CHAPTER 11
Toronto. August 15, 1980.
Rain drenched Mike and Karen’s plane as it touched down at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport at two in the afternoon. Following the usual agonizing and prolonged delay, the result of too many travellers and too few officers, they cleared customs and took a taxi to Karen’s penthouse apartment on Avenue Road.
Martha Perkins, Phillip’s aging and overweight nanny, rushed to greet them when she heard the front doors open and the sound of their happy voices. Her gray work dress complemented her swept back gray hair which ended in a tight bun. “Welcome back, you two,” she said with a gigantic and wrinkled smile. “How was the honeymoon?”
Karen, happy to be home and to see the woman who had stayed with her through extremely difficult times, dropped her bags and hugged her. “Fabulous! Just fabulous! How are you, Martha?”
Martha closed her eyes and exhaled. “A bit frazzled, but I survived.”
Karen frowned and took a step backward. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything except Phillip… He’s been a big problem. Ever since you brought him home from Venezuela, he’s been different. He’s not the same happy boy I remembered. He’s become very difficult to control. He used to do everything I asked without question. Now he refuses do just about everything.”
Mike turned to Karen. “Have you ever been away from him for this length of time?” he asked.
Karen shook her head. “This is the first.”
“It could be that he misses the attention you’ve been giving him,” Mike suggested.
Karen hoped Mike was right, but deep in her heart she knew the problem was probably much more complex. “I feel guilty about leaving him, but I’m worried that it’s related to Venezuela. I think the whole thing has finally caught up with him. I can’t imagine what damage that experience must have done to him.”
Mike turned to Martha. “Is there anything else we should know?”
Martha stared at Mike with a pained expression. “He’s been stealing, taking money from my purse. I haven’t confronted him about it yet, because I thought it would be better if I waited to talk to you first.”
Karen reached for Mike’s hand. “We’ve got to talk to him. This is serious.”
Martha picked up Phillip at Royal Canada College, less than a mile away, and returned to the apartment forty-five minutes later. His face, still rounded by baby fat, showed hints of the chiseled features of his late father. Instead of smiling and running to hug his mother as he had done so many times in the past, he stood and glared at Mike and Karen with what appeared to be anger in his large gray eyes.
Karen ran to hug him. “I missed you so much,” she said.
Phillip remained motionless, his arms passively limp.
Karen pulled backward to probe his eyes. “Did you miss me?”
Phillip gave his mother a vapid stare, then looked away. “I guess,” he said.
“Something’s bothering you,” Karen accused. “What is it?”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” Phillip hissed, then bolted from her arms and ran in the direction of his room.
Karen began to follow, but Mike stopped her. “Don’t go. He expects you to do that. Give him some time to cool.”
“But I missed him so much,” Karen protested.
“If you rush in there right now, you’ll just reinforce his negative demand for attention. Wait for ten or fifteen minutes. Give him some time to think about it.”
Karen waited for ten anxious minutes, then hurried to Phillip’s room. She found him lying on his bed, pretending to read a Superman comic book. “Let’s talk,” she said, slowly removing the book from his hands. “It’s pretty difficult to do it through a book.”
His eyes, unblinking and appearing mesmerized, continued to stare at the space previously occupied by the book. His expression displayed unconsolable depression, one Karen had never seen.
“Something’s bothering you, son. I want to know what it is,” Karen demanded.
Phillip wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand then slowly focused on his mother. “Why did you tell the newspapers about dad?” he asked.
“I didn’t tell the newspapers anything,” Karen replied, shocked by his question. “What ever gave you the idea I did?”
“Now all my friends know about dad and everything he did.”
Karen’s worst fears had suddenly been realized. She kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry the newspapers published the story. If I could have stopped them, I would. You must understand that we wanted more than anything to keep the whole story a secret.”
“If you didn’t tell them, who did?”
“I have no idea… What have your friends said about it.”
Phillip’s eyes resumed their unblinking stare. “They keep saying my father was a crook. I hate them.”
Karen wrapped her arms behind her son’s back and hugged him. She closed her eyes and prayed he would soon forget his father and the ugliness of the incident in Caracas, but worried that the experience had engraved a permanent psychological scar in his memory. She hoped the theft of Martha’s money was merely a manifestation of his frustration. “You have to be stronger than them. They’re just silly little boys who don’t have enough sense to understand that you should never be punished for the sins of your father.” She remained with him for more than an hour in an effort to give him the feeling of security and assurance she knew he needed.
She returned to the living room and found Mike reading a newspaper on the couch. “I know what’s bothering him,” she said, then waited until Mike put the newspaper down. “We have a major problem and it isn’t going to go away soon. The story of his father appeared in the newspapers. He assumed we leaked it.”
Mike frowned and shook his head. “We should have anticipated it. I don’t blame the kid a bit.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea how to handle it. What are we going to do?”
“I have a suggestion.”
“What?”
“If you and I are going to have a family, Phillip should be part it. I would like to adopt him.”
