Her hip touches mine. I blink when a bead of sweat slides down into my right eye.
“Don’t they require identification when you get those bank checks?” she says.
I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. My heart rate feels a bit high. “As long as the amount’s under ten thousand, usually not. But if they do, I’ll just say I left my driver’s license in the car and walk out. Go on to the next bank.”
She lays her hand on my thigh. It burns like a hot iron. “How efficient.”
Man, oh, man. The redhead is coming on hard and I’m not sure what to do about it. I mean, my dick’s wanted to get naked with her for over a year, that chemistry thing, but my brain says I must focus on maintaining the account. I need the business. My kids need the business. Sex could louse things up.
“I should call my office,” I say.
“Why?”
“To tell them I’ll be busy all day with a client.”
“Sounds like an excuse for sex to me. Do you use that one a lot?”
My heart ticks up another notch. “Only Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Naughty boy.”
Kelly leans her body against me. She smells like flowery soap. Lilacs, I think. Her hand on my thigh hums like an electric vibrator. Despite direct orders from the brain, my gaze won’t leave the roundness of her breasts peeking above the swimsuit.
“Would you like your bonus in advance?” she asks.
Oh, my.
“Kelly, this isn’t a good idea. Our relationship should be—”
Kelly presses hard against me, sticks her tongue in my ear. Blood rushes to my crotch.
“Sorry I’m acting like a whore. It’s just Gerry’s been sick a long time. I haven’t...you know...in six months. And I felt something for you a year ago. I thought you did, too.”
Damn. That’s it. I mean, how am I supposed to resist this? At least Luis can’t see me sleeping with another man’s wife. He would be shocked and appalled.
The redhead massages me between my legs. “Ooo. Looks like you’ve already got your bonus.”
That night, alone in my camper, another conjugal date with my married lover set for the day after tomorrow, even memories of my children Ryan and Beth become sleepy time second fiddle. I dream exclusively of the future widow, the natural and true redhead, Mrs. Kelly Rockland Burns.
And I feel like a heel doing it.
EIGHT
At the office next morning, I’m collecting various forms for Kelly’s new account when our fixed-income desk uncovers bad-ass ugly news: an issue of tax-free St. Louis hospital bonds Shore helped underwrite is trading flat, or without interest.
“Crap,” Walter says.
This is a major disaster. As opposed to your everyday so-what calamity we’re all used to. Shore’s principle owner, Straight Up Vic Bonacelli, received a personal and substantial bonus for every one of these St. Louis hospital bonds we sold during last year’s public offering. Thus Mr. Vic made hawking them mandatory, and the object of a special sales contest. Thus we sold our little fannies off. Thus Shore customers own a boat-load.
I personally have three or four big clients in these St. Louis bonds, including one wild man who’s already pissed at me for a previous and equally unfortunate investment recommendation. Can’t wait to call Psycho Samson with this news. Psycho’s just his old stage name, but Wacky, Nutso, or Crazy would work as well.
There’ll be more information for us at a sales meeting in five minutes; the head bond trader shouts above the salesmen’s groans and sighs, but bottom line, our customers won’t be getting their semi-annual interest checks anymore. And oh yes, the bid on these now-defaulted puppies—if you can find a bidder—is nine cents on the dollar. Our customers paid par, or one hundred cents.
Just what I need. Another financial debacle. My limbs feel heavy, my eyes droopy. Is this stress? Or the result of banging my head regularly inside that camper?
I stagger back to the tile and stainless steel kitchen, make a fresh pot of strong coffee, and soothe myself with extra non-dairy creamer and double the non-sugar sugar. By the time I wander into Shore Securities’ oak-paneled meeting room, sales manager Tom Ragsdale is already delivering another one of his infamous and insightful analyses.
“After a late escrow payment, the bank trustee issued a notice of technical default,” Rags says. “The hospital was forced to file for bankruptcy, so it looks like our bondholders won’t be receiving their interest payments for a while.”
Looks like? For a while?
Rags being a genius is why Shore Securities’ owner Straight Up Vic made him sales manager. Well, that and Rags’ recent engagement to Vic’s daughter Carmela.
“What do we tell our clients?” Walter says.
