Wall Street Noir

by Peter Spiegelman

  “Fucking Larry Longman,” he said. “It took him about two seconds to try to stick a knife in my back.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” she answered in a carefully modulated voice. “You’re focusing on trying to guess who said what in the 360s, instead of concentrating on the more substantial analysis of your management style. Do you really think that’s helpful?”

  “I know it was Larry, because he had his assistant call about the reservations for the Michael’s meeting the other day.” He fumed, staring out the window. “It’s just like the Don says—whoever comes to you with this meeting, he’s the traitor He’s trying to organize a coup with the other division heads. Those fucking Harvard MBAs can’t stand taking orders from a guy from Bath Avenue.”

  She felt herself hang back a bit, like Robert DeNiro in the tenement hallway with his gun, waiting for the Black Hand to arrive.

  “Don’t you think that sounds a little paranoid?”

  Don’t tell me I’m paranoid,” he said. “Do you know how many of these fuckers are gunning for me? Do you know how bad they wanna see me fail? I worked my whole life to put myself in this chair by the sweat of my balls. And I’m not going to let some little chardonnay-pansy bean counter who can’t stop playing with his pens slip a wire around my throat.”

  She tilted forward, clasping her hands before her, studying him closely. “And so what are you going to instead?”

  He looked startled. Not so much by the question itself, but by the way she was asking it. Calm, without judgment, and not completely unsupportive. Clearly, he’d been expecting something else from her.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “to tell you the truth, I was thinking of making a move on him.”

  “You mean, you were thinking of getting rid of him.”

  He slowly nodded, assessing the gravity of what he’d just told her and then watching for her reaction.

  “You gonna tell the board about that?”

  “That’s not my role here.” She held him in a level gaze, imagining that if she stayed this way long enough her cheek-bones would start to rise and her eyes would move back into her skull the way Al Pacino’s did.

  “You know, I can’t figure you out.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you’d try to talk me out of it.”

  “It’s your business. I’m just the consultant. All I’m asking is if you’re prepared to deal with the fallout. It’s like Michael killing the police captain and Sollozo. You have to be prepared for all-out war afterwards.”

  “Jesus.” He ran his tongue under his lip in admiration. “Is this what they teach you in organizational psychology?”

  “You said you didn’t need a psychologist,” she reminded him, reaching for one of the cookies. “You needed a wartime consigliere.”

  He slapped his desk, pleased with himself. “You know, somehow I knew we were going to be paisans the minute you walked into this office. Something about the way you handle yourself. We’re coming from the same place. You sure you’re not Sicilian?”

  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!

  Mark unfurled the business section so loudly that Nancy almost missed the gleeful way Al Pacino, older but more feral, tore into the line.

  “Will you keep it down?” She rolled over from doing her exercises in front of the set, the baby due in less than six weeks. “I can barely concentrate here.”

  “I don’t know why you’re even bothering with the third one. I told you the thrill was gone after Godfather II.

  “I still want to see how it ends.”

  “You know how it ends. Gangster movies never have a happy ending.” He folded the paper in half and looked at it closely. “Whoa. Your guy’s stock is taking a major beating here. What’s going on?”

  “Total bloodbath. I thought I told you.” She raised her head, attempting to catch a glimpse of her feet. “Scottso tried to fire the head of the TV division and put his own guy in, but it just united all the other factions against him and caused a mutiny. They had a meeting the other day that left entrails all over the conference room.”

  “And where does that leave Scottso?”

  “Hanging by a thread, if you ask me.” She gasped, trying to lift her legs, feeling the baby move down a little further.

  “And that doesn’t reflect badly on you?”

  “Not my fault if someone decides to self-destruct. Besides, nothing wrong with a little shake-up now and then. Like Clemenza says, it helps get rid of the bad blood.”

  “I think you’re turning into the Godfather.”

  “What a thing to say to the mother of your unborn child.” She raised up on her elbows, frowning. “If I was a man, you’d be high-fiving me and buying me a beer.”

  “If you were a man, I wouldn’t have married you.”

