good.”
You know that loosey-goosey feeling you get when a TV
station logo interrupts your show and a serious voice says,
“Stay tuned for an important news bulletin.” That queasiness in your stomach? The tingling at the back of your neck
because you don’t know if you’re going to hear about a snow
storm or thermonuclear war?
“This isn’t easy for me to say,” Gerry says.
Oh, come on, Gerry. Spit it out. Sweet Jesus. Seconds ago
I’m tickled because I think my monster is about to spend some of his half a million in cash, and now I’m in a panic, terrified by words no one wants to speak.
“I’m dying of pancreatic cancer,” he says.
9
THREE
Sweet Lord. Gerry Burns is about to die? Gerry Burns,
whose buying and selling of stock options generates half my
already depleted monthly income?
My monster is terminal?
I’m speechless. A ball of frozen numbness grips my feet
and rises throughout my entire body. Like once when I was
kid and ate a twenty-four-count box of grape Popsicles in two hours. Must be a full minute before the air-conditioning pops back on, jarring my icy brain back into activity.
“Sorry,” Gerry says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My monster and his trophy wife Kelly look worried, and I
realize the color must have left my face. Indeed, I notice my breathing is shallow and I feel wobbly just sitting. “I’m so sorry...I don’t know what to say.”
Gerry holds up his left hand like he’s directing traffic.
“There’s nothing you can say. And Kelly and I didn’t come
here for sympathy. I wanted to let you know so you can begin cleaning up my trading positions...turn the options and
speculative stuff into cash. And I wanted Kelly to meet you so it’ll be easier for her later dealing with my estate. As you know, Austin, it’s a lot of money.”
Boy, is it ever. I close my eyes and imagine Gerry’s pages in my client book. Five million in tax-free bonds. Another five million in blue chip stocks. Maybe half a million in stock
option trading positions, half a million in cash.
“I should tell you I’m seriously thinking about cashing in
everything, transferring the funds to my bank,” Gerry says.
“Let their trust department manage the money for Kelly. She
doesn’t know a stock from a bond.”
I’m not often at a loss for words. Salesmen without a bent
toward blab do not survive. But staring at my round and
friendly New Jersey-based cowboy, those bushy eyebrows
underneath the Stetson, I can’t conjure a single word of
10
Jack Getze
advice. All my brain sees is numbers. Twenty thousand shares of this, five hundred contracts of that. The thousands in back child support and alimony I owe my ex-wife Susan.
“Austin?”
Some career being a broker. I push numbers to get people
on the telephone. To sell them stuff, I tell my clients about all kinds of numbers—earnings, yields, and price-to-book ratios.
And when I do make a sale, I write numbers on the trade
ticket, enter commission numbers in my book. Pretty much
the whole damn business is numbers, numbers, numbers.
And Gerry’s account is big numbers. My very biggest. My
monster.
I stand up behind the desk, walk around to the front edge,
and lean my butt against the mahogany. The measured smile
is a standard technique to convey intimacy, straight talk. I have no idea what I’m going to say yet, but a little silent
reflection is okay. It warns people that my words will be
important.
“Are you okay, Austin?”
I stare through the conference room’s glass at my associate
Walter Osgood. Walter sold pots and pans door-to-door
before his wife convinced him to try stocks and bonds. Now
he lives in a forty-room mansion on the Navasquan River,
owns three Mercedes. What would Walter say?
“Austin?”
“Maybe you’re about to make the same mistake a lot of
husbands make,” I say. “You’re trying to protect your wife
from the responsibilities associated with handling her
finances.”
I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this, so I pause to assess. Gerry is shaking his head negatively. Kelly on the other hand seems to like what she’s just heard. Her breasts are
smiling at me. No, I mean her lips are smiling at me.
Vulnerable.
That
Marilyn
Monroe
“help
me”
look.
Stockbroker instinct tells me to keep pressing. Maybe even
pour it on.
“The truth is, Gerry, Kelly is still a young woman. She’s
going to be rich for a long time. Is it really your belief she 11
BIG NUMBERS
doesn’t have the desire or the intellect to handle her own
money?”
Of course I’ve gone too far. I made it sound like he thinks
his wife is stupid. Not only that, I’ve reminded him the pretty redhead is going to be around doing damage to men’s heads
long after he’s playing ghost riders in the sky.
“If Kelly were my wife,” I say, “I’d want and expect her to
take care of herself. I’d want her to know how to handle
money.
How
to
talk
to
accountants,
lawyers,
and
stockbrokers. Heck, Gerry, I’d teach her what she needs to
know.”
Gerry’s bushy eyebrows are now a single line of
disapproving fur. I suspect he’s angry at the way I’m playing to his wife. Screw him. I now fully understand what my
instincts whispered a few seconds ago; Gerry has terminal
cancer. Barring a miracle cure, or black magic, Kelly’s going to end up with all the loot.