“Tell them the hospital filed for bankruptcy protection under Chapter Eleven,” Rags says. “That’s a voluntary reorganization. It could take a while, but our clients’ principal is secured by a first mortgage on the hospital’s land and property.”
I see two or three inexperienced brokers sigh with relief. They believe Rags’ implication that a first mortgage means our bondholder clients have the St. Louis hospital firmly by the short and curlies. Experience has taught me otherwise. If the hospital’s land and property could pay off the bonds—as well as other similar lien holders in a yet-to-be-determined class of bankruptcy petitioners—the bid on our bonds would be a lot higher than nine cents. The market knows this stuff.
“That’s right, Rags,” I say. “Our bondholders have the right to foreclose on the hospital’s land and property. Maybe we can turn the facility into a drug rehab center. I hear that St. Louis neighborhood would provide an excellent base of potential clients.”
Rags stares, then scowls at me. My humor is slow-acting in his system. And extremely toxic. Too bad, boss. This isn’t my first Shore Securities’ bond default. I guarantee the hospital’s expensive medical equipment is one hundred percent leased, thus not attachable, and the buildings and land are worth virtually nothing. An inner city location puts nasty limits on financing and alternative construction opportunities.
I’ve had about enough of this day. Staying at my desk means calling clients to tell them their bonds defaulted. Psycho Samson, a former Notre Dame lineman and pro wrestler, now a fishing boat captain, will probably strangle me. I should probably give him another day of ignorant bliss.
What a world. What a world. I walk out of the meeting and out of the building. I hate to retire so early, but I couldn’t give investments away feeling like this. With rest and attitude adjustment, however, perhaps I can bounce back tomorrow.
Fifteen steps into the fresh air and sunlight, Shore’s open-air parking lot, I hear the door click behind me. Someone’s followed me outside.
It’s Rags. With narrowed eyes. Pinched lips. A twitching muscle near the bottom of his jaw. It ticks with every angry heartbeat.
Rags marches closer, but not too close. I’m standing beside my pick-up mounted camper now and Rags doesn’t want to chance rust on his two thousand dollar Canali suit. Or even dirty his shoes or tie.
“You’re close to getting fired, you know that? Your numbers suck, Carr, and that’s enough for me. But this attitude of yours lately...since I got promoted...it’s affecting the other salesmen.”
The sneer on his lips clenches my right hand into a fist. I’m sick of taking everybody’s shit. My ex-wife. The judge. The gouging divorce lawyer who no longer takes my calls. A daily dose of complaining clients. And now Rags, the new punk sales manager from Staten Island who screwed his way into boss-dom. My hand wants to explode on his nose.
“My attitude isn’t about you,” I say. “This is Shore’s third default in five years, Rags. Any idea how many clients I’ve lost?”
“You’re such a pussy,” he says. “Have you even tried to replace them? When was the last time you stayed late to make cold calls?”
I stare at Rags’ silk tie: baby blue with silver dots shaped like...what, anchors? Knowing Rags??
? penchant for fine apparel and ass-kissing, the tie probably cost two or three hundred bucks and he picked the design because of Straight Up Vic’s interest in boating.
“You’ve lost the killer instinct,” Rags says.
“Not really. It’s just no longer directed at my clients.”
He steps back, maybe wondering if I’ve threatened him, and I seize the opportunity to scramble behind the wheel of my movable home. Rags shakes his head as I start the engine. The snotty, brown-nosed jerk would love to fire me, take my good accounts for himself and pass out the rest to suck-up brokers he wants to cultivate.
But getting rid of Austin Carr won’t be easy, Rags. Straight Up Vic has developed a fondness for my golf game. I regularly make him big money at his club.
Still, Rags could talk him into something stupid if my numbers don’t pick up.
NINE
It’s ten minutes shy of eleven when I get to Luis’s Mexican Grill. The old high-backed dark-wood booths sit idle, but two guys with shaved heads occupy the apex of the horseshoe bar, directly below Luis’s hanging collection of authentic caballista sombreros.
I don’t see Luis, the world’s greatest bartender, but my nose and ears tell me he might be helping Chef Cruz simmer red and green chilies in the back. Somebody’s yakking it up back there. Cooking stuff.