  She started practicing her breathing again, trying to decide if she should feel bad. A nice girl wouldn’t act this way. On the other hand, a nice girl might not be able to keep her family from going into debt a month and a half before her first child arrived.

  “So, are you still shorting that stock?” she asked.

  “Not every single day, but I did a few trades on Wednesday.” He pinched the roll of belly flab he’d been developing in sympathy lately. “I’m worried about playing it too close to the edge.”

  “As long as you keep the trades small and use your own last name, there’s not going to be a problem.”

  “It still makes me uncomfortable.” He reached back, trying to get at an itch between his shoulder blades. “Betting against the company where your wife’s supposed to be consulting.”

  She gave him a long look, silently deciding that he would stay home after the baby was born and she’d go back to work right away. He’d find out about that later. Fredo didn’t make the big decisions in the family.

  “Go get me an orange, will you?” she said. “This kid’s sucking the calcium right out of my bones.”

  She was wearing a $2,500 shearling coat from Searle and a pair of fur-lined Coach boots when she came to see Scottso the next week. He was busy at his desk, having been given an hour to clear out, while a security officer stood at the door making sure he didn’t take any material belonging to the company.

  “Scott, I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I heard. Are you going to be all right?”

  He looked at her once, shook his head, and reached across his desk for a stack of CDs.

  “Ah, sir, you’re going to have to leave those,” said the security officer, waiting to escort him out of the building. “Those are property of the company.”

  “You believe this?” Scott’s lip curled. “I signed half the artists on this label—I was in the studio when they cut these—and now they won’t even let me walk out of the office with a disc it cost about three cents to make.”

  “I know how hard this must be.” She nodded. “But I’m sure you’re going to land on your feet once this is all over.”

  “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

  He snatched a picture of himself with John McEnroe off the corner of his desk and put it in the cardboard box at his feet.

  “Do you really think it’s that useful assigning blame at this point?” she asked.

  “Who else am I supposed to blame—myself?”

  “Well, some people would take this as a time for self-reflection …”

  “Oh, you’re good.” His nostrils flared. “You’re really good, I’ll give you that. I just can’t figure what your angle was.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t. Like you didn’t wind me up and play me off against Larry Longman on purpose.”

  “Oh Scott, come on …”

  “Just tell me one thing: Were you working for Larry or was there someone on the board gunning for me?”

  She turned away as he lumbered toward her, crossing her arms in front of her stomach.

  “There was no one else,” she said. “You wanted a war, so you got a war
. Wars are messy.”

  He reached out and fingered the soft collar of her jacket, the knuckle of his thumb lightly brushing her cheek.

  “I know it was you, Fredo,” he said almost tenderly. “You broke my heart.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s not the fall of Havana.” She pulled away from him and started toward the door. “Act like a man, Johnny Fontaine. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Jesus.” He made his eyes into slits. “What’d you do, memorize the dialogue?”

  “And that’s not what you wanted?”

  He gave her the wounded uncomprehending look of a lover betrayed.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, following her. “Why’d you do this to me? Did I ever hurt you? Just tell me that. Why would you do this to someone you don’t even know?”

  “It was never anything personal, Scott.” She stopped on the threshold. “It was strictly business.”

  PART III

  MAIN STREE

  THE DAY TRADER IN THE TRUNK OF CLETO’S CAR

  BY MARK HASKELL SMITH

  Los Angeles, California

  Fuck me, man. What is Cleto talking about? I can’t understand a word. He’s just barking all mad dog at me, spit flying from his mouth, sweat dripping from his big shaved head. He’s pissed. I can tell. His shirt is off and he’s pounding his chest with his fists, slapping the tattoo of the two skeletons buttfucking over his heart. He keeps saying stuff, but I don’t know what it means. He knows I don’t speak Spanish.

  Naldo and Ramón. Those fuckers. They just rolled up on me and next thing I know my nose is broken, my bottom teeth are sticking through my lip, and I’m clotheslined by the driveway. Seeing stars. Really. Little bursts of light, like flashbulbs.

