Black Fridays

by Michael Sears

  “How much money we talkin’ here?” Roger asked.

  “According to the guy’s notes, most of the trades were two to ten grand,” I said.

  “Chump change. Right? These guys trade millions every day.”

  “Right.”

  “Roger’s got a point,” Vinny said. “Five grand a week on average. A quarter mil a year—maybe. Let’s say there’s as many as two dozen guys involved. Gross is six mil. The house takes three—before expenses. I can see why it might make sense for all the small-timers. If these guys are slick, they can keep this little machine running forever. They only get busted if they fuck up, or get greedy. But I don’t see why some hedge fund would be involved. They’re only clearing a mil or two a year after expenses and the first time somebody rats, they’re out of business. Shut down. Don’t they have better things to do than run this elaborate skim job?”

  Roger turned to him. “So how come you know so much about this securities shit, huh? You been reading books?”

  “Hey. It’s no different than a jockey taking money to hold a horse back.”

  Vinny was right. I still had more questions than answers.

  Roger still looked unconvinced. “And some guy steps in front of a train over this? Over a few grand? I don’t buy it.”

  “He was about to get caught,” I said. “It would’ve been a huge embarrassment for him and his family.”

  “No. He was about to come clean. That’s what you said, am I right? He was doin’ the right thing.”

  Roger was right, too. Lowell Barrington had certainly acted like a guilty man, but not a suicidal one. He had believed he was about to do something noble. But there was no point in speculation. The man was dead.

  “I don’t know what to say, Roger. The guy walked in front of a train.”

  Vinny checked his watch. “I gotta go. Am I paid up, Rollie?”

  The bartender was huddled over the crossword puzzle with MaJohn. “You’re good.”

  Vinny slipped a twenty under his glass and left. Roger waited until he was out the door before leaning over and speaking in a confiding tone. “And you still won’t say who’s involved here? Come on. A hint. This is good dirt.”

  “Not a chance,” I laughed. Roger had a strong streak of noodge. “You’ll know when the story hits the Post.”

  “All right, but listen, I gotta tell ya something. You sent Wanda flowers? The other day? After you two, uh, you know.”

  I had sent the dozen roses a few days after our date.

  “Yes?”

  “She don’t like flowers. I’m just telling ya.”

  “Okay.” I was decidedly uncomfortable having a conversation about my love life. Successes or failures. “I won’t send her any more flowers.”

  “It’s not you, ya see. It’s her ex. Guy was a schmuck. He sent her flowers every time he fucked someone else. He’d come in late with an excuse and a bouquet, and she’d know.”

  “Thanks for the tip. We’re having dinner again tonight. I’m bringing the Kid.”

  “I know. Big step.”

  I had been trying to convince myself that it wasn’t. It was just dinner. It wasn’t a test. The world wasn’t going to change if it didn’t go well. Then again . . .

  “It’s a meal.”

  “Ahuh.” He took a long pull of cognac. “You mind if I ask you something personal?”

  Offering advice on my love life wasn’t personal? “Go ahead.”

  “You miss all that shit, don’cha?” Roger said. “I mean the trading. The action. The market. Being smart. On top of the world. The money. All that.”

  “Not the money. I had a lot and now I don’t. Life would be easier with more, but after a certain point, the money is just a way of keeping score. It’s not a business you should go into if all you care about it is the money.”

  “I think most people would disagree with you there, sport. Wall Street is where the money is. That’s why they go there.”

  I laughed. “No question. If all you want to do is make money, then you gotta go where the money is.”

  “Amen.” Roger swallowed some cognac and gasped. “That’s nice.”

  “I’ll tell you what I miss. I miss waking up and checking the markets even before I get in the shower. That feeling of plugging in. Being part of something really huge. And when you’re doing it right, feeling the flows, anticipating the turns just right, it’s like playing improvisational jazz while skydiving. It’s a rush.”

  We sat in silence after that for a few minutes. I felt all my regrets crowding round, seeking my attention. Roger must have sensed them as well.

  “And then you fucked it up.”

  “Royally.”

  “So, why’d ya do it?”

  There had been plenty of long, uncomfortable nights, lying on my bunk, up at Ray Brook, when I had plenty of time to think of an answer to that question. But recounting the slow slide of incremental events that got me there only left me angry and frustrated.

  “I don’t know. You know the old line about doctors? They all think they’re God. Well, traders know better. Traders know they are gods.”

  The truth was that I had been afraid. Afraid that I was no longer a god. That my time had passed and that my center, my core, had burned away to ashes. And everyone would know.

  “I guess it’s complicated,” I finished lamely.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Maybe I just never thought I’d get caught.” I checked my watch. It was time to meet Skeli for dinner. With the Kid. Anything could happen.

  “You know,” I said, “maybe I don’t miss it.”

  “Still, you had a nice run, ya know. Not many get there.”

  —

  DINNER WAS AT a Chinese-Latin place around the corner, where they didn’t mind making a grilled cheese and fries upon occasion. Skeli and I shared an avocado salad and two plates of their crackling chicken.

