by Carter Blake
I wonder what they thought of that last sentence and how I said it. That’s pretty fucking funny to think about, but what I’m enjoying thinking about even more right now is how Maddie made everyone run in fear with just her presence and a few simple words.
That is really fucking sexy.
God, she looks good.
“I have a good deal more to explain about it, but to give you a couple important nuggets to start with, I’ve been chosen to head the investigation, and while I’m loath to take up much of your time, I’m going to need your help.”
There’s a reason that Maddie needed to call me Mr. Barrett. There’s no way she would be heading this investigation if anybody at the SEC knew about our history, brief as it was.
I suppose she didn’t feel it was even worth bringing up—that she feels so little about it that it wouldn’t be a conflict at all.
There’s a lot more I’m thinking about, though. Like how five years can go by so fucking fast. Or how feelings that seem like they should’ve faded completely are now arising again in dizzyingly vivid and sharp definition.
I look at Maddie, who’s now silent yet stoic, looking for any signs of what she’s going through. I see none—it could be everything, it could very easily be nothing.
I can’t believe she’s here, though. Literally.
I’ve heard that one way you can tell if you’re dreaming or not is to look at your hand. If you see the normal number of fingers, at their usual lengths, then you are in the waking world. I take a furtive glance at my outstretched left hand—it looks on the level.
Which means she’s really fucking here, and she really looks this good.
“Are you okay, Mr. Barrett?” Madeline’s eyes dart quickly down to my left hand, indicating that she noticed my look.
“Oh yeah, I was just checking something. So is this gonna take long?” I’m trying not to give any outward indications about our past, or at least how I feel about it.
“Long?” There’s a sparkle in Maddie’s eye. It sends a flicker of heat straight through my chest, and I need to concentrate on not falling backward—as if I’m being pummeled by a swift wind.
“I have a few minutes now. If you need longer, like a half hour, I may have some open time for an appoint—”
Maddie lets out a judicious laugh, but it’s still enough that the old sensation of being entranced by a riveting siren song comes flooding back.
“I apologize for laughing, Mr. Barrett.”
“You can call me Ethan.”
“Okay, Eth...an. This is not a matter we can settle over lunch. We’re just at the very beginning stages of this investigation. We are going to need your cooperation over the course of the next few weeks, maybe longer. You are going to have to work with me during that time.”
“Wow. That’s going to be a big time commitment on my part. I guess I better start rearranging my schedule.”
I get the beginnings of that helium-balloon feeling, like when Maddie first suggested she could visit New York all those years ago. Except this time, it’s weighted down by the fact this is all part of an insider fucking trading investigation.
“I suggest you start now, Mr. Barrett. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”
Maddie’s austere expression betrays the faintest hint of a smirk.
Brooklyn Big-O
By Gage Grayson
Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
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Ethan
Walking west along Saint Mark’s Place, deep into the East Village, I think about how much things have changed—and how quickly.
I remember walking down Saint Mark’s as a kid, sensing the unfamiliar atmosphere, watching and listening to fully grown adults reel down the sidewalk, having loud, senseless conversations.
Other men and women would sit, hunched over, on stoops or on the ground, rocking back and forth. They were around my parents’ age, and it led me to think that life was mostly just about the luck of the draw, with the possibility of a new drawing coming up any time.
Saint Mark’s is a little different now. In some ways, so am I. For one, I’m carrying a smartphone in my pocket, which vibrates loudly in the middle of the block.
I know it’s a text from Ryan, probably a variation of the message he sends almost every time we meet at Lush Republic, but I still pull out my phone to look.
Hurry the fuck up, it’s hopping and I need a wingman.
It’s from Ryan, alright, but it looks like he managed to save up some money this week.
I also just opened a tab so your presence and wallet will be even more appreciated.
Ryan’s second text puts that notion to rest. Oh, well. My income allows me to free my friends of some of their financial constraints and enjoy our time out.
Saint Mark’s Place has changed as much as any person I know. I look up from my phone and see that nearly everyone else on the block also has their phones out, and everyone looks well-dressed.
This is now a street for those who got lucky in the draw.
I’m almost at Avenue A, home to Lush Republic and about a billion other bars. Luck, and everything else, could change at any time, at any second.
This neighborhood wasn’t always a destination for the fortunate ones, especially Alphabet City, the name for this little enclave of Avenues A through D.