  Amigos, what the fuck?

  There must be some mistake. It’s me. Russell.

  I want to say something but I can’t get any air. I think my jaw is broken too.

  Cleto yelled some more and they stopped kicking me. Fucking Naldo and his cowboy boots. He kicked me so hard it feels like I have exit wounds. I’m pretty sure I broke a rib. Maybe two. And my shirt. Shit. My tofu festival T-shirt. What are they thinking? It’s collectible, man. The tofu festival only comes once a year.

  I’m trying to tell them this as they pick me up off the ground. But they can’t hear me. It was a mistake only taking one year of Spanish in high school. If I could habla, I’m sure we could work this all out.

  Naldo is holding me up, but I can’t see much. Something’s wrong with one of my eyes, like it’s dislocated. No, it’s my neck. I can’t hold my head up; it just bounces around like those stupid bobblehead dolls you get at Dodger Stadium. I can’t control the bobbling. It bobbles left, then right, then back. Bobble, bobble. I see the ground, the street. There are bright dark blotches on the pavement. My blood. Naldo’s boots. Bobble, bobble. The wheels of the car.

  Why can’t I control my head?

  Cleto helps me out. He grabs my hair and lifts my head up so I can see him. I start talking, but it just sounds like gargling. There’s too much blood in my mouth. That can’t be good.

  Cleto looks me in the eye.

  “You are gonna fuckin’ die, hijo de puta.”

  I try to explain. Doesn’t he understand that it’s just a little correction? The market does this all the time. In another month everything will be back where it was, maybe higher. It’s certainly no reason to do anything drastic. Everyone, KLD Research and Analytics, Price Target, the Jaywalk Consensus, they all said hold Not sell. Hold.

  Hold on tight, everything will be all right.

  I try to explain this to Cleto, but my mouth won’t work. I sound like a cow. I’m mooing. Cleto looks at me and shakes his head.

  “Throw this piece of shit in the trunk and let’s go.”

  Now he speaks English?

  Naldo and Ramon pick me up and throw me in the trunk of Cleto’s car. If I wasn’t already numb from the beating, that would’ve hurt. Naldo leans in and smiles at me. I try to talk again. Weren’t we friends? Didn’t I tell you to invest in Genentech (NYSE: DNA)? Didn’t you double your money when Caterpillar (NYSE: CAT) split?

  Naldo whispers some advice in my ear: “Don’t bleed on

  Cleto’s car, ese.”

  Then he shut the lid.

  It’s dark in the trunk. I go fetal. I can’t help it. There is no other way to get comfortable. I suppose that’s the point. They’re trying to teach me a lesson. I shouldn’t have hesitated. I should’ve made the trade, taken a small loss, protected the nut. Okay. I get that. But it’s not like it’s a washout. Not like that stupid computer stock I had. Cleto’s money is safe—well, as safe as it can be.

  I wish I could explain it to him. It’s not like I had him in volatile stocks. I didn’t put his money in junk bonds. I mean, c’mon man, Time Warner (NYSE: TWX), Cisco (NASDAQ: CSCO), Eastman Kodak (NYSE: EK), these are not dogs we’re talking about. They may not be blue chip, but they’re blue chipish Right? They took a dive. Okay. I see that. But it’s not like they’re over. He’s got seventy grand in Microsoft (NASDAQ: MSFT), for fuck’s sake. It’ll all bounce back; he just has to be patient. Stocks go up, stocks go down. It’s what they do. Cleto needs to relax and enjoy the journey, think of it as an “E” ticket experience—the Cyclone at Coney Island, the Colossus at Magic Mountain, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—it’s supposed to be fun.

  I feel the car shake to life. The big V-8 under the hood rumbles awake and the steel body trembles like it’s actually afraid of all that power. I’m not really a fan of muscle cars; the gas mileage is terrible, the cost of insurance is ridiculous, but they do look cool and it’s fun to cruise around with the top down at night.

