Baila Minsky sniffed and shook her head as she watched her boss head into his office.

She’d worked as a medical secretary for 33 years before leaving and looking for something with better hours — here, she was only needed from eleven to three thirty — but even those hours, she mused, seemed too much for her new boss.

Yosef Sitman was half her age and she had more experience in her little finger, she would tell Shlomo Zalman each night, then he had in his whole body, yet she still felt like he talked down to her.

If he were her son, she often thought, she would tell him a thing or two — about the way he dressed, the way he spoke, about his attitude. She’d worked for successful people before and had never seen such poor habits: Her new boss would nap on the maroon leather couch in his office, and he was busy ordering lunch 20 minutes after he finally rolled in.

And this was something she hadn’t told Shlomo Zalman — it was too disturbing — she was fairly certain she’d seen Mr. Sitman davening Shacharis — tallis, tefillin, and all — in his office, all by himself, after 11 o’clock one day.

Baila Minsky was an expert coffee maker. She’d been the one who’d gotten Dr. Hershkopf to switch to decaf; her coffee was so good, he said, that he hadn’t been able to tell the difference. But Yosef Sitman didn’t like coffee, he drank chai tea and he prepared it himself.

By her reckoning, the business should have been a failure, but she did the numbers and there was no question that the JS Spectra Fund was doing well.

Money was moving. Her boss, it seemed, had the magic touch and everyone was eager to invest with him. Money was coming in and going out as per his instructions, and investors were being issued checks precisely on time.

She’d decided to ask for a raise the previous week, preparing a big speech about punctuality, experience, and dedication. Sitman had barely looked up. “Sure, sure, no problem,” he said, “go back to the beginning of the month and apply it.”

She’d walked out feeling confused. She’d gotten the raise, but for some reason, it felt like she’d lost.

Now, Yosef Sitman stood in the doorway and looked at her.

“Mrs. Minsky, did a wire come in today?”

She looked back at the screen, minimized the article she was reading on Yeshiva World News about rising gas prices ahead of the summer travel season, and checked.

“Yes.” She was all efficiency. “Fifty thousand dollars from Akiva Denburger.”

“Perfect, thanks,” he nodded briskly and started to close his office door. “Please move it straight into the fund. I’m going into a new deal later today and want Denburger in it.”

Benjy Halb hung up the phone and frowned. Something was bothering him, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

He deliberated about calling Aryeh, then decided against it, then changed his mind again and called his eldest son.

“Aryeh, you have a minute?”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 732)