  The place was small and the noise could get to the Kid on a crowded night, but the early-Monday dinner rush consisted of us and a pair of Spanish-speaking cabbies, fueling up for the night’s work.

  “What’s your favorite car?” I asked her.

  The Kid’s antennae went up.

  “A car? I don’t know. I’m not that into cars, I guess.”

  The Kid went back to his fries.

  “You never had a car that you thought was just cool beyond all others? Never?”

  She gave a confused shake of her head. “No. Wait. I thought of one. My favorite cousin has an old Karmann Ghia. She keeps it in her barn and only takes it out to wax it. It’s cute.”

  “Type 34?” My little auto encyclopedist spoke up.

  “Excuse me?” Skeli said. She gave me a look for assistance.

  The Kid continued. “The Type 34 has the 1500cc engine. Very few were imported into the United States. It was made up until 1969. The same factory made the Porsche 914 after that.” I recognized my father’s intonations.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was the other one.”

  The Kid nodded seriously. He was used to adults who knew little about automobiles.

  “The original 1200cc engine was identical to the Beetle, producing only thirty-six horsepower and a top speed of just over seventy mph, but later models generated sixty horsepower with a sportier ride. Close to half a million were sold over the twenty years of production, with only minor exterior design changes. In 1974, the Karmann Ghia was replaced in the VW fleet by the Scirocco. Ketchup!”

  Skeli had been watching his flawless performance with a slightly stunned look. She gave a start at his barked order and slid the bottle of ketchup over to him.

  “Wow. I didn’t know all that.”

  The Kid was focused on his ketchup. I waited until he had a small puddle
and gently traded the bottle in his hand for a large French fry.

  “You must be very proud of your little genius.” The compliment was for his benefit. She needn’t have bothered. The Kid was intently swishing his fry through the ketchup. Once we stopped talking about cars, we lost all interest for him. He wouldn’t have noticed if we both burst into green flames or sprouted wings and flew around the restaurant.

  “Yes and no,” I said. “He’s repeating—exactly word for word—from a book my father read to him. It takes the place of relating. It’s a good trick, but it’s not conversation. I’m supposed to encourage him to engage and talk any chance I can, but he is a master at avoidance.”

  The Kid dropped the fry onto his plate and checked out. One second he was there, happily playing with his food, needing no help from a constantly fretful dad, content, with his five tiny cars lined up across the table in a perfectly spaced row. Then he wasn’t there at all. His eyes were closed, his body slightly rocking, his fingers tapping out his repetitive, irregular rhythm.

  “Oh my God,” Skeli whispered. “What happened? Is he all right?”

  “Something here is getting to him,” I said. “Who the hell knows? It could be the fluorescent lights, your shampoo, or the wrong brand of ketchup.”

  “What do we do?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. He’s trying. He wants control. Watch his fingers. That’s one of his ‘tricks.’ He tunes out the bad by focusing on something he can control. They call it ‘stimming.’ He’ll either pull out of it, or escalate.”

  I was nowhere near as calm as I made myself sound. The Kid could come out of his trance relaxed, exhausted, energized, or manic. I never knew what to expect. The whole thing left me feeling helpless—useless. Heather had the skills and the discipline to confront him. I knew I had neither. It wasn’t enlightenment that allowed me to quietly observe, it was cowardice.

  The Kid hummed his long single note.

  “Does it help to talk to him? Should we talk about cars?”

  “He doesn’t know we’re here.”

  Skeli was watching his fingers.

  “Skimbleshanks,” she said.

  “Say what?”

  “‘Skimbleshanks, the Railway Cat.’ It’s from Cats. That’s what he’s tapping.”

  “I don’t know that he knows that song,” I said. I didn’t.

  “It’s in thirteen/eight time.”

  “Wait. Are you saying there’s a pattern to his tapping?” How had I never noticed?

  “Of course. It’s three sets of eighth-note triplets, followed by a set of four. Believe me, you don’t hear that eight shows a week for two years and then just forget it.”

  “I don’t know where he would have developed a taste for Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

  “Well, don’t worry. It’s probably not contagious.”

  I scootched my chair an inch or so closer to catch him if his rocking became too energetic.

  “I’m supposed to watch his pupils while he does this. If they get really big, it indicates he’s having waking fits. Mini-seizures. Then he’ll need more testing and so on.” I let out a long sigh. “Unfortunately, he closes his eyes every time.”

  She laughed gently. “I think he’s charging his psychic batteries.”

  “Maybe so.” I relaxed just a touch. “Do you know what some high-functioning adult autistics call us? You and me and the rest of humanity, I mean. We’re ‘NTs.’ Neurotypicals. We suffer from an inability to conceptualize outside of a very finite set of strictures. We have problems concentrating at deep levels and we are hobbled by an obsession with emotional issues.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Maybe they’re right. Maybe these kids are the future. Their brains are evolving, processing things in ways you and I can’t. Maybe they’re preparing for a digital world, a virtual world, a place where string theory and nanotechnology join up in some way that the rest of us can’t even imagine. Someplace where the ability to read emotion on a human face is an annoyance—an evolutionary throwback, like an appendix.”