“What do you think, Kelly?” I say. “Do you think Gerry
should turn control of your money to a bank trust
department? A group of strangers?”
“They’re no more strangers than you are,” Gerry says.
More of a bark, actually.
I ignore my monster’s snide remark and watch the
redhead. I love the way Kelly takes her time, glancing
sideways at Gerry, staring at me, slowly twisting the seven-
carat diamond on her ring finger. Checking her hole cards one more time.
“I think the best thing would be for us to stop worrying
about money and concentrate on beating the cancer,” she
says. “The doctors say some people survive pancreatic
cancer.”
Sure, Kelly. And somebody wins the Irish Sweepstakes
every year, too.
The pretty redhead reaches for Gerry’s hand. “Let’s forget
about money, Gerry. I want to go home.”
The tender voice, those glistening green eyes...it all seems a bit much. I swear Mrs. Gerry Burns even threw a little sex
into that “I want to go home” line. I’ll bet my monster
1212
Jack Getze
cowboy’s working up a hard-on right now, ready to go home
and ride the happy trail between Kelly’s legs.
I know I am.
Gerry pushes up from his chair and offers his hand,
mumbles a few words about thinking things over, that I’ve
made some sense. I don�
��t pay that much attention because
Kelly is giving me a much friendlier farewell. Standing close.
Staring into my eyes. Squeezing my hand. There was
something electric between us last year, and now, me lost in her neon green eyes, that feeling rushes back. An inexplicable knowledge of mutual destiny. Some kind of bond, a spiritual
matching.
Oh, my. My financial instincts were dead-on, too. I
definitely played up to the right person in this duo, the one open to suggestions.
Walking them into the parking lot’s mid-September
sunshine, opening the Cadillac Escalade’s passenger door for Kelly, I wonder what I should suggest next.
13
FOUR
Late that afternoon, Luis’s Mexican Grill is empty but for
me and my favorite bartender. I watch with a smile as Luis
puts the bottle of Herradura Gold in front of me along with a salt shaker, a dish of lime wedges, and two shot glasses. He wants to drink with his favorite customer.
“Cruz says you again spent the night in our parking lot,”
he says.
Uh, oh. “Truth is, I haven’t found another roost yet, or at
least one where they don’t call the cops.”
Luis smiles at me. “Do not concern yourself. I will tell
Cruz we have made an arrangement. But I am worried about
your drinking, amigo. It is your business which still troubles you?”
I’ve never told Luis about my visitation rights being taken
away. I’m afraid he’ll think less of me for letting it happen.
Bad enough I think less of myself.
“The hell with my business, Luis.” I lick salt from the back of my hand, down the shot of fermented cactus juice. “I’d
rather talk about a woman who came to see me this
morning.”
His bottomless black eyes flicker with interest.
“She’s a redhead, very attractive,” I say. “And—oh, yes—
she’s married.”
The flicker dies. Luis’s forehead bunches with wrinkles.
“Then why would you even desire to discuss her?”
I shrug. I know my favorite bartender is not going to like
this. Hell, he’s appalled already, might even throw me out. I decide to give him the full-boat Carr grin before I toss the punch line: “Because her husband is my richest client. And
he’s dying of cancer.”
Luis’s eyes roll. His square chin moves slowly side-to-side, my favorite bartender maybe thinking over the long list of
potential indiscretions. Finally, he pours us another shot of 14
Jack Getze
Herradura. “So you think perhaps you will marry this woman
when her husband dies? Then you will be rich, too?”
Wow. I am mucho impressed by Luis’s working knowledge
of my tequila-infected brain. Austin Carr’s wildest fantasies lay before him.
“Oh, it’s just something to dream about,” I say. “Like
humping Shania Twain.”
Luis skips the salt this time, minimizing his shooter ritual to the tequila and a juicy wedge of lime. “I think your plan is bad.”
I feel the skin around my eyes scrunch up in puzzlement. I
called it a dream, didn’t I? Not a plan.
“When this woman gets her husband’s money, she will
leave New Jersey,” he says. “The rich ones always travel. It is what women like to do.”
I am truly shocked Luis is taking this so seriously. The idea is ridiculous. A daydream. Like watching a two hundred fifty thousand dollar Italian sports car drive by. Sure it would be fun to drive one, but maintenance alone puts the thing out of reach. Forget about the initial outlay.
15
FIVE
That evening I put on a pair of super-sized aviator mirror
sunglasses and my Dodgers baseball hat, found a thick tree
for cover near the left field foul line of my son Ryan’s fall league baseball game. The shade is cool, the bird calls
soothing. Who cares if the court order the ex-wife obtained
bars my attendance?
By the fifth inning Ryan has earned a walk and two
singles, made three or four nice plays at shortstop. He’s on deck, ready to come up again with men on base when I see a
Branchtown patrol car slide quietly into the parking lot.
Maybe a cop’s son is playing, too.
