money problem.”
Oh, boy. I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “My specialty.”
She motions toward the Mercedes. “Take a drive with
me?”
Did I show up at the right time, or what? I force my eyes
away from her trim, barely-covered ass as we both drop into
the front bucket seats. Sexual thoughts are a no-no. Toward
the goal of seeing my kids again, I have to concentrate on
keeping the Burns’ millions under management.
She zooms away from the condo. I notice Kelly’s nine-year-
old Mercedes has two hundred thousand miles on the
odometer. Wonder why Gerry doesn’t buy her something
new?
Kelly turns left on Route 36, north toward Sandy Hook
and the Highlands. Although the Atlantic Ocean is less than
fifty feet away, I can’t see the water or the sand on our right because of a twelve-foot retaining wall made of boulders and cement. Just about two years ago, Hurricane Becky pushed
19
BIG NUMBERS
the ocean across this highway into the Navasquan River. The
expensive beach homes on our left are new and built ten feet higher than the last crop.
“So what’s the financial problem?” I ask.
“I have a pile of cash in the trunk,” she says. “Over a
hundred thousand.”
Wow. What’s happening here? I wait for more information
but she doesn’t provide any. She has the driver’s window
down and her golden red hair is blowing straight out behind
her like a ripped flag. That lumpy patch is dancing to its own song.
“Sounds like a big happy to me,” I say. “What’s the
problem part?”
“I want to hide it, not spend it.”
I turn my gaze on the rock wall flying by. I can’t believe
she trusts me with this. Must be the Carr smile. Too bad I
can’t bottle that grin. Or get it to work over the telephone. I wouldn’t have to keep entertaining larcenous ideas.
“Hide it from whom?” I ask. “Gerry?”
When we hit the fork at the Highlands Bridge, Kelly steers
us toward the Sandy Hook beaches. Two weeks after Labor
Day, every parking lot is a big empty.
Kelly shifts her gaze my way. “Does it matter who I’m
hiding it from?”
“If you can tell Gerry about the money, we’ll put the cash
in his account. He can give you what you need whenever you
want it.”
“And if I don’t want Gerry to know?”
I had a feeling. “We’ll figure out something else. You have
any I.D. in your maiden name?”
“An old driver’s license and a U.S. passport. I never got
around to changing it.”
“That’s an excellent start,” I say. “Now, are you willing
to break the law?”
20
SEVEN
I suppose it’s common for the mind to conjure nasty
thoughts while counting money, but here with Kelly in the
back seat of her old Mercedes, sorting her cash into fourteen stacks of seventy-five one hundred dollar bills, and a fifteenth pile that’s one Ben Franklin short, I want to throw her down on the cash, do the sex act like large-eared rodents.
One hundred and twelve thousand four hundred dollars.
Wow. I don’t know if it’s greed, lust, or poor ventilation, but my neck, shoulders, and backside are sweating like warm
cheese.
We’re nestled into a secluded Sandy Hook parking lot for
birders and hikers. Eight spaces. We’re the only car. On the back seat, where we just counted the loot, Kelly’s half-bare ass keeps inching closer.
“Now what?” she says.
“We visit fifteen to twenty banks and/or savings and loans,
as many as it takes, exchange one of these stacks at each bank for a seventy-five hundred dollar bank check. Then I deposit the checks into a new account for you at one final institution, write a check on that new account to Shore Securities.”
“That’s against the law?”
“Avoiding record-keeping on cash transactions? Uh, yes.
It’s called laundering money. Not to mention the multitude of regulations and laws I have to break by opening an account in your maiden name. Maybe you never heard of the Patriot
Act?”
Her hip touches mine. I blink when a bead of sweat slides
down into my right eye.
“Don’t they require identification when you get those bank
checks?” she says.
I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. My heart rate
feels a bit high. “As long as the amount’s under ten thousand, 21
BIG NUMBERS
usually not. But if they do, I’ll just say I left my driver’s license in the car and walk out. Go on to the next bank.”
She lays her hand on my thigh. It burns like a hot iron.
“How efficient.”
Man, oh, man. The redhead is coming on hard and I’m not
sure what to do about it. I mean, my dick’s wanted to get
naked with her for over a year, that chemistry thing, but my brain says I must focus on maintaining the account. I need the business. My kids need the business. Sex could louse things
up.
“I should call my office,” I say.
“Why?”
“To tell them I’ll be busy all day with a client.”
“Sounds like an excuse for sex to me. Do you use that one
a lot?”
My heart ticks up another notch. “Only Tuesdays and
Thursdays.”
“Naughty boy.”
Kelly leans her body against me. She smells like flowery
soap. Lilacs, I think. Her hand on my thigh hums like an
electric vibrator. Despite direct orders from the brain, my gaze won’t leave the roundness of her breasts peeking above the
swimsuit.
“Would you like your bonus in advance?” she asks.
Oh, my.