This morning, when I announced my plans to Rodrigo, owner of my favorite deli and breakfast spot, he seemed disconcerted that I was going to venture into Alphabet City.
“Back in the seventies and eighties,” he had informed me, “we used to say that, if you went to Avenue A, you were adventurous. If you kept going east to Avenue B, then you were brave. If you went even further to Avenue C, you were crazy. Then, by the time you made it to Avenue D...”
“You were dead,” I interrupted.
He had nodded solemnly, not finding any of it funny.
These days, Avenue A is far from even mildly risky. Lush Republic, formerly the Café Kiev, is adventurous for the neighborhood, though, with a menu of homemade Slavic specialties like perogies, blinis, and the best damn blintzes this side of the fucking Russian Tea Room.
Besides that, the dimly lit, sparsely decorated neighborhood spot has cheap, strong drinks, a wide beer selection, and a bevy of downtown residents from every neighborhood south of 14th Street.
Shit, even I walk up here, and I’m from the Financial District.
I finally turn onto Avenue A, making the conscious decision—a decision I try to make as often as I can remember—to enjoy my luck while it lasts, because who knows what will fucking happen next.
The bouncer is perched on his chair just inside the Lush Republic entrance as I swing the door open. He gives me a nod of recognition, but he still takes out his flashlight to check my ID.
I’ve seen people up in arms about getting checked every damn time, but I understand. He cards everyone, no exceptions, because that’s his job.
Ryan spots me from the other side of the young, attractive, vaguely hipster weeknight crowd. He’s sitting at the bar by himself, with his black fleece jacket and his self-styled Ivy League haircut
Repocketing my ID, I walk straight through the crowd. Ryan waves me over as if I don’t fucking see him, as if I don’t know where to go.
Still wearing my tailored work clothes, I plow through the crowd seamlessly, my fellow patrons moving to the side instinctively. Ryan looks relieved as I take the spot next to him at the bar; he gets self-conscious about being here alone.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his cup.
“This? Oh, just Jack and Co
ke. I asked for a Long Island Iced Tea, but the bartender told me they don’t do shit like that here.”
I can tell from Ryan’s breath that the bartender may have given him an extra shot or two to make up for those limitations.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to order that here, is it?”
“No, but everyone who works here is different.”
I recognize the bartender, a large man in his late thirties, simultaneously preparing half a dozen mixed drinks, pouring vodka and spritzing mixer into a line of cups on the bar.
His iPod is connected to the sound system, and it’s playing something by the Monkees right now. One of their eighties reunion singles, I think.
“Have you ever asked Charles before?” I think Ryan knows the bartender’s name, but I’m being charitable right now and not calling him out.
“Probably.” Ryan pushes the straw aside and downs the rest of the drink. “Hey, Charles, could I get another when you get the chance?”
Charles turns up his iPod, and I catch some of the lyrics to the current song.
That was then. This is now…
I swivel to face Ryan completely as he stays hunched over his empty cup.
“Still have a tab open? Just make yourself right at home, why don’t you?”
“You know I’m no good at this sober. Not all of us are fucking Ethan Barrett.”
“I should hope not.” I turn back to the bar.
“You know what I mean,” Ryan says quietly, trying to keep the conversation from reaching anyone else. “In the looks department or whatever.”
“First of all, snap out of...this whole thing you’re doing right now. Seriously. Before it’s too late, or you just might end up by yourself here every night.”
I look up to see Charles hovering over me across the bar, his imposing, bearded face looking just friendly enough.
“What can I get ya?”
I’m not sure if Charles remembers me. There are probably thousands of guys just like me in here every week, each one of them thinking they’re hot shit for eschewing the posh Wall Street bars for a neighborhood dive on Avenue A. Fair enough.
“What he’s having,” I say, pointing to Ryan.
“See, I have some good ideas,” Ryan says with a grin.
I want to tell him to not flatter himself, but then I remember all the shit that has happened today, things that have me in such a maelstrom of confusion that I’m dipping in and out of denial.
I’m in no better shape than Ryan—than anyone here—because I’m so far from figuring it out that I’m not even thinking about it.
Charles places the fresh drinks in front of us. He doesn’t ask for money or whether I want to open a tab. He remembers me and has the situation sussed out just fine.
