Operation Zero.” Outside the Russian Mission in New York former NYPD homicide detective John Corey is watching and waiting. As a contract agent for the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, his job is to follow the Russian. Corey is at turns disinterested, even cynical — at one point describing a job where “we all…take pictures of each other” — but flashes of his “detective instincts” break through the sardonic humor. His partner in this follow-up to The Panther is Tess Faraday, an aspiring FBI agent who drifts between bubbly and unsure of herself on this mission as they head for a beach house in the Hamptons. Continue reading
‘Visionary’ is not a word commonly associated with literary drama…it’s better suited to science fiction. Something about William Gibson’s work sets it apart from Michael Connely’s, no matter how good both are at writing fiction. There was something about Jim Lehrer’s The Last Debate that read like a forecast when I found it on a shelf at the local library. This 20-year-old Novel of Politics and Journalism sounds fairly routine from the start, and quite familiar. Americans are looking forward to a presidential debate where they are left with an “impossible choice” between a charismatic Republican and a colorless Democrat. The panelists include two rookies: Barbara Manning, an African-American writer for a weekly magazine, and Henry Ramirez, Latino child of illegal immigrants and radio news correspondent with “fantasies of political grandeur.” Also on board are veterans Joan Naylor, a television news anchor upset over losing the moderator’s job to Michael Howley, once an aspiring William Faulkner, now a newspaper writer. Continue reading
If there’s anything true about movie fans and readers it’s that they’re an opinionated lot. Everyone has a favorite. So loyalties are bound to be tested when Hollywood digs into the well of ready-made screenplays at the local Barnes and Noble. In a showdown between different versions of the same story everyone has a favorite. This year’s round of Oscar nominees included a pair of notables, The Martian and The Revenant. Michael Lewis’ tome The Big Short is another member of the crossover club carrying the ‘based on a true story’ label that remained high on critic’s lists without visiting outer space or including a bear in the cast. The author of Moneyball tackled the Great Recession, the still-relevant 2007-2008 stock market crash in a way that doesn’t require a doctorate in economics by connecting it to the experiences of five men who — as one associate put it — made a fortune betting against a pyramid scheme in the housing market nobody else could see.
Each of them worked in finance, but were not “inside the belly of the beast,” as a partner at one money management firm explained to Lewis. “We saw the bodies being carried out, but we were never inside.” Their ranks included Steve Eisman, a Harvard Law graduate and erstwhile corporate lawyer with an affinity for Spider-Man; and Mike Burry, a former medical resident, trader, and blogger who started a capital investment fund with money from an insurance settlement. The group also included Cornwall Capital: partners Charlie Ledley and Jamie Mai had been associates at a New York private equity firm then struck out on their own in the options market and traded Powerpoint presentations over what the next move should be; and their associate Ben Hockett, a former derivatives trader who brought along a tendency to hunt for financial and environmental disasters. Each approached the same events from a different angle, but didn’t hold on to the same assumptions bond traders and rating agencies did.
The 2015 movie is a different animal. The ability to distinguish a Credit Default Swap from a Collateralized Debt Obligation is not essential, but it does help. Lewis’ telling is a bit like watching CNBC — the primary audience has enough of an idea that it doesn’t need a refresher. Adam McKay’s adaptation is closer to The Daily Show with its footnotes and asides — the Jenga bit is a good example — that make the related jargon understandable; an important feature with more complex derivatives, like one known as a synthetic CDO. The Anchorman auteur took a chance by breaking Denis Diderot’s fourth wall a few times to bring the audience into the scam in a movie that could otherwise play like a satire, an unintended benefit of Lewis’ thorough research. The Blind Side author included tales of CDO traders who were profiting handsomely from the subprime business and employees at one of three rating agencies who were unwilling to prod big players like Goldman Sachs and Deutsche Bank for fear of losing out to their rivals.
Both versions are missing anything more than anecdotes from the borrowers central to events, like one Lewis offered of a housekeeper/townhouse owner from New York who, as the home’s value climbed, was approached by lenders encouraging her to refinance and take out another loan. Their stories could have been useful along the way, but would have drawn the focus from where it belongs when panic and denial start setting in as default rates overwhelmed lender’s projections. There are plenty of theories that explain who or what was at fault; fingers started pointing in every direction from the first signs of a collapse. Inside the Doomsday Machine is not an attempt to find an answer or a villain. It is a window into the chain of events that inspired a call to use eminent domain to rescue “underwater” homeowners, rallied protesters seeking refinancing on upside-down loans, and brought on a settlement between five major banks and the federal government. It is still echoing in this year’s presidential campaign, most notably in Bernie Sanders’ crusade against Wall Street. After this ride the finance industry will never look the same again.