I pick a bar stool near the cash register, away from the Vin Diesel look-a-likes showing off their tattoos in wife-beaters. Both are drinking Buds in tall brown bottles and watching the Yankees replay on a grainy television stuck high against the far wall.
A minute later Luis strides out of the kitchen speaking fast Spanish with a short wiry Latino dressed in black. Black suit, black shirt, a black hat from the 1950s—one of those fedora things—and a black leather string tie.
The way this guy struts, holds his head back, he believes himself cool and tough. Personally, I don’t like the over-confident sneer on his lips or the pencil-thin mustache above them.
Luis breaks off their conversation and ducks under the bar gate. He’s wearing his usual white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the dark slacks, plus a gray vest today. He unlocks the register, gives me a nod. Preoccupied. Or pissed. Don’t know which because I’ve never seen either look on him before. Eyes like a windy night in the fall. Maybe Halloween.
The black-dressed stranger takes a seat two stools down from me. I can smell his cologne. Or perfume. Or the flowery-smelling white powder he sprinkles on his ass to keep his crack dry.
“Que pasa?” I say to Luis. Asking my favorite bartender “What’s happening?” stretches the extended boundaries of my limited Spanish.
“Nada,” he says. “A margarita?”
“A double shot sounds better.”
I expect comment. Tequila shots are not my usual pre-lunch fare. Especially doubles. Maybe I’m looking for conversation, even sympathy. This bond default could be Austin Carr’s final financial fiasco.
But Luis says nothing. He is uninterested in me today. He simply goes to work, stacking the dish of lime wedges and a salt shaker in front of me, pouring Herradura Gold into a rocks glass.
The man in black grunts like a barn animal. Gesturing with tiny hands; telling Luis he wants a shot, too. Not very polite, this man in black. Did I mention I don’t like his manicured, polished fingernails? Wonder how he knows a hombre like Luis.
My favorite bartender caps the Herradura, sends the bottle sliding toward Branchtown Blackie, followed quickly down the slick bar by a clean shot glass and my dish of sliced limes. But Blackie isn’t waiting on ceremony. He grabs the Herradura, unscrews the cap, and snatches the bottle to his lips. Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Un-freaking-believable. Even the Vin Diesel twins in wife beaters are shocked. It’s the first time their eyes have left the TV.
Luis instantly concurs with the bar’s general disapproval. He hops down the counter like a panther, yanks the Herradura out of Blackie’s hand, and hits the rude jerk with a stream of hot Spanish. Nose to nose. I recognize a few choice curses. Lots of chinga this, chinga that.
Blackie’s face darkens to a Hershey-chocolate brown. His ebony eyes set smooth and hard, like black marbles. A tiny wrinkle forms in the center of his brow.
Suddenly Blackie’s hands flash from the bar to Luis’ vest, bunching the material into tight balls. Me and the Vin Diesels suck air. Luis, too, is caught off guard, and Blackie takes advantage, dropping off his stool, using his weight and the leverage of the bar to yank Luis off his feet behind the counter.
My eyes can’t believe what they’re seeing. Luis is suspended above his rubber floor mat, feet kicking, searching for purchase.
My jaws must be wide enough to swallow one of Cruz’s two-pound pork burritos.
Luis slaps his back pocket. That’s when I wake-up, realize Branchtown Blackie has made a disastrous mistake—his hands are tied up. Luis’s are free.
El hombre Luis’ right palm, fingers and thumb are blurred locomotion, too fast for my eyes.
Luis’s hand comes back up even faster. A snapping or clicking sound, heavy and metallic, fills the hushed and empty restaurant. Something blacker than Branchtown Blackie runs point for Luis’s right hand.
Blackie freezes when he sees it. Me and the Vin Diesel twins gasp again, this time louder than the air conditioning.
Calm, relaxed, Luis touches the pointed tip of an eight-inch steel knife to Blackie’s throat. It’s one of those big Tijuana switchblades I used to covet as a kid, Black steer horn with chrome trim and a stainless steel blade.
Oh. My. God.
TEN
A blood-red flower blossoms where the double-edged point of Luis’s switchblade presses Branchtown Blackie’s Adams apple. Crimson drops become a trickle that runs beneath Blackie’s shirt collar.