  I’m also not really a fan of the monster bass tube sub-woofer he had installed in the trunk. My back was pressed up against it when it kicked in and it felt like Naldo’s boots had somehow reached through the trunk to paste my kidneys a few more times. The fucking rivets are buzzing and popping, trying to escape the metal with each thump of the kick drum and snap of the bass. It sounds like a beehive of pissed-off steel. What the fuck is Cleto listening to? Oh shit. I know this song. It’s “Frijolero” by Molotov.

  No me digas beaner,

  Mr. Puñetero

  Te sacaré un susto

  por racista y culero.

  No me llames frijolero,

  Pinche gringo puñetero.

  Naldo once translated this song for me. It’s roughly, “Don’t call me beaner, you fucking racist asshole.”

  Is he playing the song for my benefit? I think he is, and this kind of hurts my feelings. I don’t deserve that. I’m not a racist and I never called him a beaner or anything else like that.

  I thought Cleto was my friend.

  I didn’t start out as a day trader. I didn’t even know what a day trader was. I came to Los Angeles to be a screenwriter. Well, honestly, I came to Los Angeles to be a director. But the easiest way to becoming a director is to be a screenwriter first. That’s the way it works. You write a couple of hit movies that someone else directs—some guy with a ponytail who wears jeans and drives a Porsche—and then it’s your turn. Pretty soon you don’t have to write the scripts, you sit in your Hollywood Hills home and give the writer notes over the phone while some aspiring actress gives you a blowjob, then you hike up your jeans and get in your Porsche.

  Of course, now that I say it, now that I know better, it sounds hopelessly naïve. But what did I know? Nothing. I was fresh off the bus. Now I understand how it works. I’ve wised up. I have learned the one important truth, the most absolute vodka-clear truth about Hollywood. I’ll share this with you, but honestly, I hate to sound like one of them, you know, the wannabes that never quite made it. So try not to think of me as bitter. I’m not.

  The big stinking truth with a capital T is that no one in this town—and I mean not one single living person—gives a flying fuckadoodle-do about you, your script, and whatever talent you think you might have. They don’t. Deal with it.

&nb
sp; But I didn’t know that when I came to town. I figured it might take a few years, but one day I’d have the jeans, the ponytail, the Porsche, and a three-picture deal. I was clueless and hopeful and staked with a small inheritance I got when my grandpa died.

  I didn’t really know my grandpa that well. When I was little he used to take me fishing for catfish. You know, where you glob that bait on the hook—the bait that looks and smells exactly like fresh dog poo—and throw the line in the river with a big sinker on it. Then you wait for the catfish to swim up to your big stinky piece of shit in the murky bottom of the river and eat it. Then you just reel ’em in. It’s about as exciting as taking out the trash.

  My grandpa would fry the catfish when we got home, but I couldn’t eat anything that liked to eat shit. Sorry. Just not for me.

  After I went to high school I kinda lost touch with him, and after college I didn’t even get a Christmas card. But then he was dead and he gave me over a hundred thousand dollars in his will. That cash was my screenwriting fund. I could stay in my apartment and just work. Like a real writer. No day job to distract me.

  In fact, the only real distraction I found was this website by Mandy LaFrance. She was a Tulane University co-ed who liked to cruise the French Quarter for guys to blow. Mandy was awesome. She didn’t even take the guys into the bathroom. She’d just drop to her knees in a crowd and go to it, then she’d post the pictures and a kind of play-by-play description of these fellatio sorties on her website. I was in love with her. Not like really “in love.” She had a boyfriend; he was the guy who took all the photos of her sucking cock. When I say I was in love with her, it’s more that I admired and respected her audacity, her gumption, her take-no-prisoners attitude. She was like the opposite of a catfish. A barracuda, maybe. Plus, I liked to look at the pictures and beat off.

  There. I said it.

  But who could blame me? As a busy screenwriter, I didn’t have time to go out on dates or maintain girlfriends—there would be time for that after I was famous, then I’d be out at the Tropicana or the Skybar, all those kinds of places. But in the beginning I needed to stay in and work.