Everly Mannington

by Robert S. Murillo

Everly Mannington stepped out of the elevator onto the thirty-third floor of the Bank of America Building. The whole floor belonged to Stanford-Morgan Securities. He walked directly to the receptionist, who was on the phone, laid a long stem rose on her desk, grinned and winked at the woman, and proceeded to his office. It was 6:15 a.m.

He pushed the button on the Illy espresso machine, sat down at his Parnian desk, and snapped on his computer. Immediately, his HD monitor lit up. While the espresso spit and gurgled into his porcelain cup, Everly Mannington opened the pinkish Financial Times. He hummed to himself as he scanned the paper while waiting for the market to open. In about ten minutes, at 6:30 sharp, the stock symbols on his screen would begin blinking green and red—indicating if a stock were moving up or down.

A smile on his lips, espresso now in hand, he was the epitome of a successful stockbroker. He wore a well-tailored Armani suit—one of many he owned—this one was navy with thin, white pinstripes. A light blue pocket square, displayed in a three-point fold, poked out of the jacket pocket. He sported an immaculately white Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt and wore a silk tie of thin cobalt blue and dark red stripes. Gold cufflinks in the shape of miniature baseballs bore the logo of his beloved San Francisco Giants.

He was tall, but not too tall. Trim without looking too buff. And good-looking enough to turn a head. Only twenty-nine, he was one of the two largest producers in an office of forty-three brokers. Ev—the name most folks around the office called him—had recently invested $50,000 in a small ‘start-up’ company at two dollars a share that had closed yesterday at over three dollars, and he had recently got a ‘thumbs- up’ on a $40,000,000 account with Sterling Research, a rapidly growing bio-tech company near Silicon Valley that was anxious to go public. And last, but far from least, Everly Mannington had fallen head over heels for Jessica Brooks, who currently worked as the company’s receptionist and ran the switchboard.

Jessica sat at the front desk in the lobby answering the myriad of phone calls, dispatching them to the brokers almost continuously throughout the morning. Like Everly Mannington, she arrived before the market opened, she at six sharp. Though overqualified to be doing this kind of basic, secretarial work, Jessica wanted to be located near the business and financial centers of San Francisco. The B of A Building provided that centrality—and explained why, when offered the job fulltime after ‘temping’ for two months, Jessica had jumped at the opportunity. That had been three months ago. The early hours at first took some getting used-to but she was done by three, allowing her to use her afternoons to search for a position as a graphic designer—a profession where she could make use of her education and her natural talents. But she had run head-on into the recession which saw San Francisco’s unemployment rate surging every month. For now, she remained thankful and content she had the job at Stanford-Morgan.

Jessica Brooks was blessed with kind green eyes, a lithe healthy body, skin that most women dreamt about (or botoxed for) and a warm smile that invited smiles in return. Her twenty-fourth birthday was this Saturday. Her plans? To spend the weekend with Everly Mannington. She had been warned about Everly Mannington from the first day she started working at the investment company. She had heard all the accounts about his reputation as a lothario but his persistence and charm were overwhelming. He made her laugh, was thoughtful, and she felt her heart rate go up each time he called or was near her. She had guardedly started dating him but it wasn’t long before she found herself comfortable around him and looking forward to their time together. Jessica Brooks, except for a regretful alcohol-induced mistake in college, had remained as virgin as a nun until she had been assigned to the Stanford-Morgan position. Until she had fallen in love with Everly Mannington.

Ev Mannington’s phone rang. “Kevin! Hey, bro, how goes it?” It was his manager. Not many managers would tolerate being addressed as ‘bro’ by a broker but when your boy wonder is producing almost $2 million a year during a bear market, there are certain concessions a manager will make. However, this time, there was no concession in Kevin’s voice. “We need to talk, Ev. Right away!”

“Sure, let me grab a fresh cup of espresso and I’ll be right over.” He hung up the phone. Was there a tinge of ‘something’ in Kevin’s voice? He grinned it off, brewed himself an extra-strong espresso by placing two pods into the machine, checked the screen to see if the market had opened—it hadn’t—grabbed the small cup of pungent coffee, and strolled over to his manager’s office, walking right in.

“What’s up, Kev?” he quipped. Kevin looked up and said flatly, “Close the door, Ev, and sit down.” Everly Mannington closed the door, sat down, crossed his legs, flicked a piece of lint off his pants, took a sip from his very white espresso cup and flashed his even whiter teeth.

“Ev, I have some bad news. I just received a call from Compliance. That little stock you bought last week for your account was not Blue Skied in California. Not only that, our Compliance people have found that the company was a shell; some of the so-called founders have been arrested and the stock was de-listed this morning. It’s worthless, Ev, and obviously won’t open today.”

