by J. L. Abramo
“You’re right,” I said. The thing they all want to hear. “I’ll change the paperwork for you, no need to sign anything else. You have a nice day.” I lifted the keys from the desk where Clyde had set them and traded Mr. Griffin for the minivan keys, then I secretly wished for the Tahoe to blow a tire, run off into a ditch, catch fire and trap him and his fat fucking family inside the burning wreckage where they could all sizzle to death like the chubby little sausage links they were.
I smiled the whole time I handed over the keys, but as soon as he turned his back I gave him the finger. I made sure the security camera could see it.
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Jack Getze’s Big Mojo.
ONE
The big thing about Jersey stockbrokers: we’re in a cutthroat occupation. If we don’t keep our client names and their contact information secure, other brokers will pirate our business. In a room full of telephone salesmen, somebody is always switching firms, stealing every name and phone number they can duplicate. Thus, when my associate and former boss Vic Bonacelli calls, asks me to step into his office and meet one of his customers, I’m stunned. And since I closely watched a smoking hot redhead strut inside Mr. Vic’s private spaces not ten minutes ago, my curiosity quickly displays itself in a feverish sweat.
When Mr. Vic originally founded our Jersey Shore broker-dealer securities company thirty-five years ago, the firm could accept cash in payment for municipal, tax-free bearer bonds. Taking advantage of this fact, Mr. Vic’s first customers tended to be tax cheats—boardwalk vendors and other small business types who collected lots of cash, and whose personal constitutions prevented them from paying Uncle Sam full tribute.
By recognizing the vulnerability therein, let’s call it a Quixotic focus on political principal, Mr. Vic easily skimmed ten percent from such cash transactions. He did it so happily, and with such charm, three decades later ninety percent of all those early clients—or their surviving children—still do business with him. Put more succinctly, Mr. Vic still has a lot of crooks on the book.
My name’s Austin Carr, by the way, President of Carr Securities, Inc., Members of the American Association of Securities Dealers. Though I refuse to rob our customers like Mr. Vic used to, I had hoped my fifty-one percent ownership in the recently renamed Carr Securities would provide for my children’s university education. Currently, however, Bob the Dentist—my ex-wife’s boyfriend—seems a more likely candidate. Carr Securities is barely running in the black, and my only real income these days is commission on my personal stock and bond sales.
I knock on Mr. Vic’s closed office door.
“Come on in, pal,” he says.
Mr. Vic’s spaces have returned to their original, antique, fox-and-hounds, boy-are-we-old-money glory. Hard to do in Jersey, but Vic tries. While he and his wife were in Italy last year, Vic leaving me to hold a large empty bag for him, I occupied the big office in a more Spartan manner. In the interest of peace and hoped for harmony—our one-office firm needs Vic’s sales production—I let him have his big office back despite having wrestled control of the company from him.
His fancy liquor cabinet was empty anyway.
Vic saying, “Patricia, I’d like you to meet my partner, Austin Carr. Austin, this is Patricia Willis.”
Dressed for a Jersey fox hunt, Ms. Patricia Willis shines summer eyes at me—iris the color of reflected sky on shallow water. Her shoulder-length ginger hair fits perfectly around her oval face, her figure shows off womanly curves, but it’s her knockout blue eyes that hold my stare. My heart flickers, in fact. Easy, boy. I’ve seen Patricia Willis visit Mr. Vic’s office before, and my married junior partner is notorious not only for his infidelities, but for stabling multiple girlfriends at the same time. Still, it won’t be easy keeping my eyes off Ms. Patricia Willis. My interest in fiery-haired women goes back to I Love Lucy reruns and Lucille Ball. It’s practically genetic.
Wonder why Vic has the radio on?
Patricia says, “Nice to meet you, Austin.”
I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “You, too, Ms. Willis.”
The redhead’s smile twists into an odd smirk. My blood pressure creeps higher. Taking in her Trollop of the Stables dress code—tight suede riding pants, black leather boots and a white, low-cut blouse—I’m guessing Patricia knows how to spend quality time on her own back, not just a horse’s.