Sweet Jesus, Luis. Don’t kill him.
On television, last night’s Yankee crowd breaks into wild booing. Bad call at home, I’m guessing, but it sounds like the assembled masses want Blackie killed. A Coliseum full of Romans, thumbs down.
My heart is the creature from Alien, thumping to escape and run loose throughout the ship. I tell myself to breathe slowly. Remain calm.
Luis whispers something to Blackie’s nose. Probably threatening surgery. But Blackie won’t let go, his stony face set dry and hard. Unblinking. Faccia rozzo. The manicured little weasel has no fear. Or maybe he thinks Luis’s eight-inch switchblade is made of rubber.
A crazy scream soars above the television booing. Luis and Blackie don’t flinch, but the twins and I shift our attention toward the back ruckus.
Through the kitchen doorway runs Chef Cruz, his fingers clutching a microwave-sized butcher knife. Scary-looking thing is almost bigger than Cruz, but he’s got it balanced high above his shoulder.
I prepare to duck.
Feet still off the ground, Luis waves off Cruz. The big switchblade stays about one-quarter inch under the skin of Branchtown Blackie’s throat.
Cruz is already around the Vin Diesel twins, his knife tickling Luis’s hanging sombrero collection, but he stops short of Blackie, following Luis’s instructions. The butcher knife remains shoulder-high, ready to cleave.
Luis whispers to Blackie again. I can’t tell in Spanish or English. Seconds go by. Five, ten? It’s hard to tell time when the whole room is frozen, us customers staring wide-eyed like wax dummies.
Finally, Blackie lets loose of Luis’s vest. The Vin Diesel twins and I sigh in unison as my favorite bartender’s feet return softly to the rubber-matted floor.
Luis pulls the knife away, folds the blade, and sticks the weapon back in his pocket.
Blackie touches his Adams apple, checks his fingers to assess damage, the quantity of blood. It’s more than a drop or two, but Blackie’s reaction is nonchalant, as if such wounds were a daily occurrence. A shaving cut.
Luis and Blackie pin each other again. No heavy breathing. No more whispers. Just staring into each other’s eyes like wild animals. Males with old, well-battled antlers.
/> Cruz spins and hurries back toward his kitchen. The twins and I throw money on the bar, head for the exit.
Waiting on my desk at Shore Securities the next day is a certified letter from a New York law firm, Bisker, Brasher & Bobkin. At least that’s what I think the letterhead says. Helvetica compressed bold italic is a little tough to make out. I recognize the font because my ex-wife’s mother picked the same typeface for our wedding announcement fifteen years ago and forty-two people went to the wrong church.
Woeful marketing aside, the letter boils down to this: Unless we pay the ex-football player-slash-boat captain fifty grand he says he lost on the St. Louis hospital bonds I sold him, myself and Shore Securities will be sued for triple damages under the Federal racketeering laws, “said parties having displayed an organized pattern of criminal activity.”
I’m surprised my wackiest client found out about the default so fast, but a lawsuit doesn’t worry me much. In fact the letterhead on this fancy parchment must read Brisket, Basket & Brainless. They didn’t even bother reading Psycho Sam’s account agreement where it says all complaints must be argued before my industry association’s arbitration panel, not the courts.
I glance up to find Rags scowling at me. The level of animosity I sense astounds me. Honest-to-God malice, like he wishes I was dead. Wow, Rags. Sorry my camper shed rust on your Florsheims.
“Vic wants to see you,” Rags says. “Now.”
I fold up the letter to bring with me, head for the boss’s office. I’ll be all right. They’ve got insurance for these things. Besides, I won Straight Up Vic eight hundred dollars last weekend when I made a thirty-footer on the seventeenth.
Straight Up Vic is playing golf on the twenty-by-twenty antique Oriental rug that pretty much covers the maple floor of his private office. The owner of Shore Securities putts ball after ball into one of those plastic, hole-in-a-platform contraptions that flips the winners back at you.
So as not to interfere with his stroke, Vic’s solid lilac tie is tucked between the second and third buttons of his starched white shirt. He doesn’t look up at me until he’s made three in a row.