Again, Casey felt grateful to Walter. He seemed so gracious and thoughtful. Whatever she’d heard about B school or HBS or the hasty opinions she’d formed from knowing Ted were challenged by Walter, who seemed so considerate and modest in contrast. His humor had disarmed Kevin effectively. Casey was rarely if ever defended by anyone, and Walter’s care made a big impression on her.
Casey wished she could find him attractive, however. When she thought about love and sex, she wanted a kind of cartoonish yellow thunderbolt to strike her—shazam!—to tell her that he was the one. For good or for bad, that almost never happened. As odd as this was, most of the boys she’d dated or slept with had wanted her more than she had wanted them, and their desire alone had been enough to cover her lack. Enough desire could induce her to feel enchanted for a while. With Jay, there had been a singular kind of thrill, a kind of lightning knowing. There was no wedding ring on Walter’s ring finger （he was maybe thirty—old enough to be married） and no framed girlfriend’s picture on his desk. Ted had told her that Walter was Chinese, but Casey couldn’t always tell the difference between Chinese and Koreans just by looking. Walter was tall like Kevin—taller than Ted—and had a pudgy boyish face in a perpetually bemused state. His two-button suit in a rich gray wool was cut conservatively, and unlike the others nearby, he’d kept his jacket on. His shirt looked custom-made, each cuff buttoned thrice, a small notch found at the edge.
“You see, Casey”—Walter arched his right eyebrow for emphasis—“in a few minutes, there will be a stampede to that conference room”—he pointed to the room that Kevin had glanced at previously—“and Kevin Jennings, master of free lunches, will fill his plate, then be a tad kinder to humanity, including prospective assistants.” In stereo, Hugh and Walter made loud seagull sounds. Caw-caw-caw filled the air. Hugh pretended to flap his wings and narrowed his eyes searchingly, looking like a scavenger. Walter acted as if he were throwing bread crumbs at Hugh. They were working hard to make her laugh, and Casey tried not to crack up.
Kevin rolled his eyes at them and returned to his screen, at least until, as Walter had predicted, the walnut-paneled doors opened for the free food. The aromas of the Indian food issuing from the room were intoxicating. He tried to read the research report. The day before, he’d told a client that the chip maker was at best a neutral, and now the bonehead analyst had changed his mind, saying buy. If Kevin called the client back, he’d look like a moron. Besides, the analyst’s rationale was unpersuasive, and the friggin’ charts made no sense. Fuck, he thought.
Kevin grunted, and no one paid him any mind.
This Casey Han girl didn’t look as though she were going to work out. Was she working Ted? Kevin wondered. Possible. Whatever. He wanted to get rid of her so he could get the idiot analyst on the horn before lunch, but the guys were going to kill him if the parade of temp assistants didn’t end soon. On a hunch, the girl appeared unsuited for Wall Street. The traders called him Kevlar Kevin because his instinctive calls were eerily bulletproof. However, the girl’s résumé was unimpeachable. On paper, she was a WOW—walks on water—candidate. But he didn’t like the way Hugh Underhill was looking at her. To his knowledge, Hugh had not yet bonked a sales assistant, but this one was cuter than the ones who’d been on the desk previously. If Hugh wanted a girl, he bagged her. That’s all Kevin needed now, a flaky daddy’s girl screwing his best broker. And if WOW ended up sinking, he’d have to fire her; as it was, they were also calling him Murphy Brown—the TV character who couldn’t keep a secretary.
“B school, B school,” Kevin muttered to himself, looking for a way out. “So why not be an analyst like your buddy Ted Kim? Get into the investment banking program or some”—he stopped himself from saying “shit”—“thing like that.” When he mentioned the banking program, the brokers made faces as though something smelled bad.
“I don’t want to make books,” she said, borrowing a phrase she’d heard Jay’s friends say in their complaints about the investment banking program. Hoping to sound like a sales and trading kind of person, Casey said, “I want more action.”
The men who sat alongside each other laughed heartily. Casey didn’t get it. Then Hugh, the one who had not yet been introduced, said, “And what kind of action are you looking for, exactly?” Then Casey closed her eyes, turning scarlet.