“Patricia just told me quite a story,” Vic says.
I stifle a choke.
“A story I think you should hear,” he says.
Oh, boy. I love stories.
When Patricia stops talking four minutes later, I slouch back in Mr. Vic’s red leather armchair and let the soft jazz on the Bose play deeply on my neck and shoulders. Now I know why my partner has the radio on. He hopes the music will calm him. I know my heart’s thumping hard rock boogie after the redhead’s tale. Boy could I make a boat load of money. Money I need badly for Beth and Ryan’s college education. But getting caught profiting on inside information—she’s got it, the real thing—means losing Carr Securities and my securities license. Not to mention the public disgrace. Imagine what my kids would go through at school.
Imagine what I’d go through selling used cars.
Mr. Vic stares at my tie like I spilled mustard on it. He’s not always a bad guy, but right now he believes Patricia’s info gives him a winning lottery ticket. His black greedy eyes and pinched brow don’t care about my family’s future, just his own.
“So, what do you think?” he asks. “Is a story Patricia heard from her brother really inside information?”
I stare back at him like Vic’s the mustard. Could Vic really not know Patricia possesses true inside information? It should be obvious to any securities professional. Maybe I misunderstood something.
My gaze shifts back to Patricia, successfully avoiding her large and available cleavage. Not an easy trick, even with the red hair as an alternate attraction. “Before I answer Vic’s question, let me make sure I have this straight, Ms. Willis. Your brother, a big shot Manhattan attorney, is working on a merger agreement between Fishman Corporation and Gene-Pak Industries; that is, your brother is helping negotiate and prepare—actually write the legal merger documents. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And this merger has yet to be publicly announced?”
“Yes,” she says. “Like I just told you. My brother said Gene-Pak will pay at least forty dollars a share for Fishman stock—maybe more if the market goes up.”
Fishman currently sells at thirty-two. Part of my brain—the greedy, Mr. Vic part—has already done the math, and believe me, if I picked the right stock option, I could make four or five times my money on a deal like this. Put up $50,000, get back a quarter million.
The soft jazz helps, but my pulse is still too fast.
I glance back at Mr. Vic. “Information doesn’t get any more inside than this. Her brother the attorney signed confidentiality papers he apparently hasn’t read. If he gets caught talking about this merger, he’s finished as a lawyer. If he gets caught giving out the information, he’ll be disbarred.”
Patricia says, “How would they ever catch him—or us?”
Us? “Your brother will be on a list of lawyers and other people who have prior knowledge. The exchanges and the Securities and Exchange Commission keep track. They’ll check his accounts if suspicious trading turns up in the stock. Is his name the same as yours—Willis?”
“Yes,” the redhead says.
“Then when the New York Stock Exchange computers look at all the people who purchased stock and options before the merger, your name will pop up in red caps. And so will anyone else who bought Fishman, has the name Willis or lives in Branchtown. The computer figures you might know them.”
“But only if there’s an investigation of unusual trading, right?” Vic says. “The SEC doesn’t do it automatically with every merger deal. If she doesn’t get too greedy, the stock doesn’t exceed its norma
l volume, maybe they don’t notice, right?”
“It’s possible,” I say. “But very risky with the same name.”
“Maybe what Patricia wants to know,” Vic says, “is what’s the worst that could happen? If she gets caught, doesn’t she just say I’m sorry and give the money back?”
I stare at Patricia. “If you get caught, your brother gets disbarred, maybe prison. You might also pay double your profit in fines. And if you tell one little lie about your involvement first—try to hide the truth and keep the dough like Martha Stewart—well, Ms. Willis, you are possibly on your way to prison.”
“What if I open a bank account in the Cayman Islands?” Patricia says.
I sigh, lean back and signal Vic with an eyebrow. This redheaded hottie is his client, probably a girlfriend. She has to trust him pretty darn well to tell him about her brother and this merger deal, then let him bring me into the room. Come on, Mr. Vic, take Patricia Willis to the ’splaining department.
“What about it?” Vic says to me. “The Caymans?”