“Kelly, this isn’t a good idea. Our relationship should be—
”
Kelly presses hard against me, sticks her tongue in my ear.
Blood rushes to my crotch.
“Sorry I’m acting like a whore. It’s just Gerry’s been sick a long time. I haven’t...you know...in six months. And I felt
something for you a year ago. I thought you did, too.”
Damn. That’s it. I mean, how am I supposed to resist this?
At least Luis can’t see me sleeping with another man’s wife.
He would be shocked and appalled.
The redhead massages me between my legs. “Ooo. Looks
like you’ve already got your bonus.”
22
Jack Getze
That night, alone in my camper, another conjugal date
with my married lover set for the day after tomorrow, even
memories of my children Ryan and Beth become sleepy time
second fiddle. I dream exclusively of the future widow, the
natural and true redhead, Mrs. Kelly Rockland Burns.
And I feel like a heel doing it.
23
EIGHT
At the office next morning, I’m collecting various forms for Kelly’s new account when our fixed-income desk uncovers
bad-ass ugly news: an issue of tax-free St. Louis hospital
bonds Shore helped underwrite is trading flat, or without
interest.
“Crap,” Walter says.
This is a major disaster. As opposed to your everyday so-
what calamity we’re all used to. Shore’s principle owner,
Straight Up Vic Bonacelli, received a perso
nal and substantial bonus for every one of these St. Louis hospital bonds we sold during last year’s public offering. Thus Mr. Vic made
hawking them mandatory, and the object of a special sales
contest. Thus we sold our little fannies off. Thus Shore
customers own a boat-load.
I personally have three or four big clients in these St. Louis bonds, including one wild man who’s already pissed at me for a
previous
and
equally
unfortunate
investment
recommendation. Can’t wait to call Psycho Samson with this
news. Psycho’s just his old stage name, but Wacky, Nutso, or Crazy would work as well.
There’ll be more information for us at a sales meeting in
five minutes; the head bond trader shouts above the
salesmen’s groans and sighs, but bottom line, our customers
won’t be getting their semi-annual interest checks anymore.
And oh yes, the bid on these now-defaulted puppies—if you
can find a bidder—is nine cents on the dollar. Our customers paid par, or one hundred cents.
Just what I need. Another financial debacle. My limbs feel
heavy, my eyes droopy. Is this stress? Or the result of banging my head regularly inside that camper?
I stagger back to the tile and stainless steel kitchen, make a fresh pot of strong coffee, and soothe myself with extra non-dairy creamer and double the non-sugar sugar. By the time I
24
Jack Getze
wander into Shore Securities’ oak-paneled meeting room, sales manager Tom Ragsdale is already delivering another one of
his infamous and insightful analyses.
“After a late escrow payment, the bank trustee issued a
notice of technical default,” Rags says. “The hospital was
forced to file for bankruptcy, so it looks like our bondholders won’t be receiving their interest payments for a while.”
Looks like? For a while?
Rags being a genius is why Shore Securities’ owner Straight
Up Vic made him sales manager. Well, that and Rags’ recent
engagement to Vic’s daughter Carmela.
“What do we tell our clients?” Walter says.
“Tell them the hospital filed for bankruptcy protection
under Chapter Eleven,” Rags says. “That’s a voluntary
reorganization. It could take a while, but our clients’ principal is secured by a first mortgage on the hospital’s land and
property.”
I see two or three inexperienced brokers sigh with relief.
They believe Rags’ implication that a first mortgage means
our bondholder clients have the St. Louis hospital firmly by the short and curlies. Experience has taught me otherwise. If the hospital’s land and property could pay off the bonds—as
well as other similar lien holders in a yet-to-be-determined class of bankruptcy petitioners—the bid on our bonds would
be a lot higher than nine cents. The market knows this stuff.
“That’s right, Rags,” I say. “Our bondholders have the
right to foreclose on the hospital’s land and property. Maybe we can turn the facility into a drug rehab center. I hear that St. Louis neighborhood would provide an excellent base of
potential clients.”
Rags stares, then scowls at me. My humor is slow-acting in
his system. And extremely toxic. Too bad, boss. This isn’t my first Shore Securities’ bond default. I guarantee the hospital’s expensive medical equipment is one hundred percent leased,
thus not attachable, and the buildings and land are worth
virtually nothing. An inner city location puts nasty limits on financing and alternative construction opportunities.
I’ve had about enough of this day. Staying at my desk
means calling clients to tell them their bonds defaulted.
25
BIG NUMBERS
Psycho Samson, a former Notre Dame lineman and pro
wrestler, now a fishing boat captain, will probably strangle me. I should probably give him another day of ignorant bliss.
What a world. What a world. I walk out of the meeting
and out of the building. I hate to retire so early, but I couldn’t give investments away feeling like this. With rest and attitude adjustment, however, perhaps I can bounce back tomorrow.
Fifteen steps into the fresh air and sunlight, Shore’s open-
air parking lot, I hear the door click behind me. Someone’s
followed me outside.
