“I’m just waiting for a callback from Mr. Lapidus,” I explain.

“Son, if you ever put me on hold again…”

Whatever he’s saying, I’m not listening. Instead, my fingers snake across my cell, rapidly dialing Lapidus’s pager. The moment I hear the beep, I enter my extension and add the number “ 1822.” The ultimate emergency: 911 doubled.

“… nother one of your sorry-ass excuses – all I want to hear is that the transfer’s complete!”

“I understand, sir.”

“No, son. You don’t.”

C’mon, I beg, staring at my cell. Ring!

“What time does your last transfer go out?” he barks.

“Actually, we officially close at three…” The clock on my wall says a quarter past three.

“… but sometimes we can extend it until four.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Now what’s the account number and bank it’s supposed to go to?”

He quickly relays the details, which I scribble on a nearby Post-It. Eventually, he adds, “Oliver Caruso, right? That’s your name?” His voice is soft and smooth.

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Mr. Caruso. That’s all I need to know.” With that, he hangs up. I look at my silent cell phone. Still nothing.

Within three minutes, I’ve paged and dialed every other partner I have access to. No one answers. This is a hundred-and-twenty-five-million-dollar account. I pull off my coat and claw at my tie. With a quick scan of our network’s Rolodex, I find the number for the University Club – home of the partners retreat. By the time I start dialing, I swear I can hear my own heartbeat.

“You’ve reached the University Club,” a female voice answers.

“Hi, I’m looking for Henry Lapi-”

“If you’d like to speak to the club operator or to a guest room, please press zero,” the recorded voice continues.

I pound zero and another mechanized voice says, “All operators are busy – please continue to hold.” Grabbing my cell, I dial frantically, looking for anyone with authority. Baraff… Bernstein… Mary in Accounting – Gone, Gone, and Gone.