“Whoa! Are you telling me my $50,000 is gone? There’s no way of getting any of that money back?”

“None. And that may not be the worst of it. You’re forgetting the stock wasn’t Blue Skied, and you should have known that. And as a ‘stockholder’ and a financial advisor, you’ll be subject to some questioning.” He paused. “I’m not sure what I can do about your Blue Sky blunder, but I can assure you that you’ll be receiving a phone call from New York. Don’t mess with them Ev. Just answer their questions.”

Everly Mannington slowly walked back to his office—some of his bravado missing—mumbling to himself. “Fifty grand. Gonzo!” He entered his office and sat down. His voicemail light was blinking. He picked up the receiver and punched in his code. Immediately a metallic male voice politely informed him that he had had one call at 6:47 that morning. Then he heard, “Ev, this is Jessica. I have to see you. I’m taking a break at ten. Meet me downstairs at Peet’s.”

Everly Mannington slowly hung up the phone; they had promised not to see each other at work. “Probably needs to talk about the weekend,” he thought. He had planned a special ‘birthday weekend’ for them in Carmel. He attempted a smile; his thoughts drifting to walks along a quiet beach, dinners by candlelight, and a diamond engagement ring locked in the glove box in his car. It helped.

His daydream was interrupted when Ian Spencer, his partner in the Sterling deal, burst into his office and blurted, “We got problems, my man!”

Everly Mannington internally winced and thought, What the hell is going…? But to Ian he simply said, “What’s up?”

“I just got a call from a buddy at Merrill. Seems like some hotshot in his office has been giving tennis lessons—and who knows what else—to ol’ Sterling’s daughter. And now ‘Daddy Dear’ wants to ‘re-think’ the deal. I don’t like the looks of this, Ev.”

“I’ll call him. The old guy and I hit it off really well when I was down there on Thursday. We’ll be OK, Spence. Don’t worry.”

But Ian Spencer was worried. “Call him this morning, for God’s sake! I’ve already spent most of the money I thought we’d bagged.”

Ev, annoyed by his partner’s haughty, presumptuous attitude, retorted, “Look, I’ll take care of it, Spence.” He turned away from Ian and started reading the paper. Ian stood there for a good ten seconds before emitting an under-his-breath “Shit!” as he marched out of Everly Mannington’s office.

Everly set the paper aside and dialed the office of Sterling Research, asking to speak with Dr. Richard Sterling. He thought he would be placed right through, as he had always been. Instead, he was placed on hold for more than two minutes before he heard, “Mr. Sterling is in conference right now. You might try calling back later.”

Might? Try? He didn’t like the sound of that. Last week, he had spent most of the day with Sterling. They had played golf in the morning, had lunch, and, then over coffee, had laid the groundwork for a possible public offering early next year. Sterling had been excited about the future, delighted with Stanford-Morgan’s credentials, and elated with Everly Mannington. Now Sterling was seemingly ignoring him. Ev tried every half-hour for the next three hours. Finally, he was told that Mr. Sterling would not be available for the rest of the day “…but if you wish to call back tomorrow?”

Ev slowly slid the receiver into the cradle. “What the fuck is going on?” He looked to the ceiling for an answer and found nothing.

Everly Mannington took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He checked his Rolex. Five to ten. He grabbed his coat and hustled to the elevator. It dropped thirty-three floors, letting him out in the lobby. Peet’s Coffee was across the way. He saw Jessica sitting at a small round table. She saw him but didn’t wave. He smoothly slipped into a chair across from her right on time.

“Hey, Jes. What a morning! What’s up? I thought we agreed not to meet during market hours.“

Everly scanned Peet’s as if the police were looking for him. Jessica stared at him, her eyes moist. Both her hands folded in her lap, clutching multiple tissues. When Ev finally focused and met Jessica’s eyes, he knew something was very wrong. “What’s the matter, Sweetie?” He went to reach for hands that weren’t there.

“Ev…I saw my doctor yesterday,” she said bravely, evenly. She blotted her eyes, hesitating, tried a smile, and sat up straight. Then she leaned toward him and—her voice mostly whimper and whisper—said quite clearly, “I have a serious case of herpes.”

“What?!”

Everly Mannington made his way back to his office, collapsing heavily into his Italian leather chair. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers and let out a very long sigh.

He slowly looked up and saw his voicemail light on the telephone was blinking again. “What now?” he cried as he punched in his code. The voicemail was from Kevin. “Where the hell have you been? Compliance called looking for you, and they’re not happy. It appears you solicited this shit to a client here in California. Thirty-five thousand shares worth! At two bucks a share! You’re going to have to cover that, Ev. What were you thinking? Get your ass over here as soon as you get this message! We need to call New York back immediately!”

