Wall Street Noir

by Peter Spiegelman

  I opened a beer and turned on the TV. It was tuned to the game show channel—a show from the ’70s, with puffy-haired people in bad clothes. The contestants were paired with celebrities, though I wasn’t sure who was who. The point of the thing was one player guessing a secret word from clues given by his partner. Condiment; spicy; hotdog … mustard! Much applause followed.

  I downed my beer in one swallow, and eyed the host. Something about him—the unlikely tan, the wide forehead, maybe the teeth—reminded me of Carter Strickland. I pictured Strickland in an ugly plaid jacket and too-wide tie, smiling, nodding, directing the game. I worked a strip of jerky in my back teeth, and thought about our last meeting.

  It was in his vast office at the top of the tower. The shades were up and the river was bright and hard-looking in the morning light. The trading day hadn’t started in New York, but the big monitors on his wall showed the action in London. Strickland was scanning his e-mail, and I closed the door.

  “Don’t give me more of that relax crap,” I said. “It’s all I’ve heard for weeks, and this guy still hasn’t gone away.”

  He ran a palm over his slick hair and smiled indulgently. “He has questions, that’s all. Give him some answers, and this thing will run its course.”

  Run its course? He has questions about the models, Carter—the fucking pricing models. And this guy is no lightweight—he’s half a dissertation away from being Doctor DiMarco. The formulas don’t faze him. He’s down in the guts of things, and he’s looking at P&L going back Christ knows how long.”

  He kept smiling. “Is he?”

  “Fucking right he is. So get him promoted, get him fired—take him out and get him laid for all I care—just get rid of him.”

  The tanned brow crinkled. “Come on, Paul, you know how the game is played. The man has a job to do, and it wouldn’t look good if people thought I was trying to stop him from doing it. It wouldn’t look appropriate.”

  Appropriate? What the fuck does that mean?”

  Strickland smiled wide and shook his head like I was an idiot nephew. “It’s the optics of the thing, Paul, just the optics. Let it work itself out. It’ll be fine.”

  I don’t how long I stood there with my mouth open. Long enough for Strickland’s secretary to come in and remind him of a conference call and usher me into his waiting room. She disappeared back into his office and shut the door behind her. I ran my hands through my hair.

  Optics? Work itself out? And what’s with Paul—what happened to P-Man

  I looked down at his secretary’s desk, and at his appointment book, open on it. I flipped the pages back, week after week—and there they were. Early breakfasts, late lunches, drinks and dinners—DiMarco, DiMarco, DiMarco. Since before the audit started. I went to the street from there, and didn’t even stop at my desk.

  What’s the secret word, Carter? Scapegoat, maybe? Fallguy? How about fucked? Yeah—that’s it—definitely fucked.

  More clapping on TV. A woman with heavy eye makeup was showing a flair for the game. Antlers, slipcover, clandestine—she got them all with just a hint or two. I couldn’t recall her name but I recognized her from a sitcom that ran when I was a kid, and I was pretty sure she was dead. Her hair was dark and wavy, and it reminded me of Mia’s.

  I’d almost told her a hundred times, but always managed to convince myself the timing wasn’t right. This weekend maybe, at the beach—or next month, when she’s finished with her show. Maybe on the trip to Bali, or maybe after. Maybe over dinner. There would always be another, better moment.

  The truth was, I was looking for a sure thing and Mia wasn’t it. Her moods were too volatile, and could whip from elated to dismal three times while her coffee cooled—and she traveled way too light. A bag of clothes, another of shoes, and she could leave on a whim. Sometimes, when I woke up next to her, I was surprised to find she hadn’t left already. Then I’d remember the dump she’d been living in and the firetrap that used to be her workshop, and I’d think of her shiny new studio and her plans for her next line. Who knew what she’d do if I told her they were built on sand?

  Still, there were times I’d nearly risked it. In the cab, coming back from some club in Brooklyn, when she put her fingers in my hair and whispered in my mouth. In bed, when she looked at me like she was reading tea leaves. Walking home from dinner, when she took my hand and put it in her pocket. Each time I told myself, Don’t lose this, and, Hold on Each time I told myself to speak, but never said a word.