“That’s a wonderful suggestion,” Karen declared with a grateful smile. “I can’t imagine a better one.” She sat beside him and hugged. “Each day I know you, the more I love you.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Then keep going, King. You’re on a roll.”
“A whole new environment might improve his attitude. I think we should send him to a boarding school.”
CHAPTER 12
New York. October 24, 1980.
In accordance with Alfred Schnieder’s prediction, and to the enormous relief of Louis Visconti, interest rates began to tick northward. Until that point, conflicting newspaper articles and numerous mixed signals had constantly plagued Visconti’s mind and caused him to sweat his decision to liquidate investments in stocks. Newspapers and financial publications had been filled with stories about Paul Volcker, the second most powerful man in the United States. Volumes had been written about his preoccupation with inflationary psychology and his failure to break it. Throughout the summer, optimists and bond bulls had confidently predicted a rapid decline in rates and a return to better times. Visconti had stayed the course and now had more than fifty percent of King’s trust committed to short sales of corporate and government bonds. He stood to lose a fortune if Schnieder was wrong.
Toronto. October 31, 1980.
Mike shook his head as he stared at Karen’s dinner plate. “Babe, you haven’t touched your filet. Aren’t you hungry?”
Karen grinned as she stared at the uneaten meat. “I can’t eat another molecule. I stuffed myself at lunch today.” She changed the subject. “Tell me about your daughter. You never talk about her.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. The only thing I know is that you have one. Where is she now? Have you communicated with her since you and Barbara split?”
“Often, particularly
after Barbara moved to San Diego. Aside from the distance and time involved in continuing my visitation privileges, Barbara began to make things difficult for me.”
“How?”
“Whenever I phoned and told her I wanted to see Kerri, she invented an excuse. It didn’t matter what I said, the visit was always inconvenient for her. I think she wanted me to cease and desist, and her new husband to become a surrogate father to Kerri.”
“Did you continue to write?”
“Every week, until my letters started to be returned, unopened.” Again Mike shook his head, tears flooding his eyes. He looked away. “That broke my heart. She was nine years old when I last saw her. I considered hiring a lawyer, but didn’t. I reasoned that it didn’t matter what I did, there was absolutely no way I could ever be a father to her. I saw myself as a meddling sentimental fool who moved in and out of her life. So I decided to stay out of it. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It hurt, and it’s still hurting.”
“She’ll find you,” Karen predicted. “Her need to know you will eventually consume her.”
Mike displayed a worried frown and looked away. “I wish I could share your optimism,” he said, then changed the subject. “Would you like some wine?”
“No thanks.”
With bottle in hand, Mike dropped his lower jaw. “I don’t believe it. I can’t remember the last time you refused red wine. Are you ill?”
Karen’s face and smile glowed in the soft candlelight. “We’re pregnant, King. No more booze for the duration.”
“That’s incredible news!” Mike said with gigantic smile and beaming with pride. He placed the bottle on the table, then hurried to her side. He leaned and kissed her, long and passionately. After the kiss he stared into her dark brown eyes. “A toast. Join me with a glass of milk.”
“Milk makes me sick, but I’ll join you with water and extreme pleasure.”
Mike filled Karen’s wine glass with water, then raised his glass. “To the newest member of the King family,” he said as they clinked their glasses. “How long have you known?”
“I’ve suspected it for three weeks. The doctor confirmed it today. She said we’re both very healthy, and there’s no reason to believe we can’t have a normal healthy baby, sometime next August… She strongly recommended amniocentesis.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a test, particularly for women over thirty-five. They stick a long needle into the womb and draw out a sample of amniotic fluid. They test the fluid for Down’s Syndrome and other genetic abnormalities. While they’re at it, they determine the sex of the child.”
Mike smiled, attempting to hide his worry. “So we’re going to know?”
“If you’re referring to the sex of the child, they won’t tell you unless you ask. Any preference?”
“I think I would like to have a boy or a girl,” Mike said, privately hoping it would be a girl.
“I like your chances, King.”
CHAPTER 13
Toronto. December 12, 1980. Ten A.M.
Mike jerked the telephone receiver to his ear.
“It’s William Dare, Mr. King. I’m sure you remember me.”
“What can I do for you?” Mike snarled. Even though he was in no mood to talk to Dare, he was curious to know why he had called. Pangs of anger, paranoia and anxiety coursed through his blood stream.
“I would like to arrange to meet with you and your wife as soon as possible. Of course it would be at a time and place convenient to both of you. I’d like to ask some questions about Karen’s former husband and his financial affairs. I’m hoping you might be able to help us to recover the considerable amount of money he stole from our government.”
A powerful rage invaded Mike’s mind as he vividly recalled the search and seizure operation conducted by Dare and his C.S.I.S. agents in his office. “I think a meeting would be wasting your time and ours. Under the circumstances, I think you should direct your questions to our attorney. Would you like his number?”
“Is Dan Turner still your lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“We have his number on file. Thank you very much.”