This time, when Everly Mannington left his manager’s office, he was visibly shaken. He was pale, his shoulders sagged, his lips a tight thin line. He dragged his feet across the thick, dark green carpet that lined the hallways until he found his office. The last thing Kevin told him was “Get out of here for the rest of the day! We’ll talk more about this tomorrow!” Ev grabbed his coat, flipped off the computer and the coffeepot, and stood for a moment trying to recover his poise, the ‘cool,’ that he had always personified. He marched by Ian’s office without looking in. Fortunately for Ev—or maybe for Ian—Ian was on the phone, facing a wall-size window with a panoramic vista of north San Francisco—a view that included Coit Tower, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County. The offices with these views were reserved for the “big hitters” and Ev’s office was just down the hall with a slightly better shot of the Golden Gate.

As Ev approached the elevator, he saw that Jessica wasn’t at the front desk, that Stephanie, a sales assistant, was still covering for her.

“You be back, Ev?” Stephanie asked.

“No…Tell Jes…” he paused. “Never mind…”

The elevator ‘binged’ and the doors opened. It was empty.

He would call Jessica later from his cell phone. Right now, he needed to get out of there, sort things out.

He took the elevator straight down to the underground parking garage, stepped out and stood tall. In spite of his morning from hell, Everly Mannington kept his fury and frustration bottled up. He inhaled, held the air for a moment before slowly exhaling. Composure regained, he pulled back his shoulders and almost strutted to his car.

Maybe I’ll take a drive across the Bridge…cruise the headlands. Assess the damage…sort things out…

He hit the button on his key fob to open the car doors and immediately heard the double beep while the amber taillights blinked. But when Everly Mannington got to his car—a black Mercedes SL63 AMG Roadster—he froze. The left rearview mirror was dangling from the door by its internal parts and wires. The door itself had been attacked by someone wielding a sharp object—probably a key—that left deep, multiple gashes in the paint. The driver’s side window was shattered. He ran to the opening, looked in and saw that the glove compartment door had been forced open.

“Oh shit!”

He threw open the driver’s door and slid into the car, sitting on hundreds of tiny pieces of glass and leaned toward the glove box. He reached in, felt around. It was gone!

The color drained from his face. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His eyes, now round and distant, slowly looked up through the windshield. On the concrete wall in front of his car, a sign read: PARK AT YOUR OWN RISK! It might as well have said THE LAST STRAW!

Everly Mannington’s mind, the mind that could see through every obstacle in packaging a successful business deal, “the mind that could bind” the different personalities of a many-sided and complex proposal, and coolly charm both men and women at every social event—now quietly snapped. Instead of yelling, pounding the dash with his fist, or seeking the proprietors of the parking lot, he slammed the car door shut—the hanging, outside mirror banging heavily against the damaged side of the car.

He started the powerful engine and threw the gearshift into reverse. The sports car literally jumped out of its parking place, scraping the side of the Cadillac Escalade parked in the next stall. He hit the brakes, shoved the lever from reverse into drive, and floored the gas pedal, laying rubber and fishtailing through the underground lot. When he got to the pay booth, he slowed just enough—still crashing through the wooden guardrail—to make the right-hand turn up the exit ramp. Again, he pushed the accelerator to the floor and the car literally went airborne as it left the building.

He landed solidly on California Street, barely missing a cable car full of tourists heading westward up the hill. The cable car clanged; its passengers screamed. Everly heard nothing. He aimed the car down and eastward toward Montgomery Street, where two jaywalking Wells Fargo brokers miraculously dodged the streaking ebony missile. Everly saw nothing.

Jessica had sat at Peet’s and finished her coffee while she reflected on Ev’s words. Not ready to return to the office, she decided to go for a walk. She found the weather cool and refreshing and she actually felt a little better. Her fears that Ev might claim innocence—denying any responsibility for her situation, had abated. He had also assured her that “We’ll get through this together.” And promised that he would make arrangements to see his doctor right away. Before he left her, Ev had reached across the small table and took her face in his hands and said “I love you, Jes.” And she believed him. But right now, it didn’t lessen her pain. Each time she thought of her condition and felt the discomfort of the infection, tears welled and streaked down her cheeks.

Not surprisingly, her jaunt had taken her to the Walgreen’s located on the northeast corner of California and Montgomery, where she had bought—and opened—a box of Kleenex. Standing at that corner, she waited for the green WALK sign to flash, permitting crossing in all directions. She pulled a tissue and blew her nose. Just then the light turned and Jessica Brooks stepped off the curb.