Not exactly the words I wanted to hear, partner. I shrug. “The Cayman banks might keep their mouths shut. They say Panama’s better. But I’m not getting involved in this. And neither is my firm.”
“Our firm,” Vic says.
“I control the stock now, not you.”
“Fifty-one to forty-nine.”
“Ask J. Paul Getty’s heirs about the significance of fifty-one percent,” I say. “But why don’t you and Patricia fly to Panama City this weekend, take your checkbook and credit cards with you, go crazy buying Fishman options. I’m not risking it, and neither is this firm.”
Pulling myself out of the red leather armchair, I step nearer Mr. Vic. “In fact, I don’t even understand why you asked me to hear this story.”
My partner works his lips, but he doesn’t speak. At least not now.
I turn to the redhead. “Is this story even legit?”
Her chin lifts half an inch. The cleavage rises with it. “Everything about me is legit.”
TWO
Back on the trading desk, my pulse leads the Kentucky Derby. Real inside information. I don’t think people outside the securities business can understand or appreciate what this means to a stockbroker. Sure we spend five days a week telling our customers which stocks are going up and which ones are headed down. But it’s all baloney. Nobody can predict the future.
Especially stockbrokers from Jersey.
“What are you so excited about, Carr? I haven’t seen you glassy-eyed like this since Ryan hit that walk-off home.”
The pest over my shoulder—the guy talking about my son the Little Leaguer—is Bobby G, former sales-floor cohort, now my employee. His bed head, bushy red hair could be mistaken for a rusty mop, which is fitting because Bobby sucks up gossip like the best floor sponge.
“Come on, what’s the story?” he says.
“Yeah,” Carmela says from the trading desk. “What did that bimbo tell you and my father?”
“Nothing good.” I lie.
Carmela runs our trading department. She’s Mr. Vic’s oldest daughter. Not all the employees of Carr Securities have adopted a proper new tone and manner toward me, one that reflects my recently increased ownership. In Bobby G’s case, this is because he and I share tequila and tacos at least once a week during Little League baseball season. Our sons play on the same team. Carmela’s attitude is hard to gauge, let alone explain.
I click my computer screen off a chart of Fishman and try the general business news section. “Vic’s redhead had a question about interest rates,” I say. “It was nothing.”
“BS, Carr,” Bobby G says. “You’re blushing. You got a tip, didn’t you?”
Oh, boy, did I. I have to take deep breaths, cut back on this emotional, girlish excitement. Men are supposed to remain calm in the face of a potentially huge financial gain. Not that I’d ever risk buying stock on inside information.
Ever, ever, ever.
I stand up, my shoulder brushing Bobby G’s. “I’m going to lunch.”
Bobby says, “Fishman, huh? What’s up with that old dog?”
Inside Luis’ Mexican Grill, chatter, laughter, and a serious background buzz of sustained chew-and-chomp attack my eardrums. Chef Umberto waves at me through the kitchen doorway. The air smells of cilantro and fresh corn tortillas. Not much symbolic of Jersey at Luis’, unless you count beer consumption and fleshy faces.
On the way here, I thought seriously about what might be best for my two children, Ryan and Beth. I was thinking, specifically, maybe I should, in fact, be risking disgrace, the business and my stockbroker license.
No, no, no. I’m not really going to do it. I was just letting Mr. Greed have his say. But here’s what Mr. Greed was thinking: If I rounded up all the cash I could, borrowed from my aunt and uncle’s small trust account I manage, then flew to Panama, used the money to buy Fishman stock options, I could make two-fifty or three hundred thousand dollars profit on Patricia Willis’ inside information. Enough money, if invested right, to pay for the combined eight years of education at just about any university Beth and Ryan could choose.
The heart of all investment decisions is the fear versus greed equation, and sometimes I think the equation applies to everything in life. Is it worth the risk to take care of my children’s future?
No. I’ll find another way.