  The last time was on the day I left. The car was running and I punched her number on my cell. I was going to tell her everything, and ask her to pack a bag, but when I heard her voice, I saw her and Strickland at Milk & Honey on the night we met. They were talking and smiling, and suddenly there was something conspiratorial in their laughter. She knew it was me on the line, and she said my name again and again. I switched the phone off and drove away. What’s your secret word, Mia? I couldn’t begin to guess. The woman on TV scored again. Mystery; riddle; puzzle—enigma! Much applause. I drank my last beer and picked up my coat.

  There were trucks in the lot of the Lethe Lounge, and the smell of exhaust on the cold air. Inside, a layer of cigarette smoke was gathering at the ceiling. There were customers in back, playing pinball and pool, and a stock car race on TV. I took a stool and ordered a double Scotch. Mickey poured it and put it down in front of me.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked. “Still in the game?”

  “Sure,” I said, and he went away.

  I drank my drink and watched the cars become a loud blur around the bright track. The sun and flags and noise reminded me of absolutely nothing, and it was very restful. When Mickey came back, my head was on the bar and he looked worried. I sat up and waved my glass at him. He just stood there. I waggled my glass again.

  “I thought this was the international sign for give me another fucking drink.

  Mickey shook his head. “Not for you.”

  I wiped my chin with my sleeve. “What—I have to listen to some bullshit bartender wisdom first?”

  His eyes narrowed. “The only wisdom I have is: Go back to your room and sleep it off.”

  I slammed my glass down, loud enough to turn heads. “What happened—you all of a sudden run out of advice? A couple of days ago you were chockful—crap about plans and staying in the game and who I should keep away from.”

  Mickey’s face darkened. “Keep your voice down,” he rumbled. “Anyway, you’re not looking for advice.”

  “The fuck you know—nobody needs advice more than I do.”

  “You need it, but drunks don’t listen.”

  “Try me.”

  “Fine,” he sighed. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s slow right now. What do you want advice about?”

  “About staying in the game. I want to know what the point of it is.”

  “Staying in the game? It’s an expression, that’s all—like hanging in there. It means sometimes things get hard, but you keep trying. You tough it out.”

  “I know what it means, for chrissakes—my question is: Why bother?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What’s the alternative—whining about life all day? Laying down and dying? I don’t think so. I think you stay in the game.”

  “And if the game is rigged? If you just can’t win—then what do you do?”

  Mickey sighed. “This is what I get for talking to a drunk. I should know better by now.”

  “I’m serious—what do you do?”

  “What else can you do except keep trying?”

  I laughed. “That’s sucker thinking—it’s what gets people spending their welfare checks on lottery tickets. I’m talking about when the serious fix is in—when it’s a stacked deck.

  I’m asking what if you know there’s just no way to win?”

  He squinted at me, and took his time rubbing a cloth over the bar. “Then maybe I’d try to change the game—try to get a little something back. See if I couldn’t get even, and then
get out.”

  I leaned over the bar and took hold of Mickey’s arm and whispered to him, “Getting even—I like that. But how Mickey—how do you do it?”

  He jerked his arm loose and shook his head. “You need to lie down.” The door opened and a crowd came in and Mickey moved off. The cigarette smoke grew thicker and bodies jammed the bar, and I was pushed sideways and then away. I ended up at a table in a corner, thinking about getting even and about getting another drink. I wasn’t there long when a wiry hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up at a knobby face, a row of yellow teeth, and a red cap.

  “I owe you a drink from the other night—for being a prick. What’re you havin’?” I looked at his hand on my shoulder, and at the twin lightning bolts tattooed across his knuckles. He squeezed harder. “What’s the matter, pard—you don’t want to drink with me?”

  “Scotch,” I said.