  I didn’t know what had caused this sudden release. These kinds of thoughts floated through the back corridors of my mind all day long—sometimes I thought I dreamed them—but I never shared them. With anyone. Except now I had with Skeli—twice.

  “Sorry.” I tried to stop myself.

  “No, it’s okay. Go on.”

  “But there are all sorts of zigs, zags, false starts, and downright mistakes along the evolutionary highway. For every genius, there’s scores of kids who will live out their lives in institutions.”

  I stopped and took a few long breaths.

  “The Kid is not in that camp. Right now. But I’m scared all the time. I take him to school every morning and I see some of those other kids. And I see their parents. Some broken, some angry, some obsessed with diets, or vaccines, or chemicals in cleaning products, trying to find some reason, some explanation for why their kid is the way he is. And, yes, a few who are joyful, taking each moment or connection with their strange child as a gift. And I wonder, after another five or ten years, what kind of parent I will be.”

  Skeli took my hand. It helped.

  “What do I know? I’ve been doing this for two weeks! And I’m always fighting with that Pinocchio thing in my head. You know? When will he turn into a real boy? And I know that way is madness. Evil. I have to stay focused on getting him to grow up to be himself, that’s all. Just the way you would with any child. Only with him, the range of who he will be is a lot scarier.”

  I’d scared her off, I was sure. Too much. Too fast. Still, she kept my hand in hers. She was trying.

  She looked at him again. The rocking had stopped, the eyes fluttered. He was coming around.

  “He is a very lucky little boy. To have a father like you.”

  For a moment, I was dumb. Kindness unnerved me; I had grown used to living without it.

  “Thank you,” I heard myself croak. “But I think I’m the lucky one.”

  “Ketchup!”

  Skeli jumped again, recovered quickly, and handed him the bottle.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t normally do this. Really. I’m actually a very reserved, quiet kind of person. I don’t know why I keep dumping all my deepest thoughts and darkest secrets every time I see you.”

  She stifled a laugh. “I think that’s one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Oh, shit!” I said. The Kid had produced a small lake of ketchup that was now overflowing the banks of the plate. He was focused on the slow ooze of color and had no awareness of the mess spreading across the table.

  Skeli followed my eyes and without a word, or a thought, she grabbed for the now near-empty bottle.

  “Oh, no . . .” she said.

  “I wouldn’t do—” I said.

  “NNNNNRRRRGGG!” screamed the Kid. The tug-of-war for the bottle was over in an instant. Skeli lost. The bottle flew, spraying red droplets across the wall and ceiling.

  I reached for the plate of fries. Too late. With a sweep of his arm, the Kid sent the doused fries off his end of the table.

  “No, Kid. NO!” I wasn’t getting through. His screech would have split atoms. His body was exploding—thrashing, kicking, gnashing his teeth, and scratching out at Skeli and me.

  The two cabbies were staring at us, trying to figure out why these awful parents allowed their child to throw such a tantrum. The waitress was screaming something in Spanish. I didn’t need it translated.

  “Follow me!” I yelled at a terrified Skeli.

  She heard and nodded.

  I threw my arms around the Kid and pulled him to me, then I stood up and ran for the door, his legs and arms thrashing, still wailing at full volume. “He’s sick! Out of my way!” I yelled.

  The waitress
jumped back.

  I was out the door and down the block. The Kid stopped fighting me, then went limp and began moaning. I stopped and waited for Skeli to join us.

  “Jesus Christ, Jason! Does this happen often?” She noticed the soft moans. “Is he all right?” She had flecks of ketchup in her hair and across her brow.

  “He’s fine,” I muttered. “Listen.” I was angry, embarrassed, and disgusted.

  “’Nilla. ’Nilla,” the Kid moaned.

  “What is it? What is he saying?”

  “He wants ice cream,” I said.

  “JESUSCHRIST! Ice cream? Ice cream? Are you kidding me? He wants goddamn ICE CREAM!?” She stood, hands on hips, her head jerking forward to emphasize, her words tumbling all over each other as she practically spit them at me.

  She looked taller when she was angry.

  “Look at this!” she yelled, showing me her bare arm. There was a little red half-circle of bite marks. “He bit me!” She suddenly found that to be funny. Hysterically funny. She doubled over laughing.

  On the whole, I thought she was taking it pretty well.

  “’Nilla.”

  “In a minute,” I said, without thinking.

  Skeli laughed harder.

  “So, if my kid bites you, does that mean you won’t see me anymore?”

  She was laughing so hard, she was snorting for breath.

  “Just don’t tell me we can still be friends, okay?” I continued.

  She inhaled sharply and held it. It worked.

  “So, other than that, how was dinner?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I can’t remember a more romantic evening.”

  “Care for some ice cream?”

  “Jason, you are a very sweet man. I am going home and wash this ketchup out of my hair. Then I will clean my wounds with vodka, and drink the rest.”

  “’Nilla.”

  “Quiet,” I said.

  “’Nilla!” he said louder.

  Skeli was no longer laughing, or angry or frightened. She looked like she was making a decision. A hard one.

  “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

  “Define ‘often,’” I said. I refrained from telling her that this had been only a minor tantrum.