It’s Rags. With narrowed eyes. Pinched lips. A twitching
muscle near the bottom of his jaw. It ticks with every angry heartbeat.
Rags marches closer, but not too close. I’m standing beside
my pick-up mounted camper now and Rags doesn’t want to
chance rust on his two thousand dollar Canali suit. Or even
dirty his shoes or tie.
“You’re close to getting fired, you know that? Your
numbers suck, Carr, and that’s enough for me. But this
attitude of yours lately...since I got promoted...it’s affecting the other salesmen.”
The sneer on his lips clenches my right hand into a fist. I’m sick of taking everybody’s shit. My ex-wife. The judge. The
gouging divorce lawyer who no longer takes my calls. A daily dose of complaining clients. And now Rags, the new punk
sales manager from Staten Island who screwed his way into
boss-dom. My hand wants to explode on his nose.
“My attitude isn’t about you,” I say. “This is Shore’s third default in five years, Rags. Any idea how many clients I’ve
lost?”
“You’re such a pussy,” he says. “Have you even tried to
replace them? When was the last time you stayed late to make cold calls?”
I stare at Rags’ silk tie: baby blue with silver dots shaped like...what, anchors? Knowing Rags’ penchant for fine
apparel and ass-kissing, the tie probably cost two or three
hundred bucks and he picked the design because of Straight
Up Vic’s interest in boating.
“You’ve lost the killer instinct,” Rags says.
26
Jack Getze
“Not really. It’s just no longer directed at my clients.”
He steps back, maybe wondering if I’ve threatened him,
and I seize the opportunity to scramble behind the wheel of
my movable home. Rags shakes his head as I start the engine.
The snotty, brown-nosed jerk would love to fire me, take my
good accounts for himself and pass out the rest to suck-up
brokers he wants to cultivate.
But getting rid of Austin Carr won’t be easy, Rags. Straight Up Vic has developed a fondness for my golf game. I regularly make him big money at his club.
Still, Rags could talk him into something stupid if my
numbers don’t pick up.
27
NINE
It’s ten minutes shy of eleven when I get to Luis’s Mexican
Grill. The old high-backed dark-wood booths sit idle, but two guys with shaved heads occupy the apex of the horseshoe bar, directly below Luis’s hanging collection of authentic caballista sombreros.
I don’t see Luis, the world’s greatest bartender, but my
nose and ears tell me he might be helping Chef Cruz simmer
red and green chilies in the back. Somebody’s yakking it up
back there. Cooking stuff.
I pick a bar stool near the cash register, away from the Vin Diesel look-a-likes showing off their tattoos in wife-beaters.
Both are drinking Buds in tall brown bottles and watching the Yankees replay on a grainy television stuck high against the far wall.
A minute later Luis
strides out of the kitchen speaking fast Spanish with a short wiry Latino dressed in black. Black suit, black shirt, a black hat from the 1950s—one of those fedora
things—and a black leather string tie.
The way this guy struts, holds his head back, he believes
himself cool and tough. Personally, I don’t like the over-
confident sneer on his lips or the pencil-thin mustache above them.
Luis breaks off their conversation and ducks under the bar
gate. He’s wearing his usual white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the dark slacks, plus a gray vest today. He unlocks the register, gives me a nod. Preoccupied. Or pissed. Don’t
know which because I’ve never seen either look on him
before. Eyes like a windy night in the fall. Maybe Halloween.
The black-dressed stranger takes a seat two stools down
from me. I can smell his cologne. Or perfume. Or the flowery-smelling white powder he sprinkles on his ass to keep his
crack dry.
“Que pasa?” I say to Luis. Asking my favorite bartender
28
Jack Getze
“What’s happening?” stretches the extended boundaries of
my limited Spanish.
“Nada,” he says. “A margarita?”
“A double shot sounds better.”
I expect comment. Tequila shots are not my usual pre-
lunch fare. Especially doubles. Maybe I’m looking for
conversation, even sympathy. This bond default could be
Austin Carr’s final financial fiasco.
But Luis says nothing. He is uninterested in me today. He
simply goes to work, stacking the dish of lime wedges and a
salt shaker in front of me, pouring Herradura Gold into a
rocks glass.
The man in black grunts like a barn animal. Gesturing
with tiny hands; telling Luis he wants a shot, too. Not very polite, this man in black. Did I mention I don’t like his
manicured, polished fingernails? Wonder how he knows a
hombre like Luis.
My favorite bartender caps the Herradura, sends the bottle
sliding toward Branchtown Blackie, followed quickly down
the slick bar by a clean shot glass and my dish of sliced limes.
But Blackie isn’t waiting on ceremony. He grabs the
Herradura, unscrews the cap, and snatches the bottle to his
lips. Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Un-freaking-believable. Even the Vin Diesel twins in wife
beaters are shocked. It’s the first time their eyes have left the TV.
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 3