  He brought back two doubles, two beers for himself, and one for his pal Len, who brought along three other guys whose names I never got. They stood around the small table and blocked out the light. They let Ross do all the talking, and they took their eyes off me only to glance at one another and exchange narrow smiles. I knew I should be scared, and a part of me was, but another part was thirsty. And the rest of me—the biggest part by far—could barely pay attention to any of it.

  Two doubles became two more, and two after that, and the room was now a smear of noise and smoke and sweat. The circle of bodies around the table grew tighter and darker and like a cave, and only Ross’s questions made it through the gloom. He kept repeating them—again and again—and they stuck like splinters in my head. Where’re you from? Where’re you headed? Why’d you stop here? Who’s expecting you? His voice was raspy and intimate, and his face was close to mine. His breath was like a barnyard and the questions kept coming, and all of a sudden it seemed important to have the answers. I worked up a sweat trying, but every time I reached for one, it wriggled away.

  “Who’s expecting you?” he asked again, and Mia’s pale, fretting face rose up and I started to cry. There was laughter in the cave, and someone dropped a hand on my shoulder and put another shot glass in front of me. I downed it and choked, and the world began to slide. I was covered in sweat, and I knotted up inside, from the chest down.

  “Jesus, Ross,” someone said, “he’s gonna boot.” Then there were arms under mine.

  “Come on, pard, you need air.”

  Hands pushed me along, and the cave became a tunnel. I stumbled to the end of it, out into the frozen night. I staggered against a dumpster and emptied myself in a bellowing retch. I kneeled against the dumpster, shaking, and when I looked up there were stars in the sky.

  “Holy shit,” a voice said, “the fucking guy gave birth.” There was laughter and a hand on my collar and Ross’s voice. “Come on, pard, a little ride will fix you.”

  I didn’t want to move, but the hand pulled me up. I tried to hold onto the dumpster, but the hand pried my fingers loose and pulled me across the parking lot to a dented gray van. A door slid open and someone took my arm. I looked up at the stars.

  “Climb in, pard,” Ross said, but I didn’t want to. I yanked my arm away and pushed backward.

  “I have to make a call,” I said. My voice sounded hollow. “I have to call Mia.”

  “Sure,” Ross said, “I got a phone in here.”

  Hands grabbed at my coat, but I spun away and stumbled. “I want to talk to Mia.”

  “Who the fuck is Mia?” someone said.

  “Maybe it’s his mother—like Mama Mia.”

  There was laughter, and another voice shouted: “He don’t look Italian!”

  More laughter, and still another voice. “She can’t come to the phone anyway—she’s in the can, giving head to Lenny.” Louder laughter, and someone had my arm.

  “I want to talk to her,” I said, and I threw my elbow back. It hit something soft, and for a moment everything went quiet. And then the walls came down.

  Rocks, stones, big boulders—in my face, my gut, my balls. I was on my knees, on my stomach, curled up with my arms around my head. There was blood in my mouth and in my eyes, and nothing but ringing in my ears.

  Then there was a sudden boom like thunder and the sound of breaking glass, and it all stopped.

  “Jesus Christ, Mickey—what the fuck’s with you? That’s my goddamn windshield.” It was Len’s voice.

  There was another sound—a mechanical slide and click—and Ross’s voice, nervous.

  “For chrissake, Mickey, put that thing down.”

  “Just as soon as you drive away, you and your pals.”

  “C’mon, man, we’re having a little fun is all.”

  “Have it somewhere else, and with somebody else.”

  “Christ, Mick, he’s just a drunk.”

  “He’s my drunk, Ross.”

  I heard shuffling and someone spit on me, and then the space around me cleared. I saw the sky, and Mickey and his daughter standing over me.

  “Can you walk?” Mickey asked.

  “Sure,” I said, and I passed out.

  I woke in my room on the fifth day, surprised to be anywhere at all. In the mirror, my face was cut and skewed, like a shredded document glued back together but with pieces gone. And the rest of me, from what I could see, was no better. Someone had gotten my clothes off, but I still smelled like smoke and vomit and burnt garbage. I hobbled to the bathroom to piss, and when I did, it was dark and felt like a wire going through me. I stood at the sink and ran water on my hands. It stung in the cuts, but it was nothing compared to the pain in my throat, which felt like lye, and the pain in my head, which felt fatal.