CHAPTER 14
New York. Friday, August, 21, 1981.
Gerry Mara, Visconti’s partner, was genetically structured for Wall Street, and he dressed for the roll. He wore a svelte black pin striped suit, neatly pressed blue shirt, yellow silk tie and suspenders, and black Gucci loafers. His long black hair was slicked straight back, exposing his cerebral temples. He butted his cigarette, popped two champagne corks, then displayed a proud smile as he mounted an elevated wooden platform erected for the occasion. He raised both bottles above his head. “May I have your attention, please?” he shouted.
The loud conversations of staff members and account executives ended. A hushed silence ensued.
“A little over a year ago, Louis Visconti succeeded in landing the biggest account in the history of our firm. With courage and steadfast conviction, he defied popular market opinion by liquidating most of the stock positions of the portfolios he managed, then shorted government and corporate bonds. Those brilliant moves have generated astounding returns, and made us all absurdly rich… A toast is in order.” He smirked at Visconti. “To the Crown Prince of Wall Street… May his brilliance and clairvoyance live on, and continue to keep us all in the style to which we have become accustomed.”
Mara’s toast was followed by the clinking of glasses, loud cheers, whistles, and warm applause from the entire office staff. “Speak to us, Louis,” he demanded.
The cheering, whistles and hoots intensified as Visconti slowly mounted the platform. He sipped his champagne, flashed a triumphant smile, then took a deep bow. When he moved his lips close to the microphone, his audience hushed, anxious to listen to anything he had to say. “Thank you very much for your kind words, Gerry. Coming from you, it is indeed an honor. I also want to thank all of you for your support and capable assistance during these trying times. I deeply appreciate it… I’m really not sure if what I accomplished in the past year was the result of brilliance, clairvoyance, or just plain luck. Whatever it was, I hope it continues forever. In any event, I will try to wear the crown with pride and humility.”
Again a loud applause erupted.
Allan Griesdorf, the genius of the three partners, overweight, bald and a PhD in math from M.I.T., stood. “Predictions, Louis?” he shouted.
As if in deep thought, Visconti gazed at the ceiling, then surveyed the crowd. He was where he wanted to be, admired, respected, on top. For him, the feeling was better than sex. He was surfing the crest of a huge wave of good fortune, one he fully believed was entirely the result of his divine intelligence, unique talent and insight only few possessed. “It’s time to cover the bond shorts,” he pontificated. “Interest rates have peaked, but the stock market’s still going south.” He smiled and waved regally as he stepped from the stage. He was on a high. The buzz of numerous hushed conversations fed his ego, excited him to know that each was diagnosing his advice.
Visconti followed his own advice by covering his bond shorts and going long. As interest rates plummeted, the value of the bonds increased enormously. So too did Visconti’s income, the fortunes of his firm, and the value of the King’s trust.
CHAPTER 15
Toronto. Saturday, August 26, 1981.
Joy and happiness was the mood in a private room on the fourth floor of Toronto’s North York General Hospital. Almost twenty years after their first fateful meeting, Mike and Karen had consolidated their marriage with a love child. A smiling nurse delivered Kevin King, an eight pound seven ounce baby boy, to his proud parents.
“He’s absolutely beautiful,” Karen said with a broad but strained smile. “Almost as beautiful as his father.”
“He doesn’t look like me at all,” Mike protested.
“Bullshit, King! Maybe he doesn’t have your beautiful thatch of blond hair or as many straight teeth, but he’s a dead ringer for you.”
>
With tears of joy in his eyes, Mike sat on the bed beside his wife. The birth had filled a void. For a very long time the loss of Kerri from his life had been an unhealed wound. “Thanks, Babe,” he said, then kissed her lips. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is the happiest day of my life.”
New York. Thursday, December 31, 1981.
Pride urging him to boast about the extraordinary success of his investments, Visconti dialed Mike King’s office number in Toronto. “I’m sorry to bother you Mike but I couldn’t resist calling. I have fantastic news.”
“What is it?”
“The value of your trust now exceeds four hundred and fifteen million.”
“That’s wonderful. This is the last time I’m going to tell you this. If you ever call me again and mention one word about the trust, you’re fired. Is that understood?” Mike barked, then quickly hung up.
Humiliated, Visconti swallowed his pride and had the annual report on the trust mailed to Mike’s postal box in Toronto.
CHAPTER 16
Toronto. Wednesday, June 30, 1982.
Now fourteen, Phillip’s cheeks and chin sported peach fuzz and pimples, trophies of the transition into manhood. To give him spending money and to keep him out of shopping malls, Mike had given him a summer job with his company, XG Petroleums. His responsibility was to pump gasoline at one of XG’s serviced retail outlets in Scarborough, a Toronto suburb.
Three days after Phillip started to work, Mike received a telephone call from his very excited manager. “Mister King, it’s Terry Morgan. Sorry to bother you. I just had to call. Your son was supposed to be here at seven this morning. He’s still not here. I’m going to have to call someone else.”