Behind his huge horseshoe bar, my friend and establishment owner, Luis Guerrero, waves a strange hello at me while serving green margarita snow cones to a group of middle-aged housewives, a foursome fresh off the municipal golf course. I’ve seen the same group here before. They like to perch and eat at the bar so Luis serves them. And why not? Luis is dashing and handsome, a thin and muscled foreigner in a world of overfed electricians, plumbers, bankers and horse players. But too bad, ladies. My favorite bartender, sage, hombre and club owner, Luis Guerrero, gets married this weekend. In fact, tonight’s the rehearsal dinner and I’m invited.
Oops. There’s Tom Ragsdale—Rags we call him—my former sales manager when Carr Securities used to be called Shore Securities. He’s at Luis’ bar, tucked back in a dark shadow under the ceiling-suspended television set. Hiding like a bat. I don’t think his eyes are really glowing. It’s probably that I hate him so much. I can’t believe he’s here. That odd wave Luis gave me earlier must have been a warning.
I choose a stool as far from Rags and the golf ladies as Luis’ bar will comfortably allow and wait for my friend. When Luis finally visits, I order a shot of Herradura, a tequila made popular by Hollywood screenwriters last century, and still my favorite liquor produced from cactus. Or succulents. Whatever blue aguave plants are.
“Let’s toast your wedding,” I say.
“Perhaps you should show your enthusiasm in a manner less alcoholic,” Luis says. “You must be coherent, alert even, for the rehearsal tonight. Father Ignacio will be disturbed if you pass out or vomit during his instructions.”
In the corner of my eye, Rags leaves his drink and comes zipping around the curved bar like a terrain-tracking missile. Clearly, the pointy-nosed little rodent is headed my way. Crap. The guy is not only mean, stupid and boring, he also hates me. In a rage, Rags once hit me with his moving Jaguar.
“Perhaps a beer?” Luis says.
Luis likes to show people the proper path. I think maybe it’s because he’s descended from Toltec warriors. Even in his bartender uniform—black slacks and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his Popeye muscles—Luis’ European features don’t hide the Native American in his ancient hunter’s gaze.
Rags saunters up, filling the empty spot beside my stool. He smells like a cigarette butt. I forgot how beady his dirt-colored eyes are, how quickly they shift from side to side. I give Rags the Rat a half-boat grin. I’m democratic that way. “What’s up, Rags? Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I want my stock back,” he says.
Rags refers to the seventeen percent interest i
n the former Shore Securities I bought from him last year when he and Carmela were having an on-again, off-again, on-again divorce. Carmela’s dad Mr. Vic sold Rags the stock while they were married. I took the stock off Rags’ hands cheap while they were getting divorced.
“Carmela hasn’t mentioned you two getting back together,” I say. “But hey, you want the stock, fine. Just hand me a cashier’s check for three-hundred thousand.” My purchase price was less than five percent of that figure. At the time, our firm was generally thought to be circling bankruptcy.
Rags bangs his fist on the bar.
I shift my gaze to his hands so I’ll see the punch coming. He has to be pissed. Carmela says he’s lost everything, says he works now in some kind of giant bakery or factory up in northern Jersey.
“Am I making you nervous, Carr?” he says.
“You did cream me once with a foreign substance.”
It takes Rags three or four seconds to figure out I mean his Jaguar. “Too bad I wasn’t going faster.”
I peek at Luis’ ornamental sombreros overhead. A row of these wide-brimmed caballisto hats hang all around the horseshoe bar. I’d never tell Luis, but the setup is quite reminiscent of hub caps at a junk yard.
“Killing you then would have saved me a whole lot of trouble,” Rags says.
When I glance again at my former sales manager’s hands, I notice there’s a gun in one now—the left, I think, although it’s taking my brain a while to confirm. My nerves are engulfed in a cold polar vortex. I have to admit Rags is scaring me. He’s crazy enough to shoot. He holds the weapon low, on his hip, with his sport coat shielding the small automatic from Luis’ patrons. Rags says, “You’ve always been a pussy, you know that?”
I’m waiting for the shot. Waiting for the pain to rip through my gut. This crazy son-of-a-bitch has been my enemy since the day he came to work at the old Shore Securities. He was Mr. Vic’s future son-in-law then, a pain in everybody’s ass. But he was always a long hard stick up mine.