  I climbed into the shower and let the water boil me. After a while, heat overcame pain and I washed myself three times. Then I boiled myself some more, while memories of Strickland and our last meeting rose from the steam—the smiling face, those teeth, you know how the game is played His face and voice mixed with scraps of the night before—the circle of men, Ross’s questions, and Mickey’s words. Get even and get out. After a longer while, I smiled. I was still a shambles—brittle, scrambled, full of broken glass—but my mind felt clearer than it had in weeks, in years maybe. I finally had a plan.

  There was nothing complicated about it: good lawyers, a plea bargain, whatever testimony they wanted, and then a book deal. It wouldn’t be easy, and it would cost me every cent I had and more, but I knew I could make it work. The very first step, even before the lawyers, was to call Mia. I needed to talk to her—to hear her voice and tell her everything. And then I needed to get the hell out of this dump and back to civilization.

  I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around me. I hobbled from the bathroom, and that’s when I noticed that my clothes were gone. Not just the stuff I’d worn the night before, but everything—underwear, socks, shoes, all of it. And not just my clothes. My bags were gone, too, and my wallet—even my stack of newspapers. I went to the window. No car.

  “Motherfuckers.” I picked up the phone and was listening to silence in the receiver when the door opened. Mickey came in, followed by his daughter and an icy wind. I shivered and put the receiver down.

  “They robbed me, those bastards. They took everything.”

  Mickey sat in the only chair. His daughter closed the door and leaned against it. I tied my towel more tightly.

  “Plus, the fucking phone’s not working,” I said. Mickey nodded and I took a deep breath. “You saved my ass last night, and I owe you big time. But I need your help again. I’ve got to get out of here—and in a hurry—but those fuckers cleaned me out.” Mickey nodded some more and looked around the room. “I’ll pay you back for everything,” I added.

  “Sure you will,” he said, and smiled. “But it wasn’t Ross that cleaned you out.” His daughter opened her big coat and produced a newspaper. It was the Philadelphia Inquirer the business section, one of the papers off my stack. I sat on the bed. My face was throbbing, and when I touched it, my fingers were dotte
d with blood.

  “You don’t look much like your picture,” she said.

  I peered at Mickey. “What the hell is this?”

  He shrugged. “It’s getting something back.”

  My throat was tight, and I had to force the words out. “Getting what?”

  Mickey smiled. “Two weeks ago, I had four hundred thousand in my retirement account. Not as much as I thought I’d have at this point—not as much as I would’ve if my old company hadn’t messed with our pension fund—but with the income from this place and the bar, it was enough to keep body and soul together. At least until you came along.”

  “What did I—”

  “The money was in a fund that bet big on bank stocks. Stupid of them probably, and probably stupid of me to invest, but it was doing fine until you. Now it’s all but gone.”

  My head was spinning, and I couldn’t seem to get any air in my lungs. I looked in the mirror and for an instant I thought I saw Mia behind me. “And what do you want from me—money?”

  The pimply girl took her hand from the pocket of her big coat. There was an ugly black gun in it, and an ugly smile on her face. Mickey shook his head sadly. “For starters,” he said.

  TODAY WE HIT

  BY MEGAN ABBOTT

  110 W. 139th Street

  Her mother taught her there could be something lovely in the way a rainbow would arc through a tub of soapy water, even as the smell pinched her nose and her hands cracked red from the bleach, from a hundred splinters off the cracking wood of the mop handle. A thousand rainbows could span that tub now and she wouldn’t bat an eye.

  And there he was, how many paychecks for that almond-green felt derby of his, telling her once more that he would soon be covering her broken hands in rose milk and fine perfumes, a bauble for every bleach-brined finger.

  “Say it all you want, my man. But that won’t make it so,” she said, looking out the browned window, the fading orange light streaking the building tops.

  He laughed. He always laughed and it was charming once, that gentle burr, the lilt of the islands twisting through it like a stick of peppermint.