Or maybe not. My ex-wife scurries out of the stands to
greet the police cruiser. I desperately want to watch Ryan bat, but my ex-wife’s past deeds dictate extreme caution. I turn my back on the field and make like a squirrel, darting through the park’s thick stand of locust trees and pin oaks. I reach my car, key the engine, then glance over my right shoulder to back up.
Damn. A beefy Branchtown cop stands directly behind my
car, his left hand raised, telling me to stop. The big cop’s right hand rests on his gun holster.
“Turn off your engine and step out of the car please,” says
a sharp voice in my ear. My head snaps back. A second cop
has approached my driver’s window while I was admiring his
partner’s artillery. My ex-wife stands behind this second cop, her face contorted with venom.
“Deadbeat,” she says. More of a shout, really.
The cop motions for her to calm down. “Ma’am.”
I douse my engine and climb out into the fading evening
light. This second cop is younger than the first, about my age, and wears a kindly face with soft brown eyes. Friendly
looking. Maybe he has children of his own.
I give him the famous, full-boat Carr grin. “I just wanted
to see my kid play ball.”
16
Jack Getze
He nods, then spins me by the shoulders, slams my chest
against the camper, begins to pat me down. The full-boat
Carr grin doesn’t work on everybody.
My ex-wife seizes the opportunity to deliver additional
poison. “You can watch Ryan play ball when you pay me
what you owe, you damn deadbeat.”
The cop motions her away. “Step back, ma’am. We’ll
handle this.”
Good thing the cops are here to protect me. Since the
divorce, my ex-wife’s chest and shoulders have grown to the
size of an Olympic wrestler’s. Worse, her hatred runs deep,
even though I forgave her many years ago. Sometimes her
court actions seem vindictive, but I figure she’s just trying to provide for our children.
“Put your hands behind you, Mr. Carr,” the young cop
says. “You’re under arrest for violating a restraining order.”
I spend the night in jail with two drunks and a twenty-
something pot dealer, but next morning a municipal judge lets me go with a warning.
Walking back to the baseball field from Branchtown’s tiny
courthouse, hoping some thief stole my camper, I consider
robbing a local branch of the Navasquan National Bank.
How else will I ever pay off my past-due alimony and child
support?
17
SIX
Turns out my cowboy Gerry Burns lives in a captain’s suite
at the Navasquan River Boat Club, a swank twenty-story
condo with a marina full of big yachts. Hatteras, Grand
Banks, Chris-Craft. There’s no horse stable—surprise—but I
can say first hand that over the bar of the marina’s public
restaurant rests a fine pair of Brahma bull horns.
When I finish my Bombay martini, I drop some money on
the bar, gobble a handful of breath mints, and pick up my
props. I’m hea
ded for the fancy condo across the street and
the opening salvos of my War to Keep the Burns Account.
Not quite shock and awe, but I have manufactured a semi-
reasonable excuse to drop in.
Today it’s hot. Over eighty at eleven in the morning. New
Jersey’s weather is like its politicians. Whichever way the
wind blows. Warm, humid, and Jersey Republican weather
comes from the south, in this case a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico.
The drivers of two Mercedes sedans and a red Jaguar two-
seater are dealing with valet parking in front of the condo.
One of the Mercedes belongs to Kelly Burns. She’s standing
there in dark sun glasses and a black swimsuit under a short, yellow-flowered green beach wrap. Her red hair is lumped on
one side, stiff like an old mop.
When I get closer, I see she’s wearing little or no make-up, and there’s a nervous element to her body language. In a
hurry, maybe? Or worried?
“Austin?”
I approach and offer my self-serving gifts. “I just came by
to drop off these books for you. Stuff on investing.”
My reflection appears in her dark glasses. I feel probed by
alien scanners, two maybe three beats. I have no clue what
she’s really looking at, let alone thinking, but the clumpy hair, the lack of make-up...I’m guessing Mrs. Gerry Burns isn’t
18
Jack Getze
doing well as nurse to the terminal cancer patient. Call it a hunch.
“I was headed for the beach,” she says. “And frankly,
Austin, I don’t have time to read books.”
I sigh, letting my disappointment show. What happened to
that chemistry, Kelly? Didn’t you feel it, too?
She laughs. “I suppose that sounds strange, doesn’t it? I
have time for the beach, but not for reading—adding to my
knowledge.”
I show her the famous Carr half-smile. “Not strange,
really. More like typically human, especially for pretty
women. Let me stick them in the car for you. In case you
change your mind.”
She removes the dark glasses and studies my face. One
beat, two beats. “Sure. Why not?”
I toss the books on the Mercedes’ back seat, shut the door,
then gaze at the redhead to make my goodbye. At least I tried, made an appearance. She’s staring at the hazy September sky, not me. Maybe she’s thinking about my smile.
She sighs and slips her glasses back on. “As long as you’re
here, maybe you can help me with something. I have a little
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 2