More lyrics from the Monkees song bleed into my dour meditation over the plastic cup.
I sigh, thoughts of today making my head spin. I try not to think about it too much. It’s a work situation now, and work will be the place to handle it.
Tomorrow.
Obviously, any personal aspect to it means nothing to her anymore. It’s time for me to let go.
In unison, Ryan and I both swing around to face the crowd. I can’t decipher, from the haze of smiling, buzzed faces, what the situation is tonight—only that every woman here seems to be with a guy or a guy-heavy group of friends.
Not the shit I feel like dealing with right now. I turn back to my drink.
“Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?” Ryan starts, his voice grating on my nerves.
“What?” I snap, a little too harshly.
“That’s not an empty fucking room you just turned away from,” Ryan yells, but then he abruptly lowers his voice and brings his whiskey-smelling face close to mine, “and you don’t see someone like her every night, and she’s been scoping you out for like two minutes.”
I know Ryan’s telling me about some chick somewhere behind me, the type of thing he always points out, but there’s something jarring about his description—that she’s unusual, a rarity in the world.
I spin around slowly, trying to be subtle, as if I’m checking out the crown molding up by the ceiling across the room.
I think I see the woman Ryan’s talking about. She’s sitting at a table nearby, ignoring two friends sitting with her, lightly moving a finger around the base of her martini glass.
Her hair is dark brown, and it’s long, falling to a few inches below her shoulders. The deep color provides a contrast to her bright, icy blue eyes—a combination that drives many men to the brink of insanity.
I turn back to my drink.
“What is going on, man?” Ryan’s trying to keep his voice low, but his frustration is bleeding into the conversation. “I’m legit getting worried.”
I take a huge swig of my drink, expecting it to be mostly cola. I should’ve known better.
As the copious amount of Tennessee whiskey scalds my throat, I feel the words starting to escape, unable to stay buried any longer.
“I saw Madeline today.”
Tom Waits is now caterwauling through the sound system as I wait for Ryan’s response.
“Hmm. Yeah.” That’s all he says. Did he even hear me correctly? “Oh...wait, what? Holy fucking shit. You mean the Madeline?”
I guess he did hear me. My stomach’s starting to tremble with deep unease, but that blast of whiskey is keeping the worst of it at bay. I guzzle down the rest of my drink.
“She works at the SEC now...”
“So it is that Madeline.”
“Yes, she’s investigating the firm.”
“What’s going on? Did I piss you off somehow? You’re fucking with me.”
“It was bound to happen eventually. I mean, with a firm rising that fast.”
“Yeah...” Ryan stares at his drink, dumbfounded. “That’s what you’re worried about? The investigation? I’ve been through that.”
“I know.”
“I remember that wedding, and Audra...and that whole thing. What was that, like, two years ago? Three?”
“Five.”
“Holy shit. Really?”
Charles is hovering in front of us again. With astute timing, as usual.
“You guys need another round?”
“You bet we do,” Ryan mutters.
Ethan
There’s a long list of things about my job that don’t change. People’s personalities—both the co-workers I know now well and the investors we deal with regularly—tend to stay static.
I always show up around the same time every morning, and, without fail, stay way too fucking late into the evening. In some cases, I run back to my apartment for a short nap and a shower before walking the two blocks back to the office and starting it all over again.
Another rock fucking solid constant is that there’s always a calamity of some kind. A good chunk of people working at the firm are experts at panicking, giving in to fear at every opportunity.
I couldn’t imagine living like that. I’m lucky I’m predisposed, for whatever reason, to keeping my fucking cool and efficiently dealing with crises as they come.
My co-workers are lucky that somebody like me is always there to lend some soothing stoicism and to just fucking take care of things.
This morning, the feeling of electric angst throughout the firm is so strong that I can feel it in the Woolworth Building lobby, and even more strongly on the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor.
I enter the suite of offices where the ambient anxiety is so strong I can almost feel my hairs standing up on end.
While I don’t appreciate being infected with useless worry, I know that a lot of people at the firm, from partners down to interns, are terrified at the thought of getting caught up in headline-making criminal proceedings.
The hallway leading to my office is buzzing with chatter. Everyone ignores me; maybe they’re assuming I’m responsible for getting them into this shit.
Once again, I’ll have to handle this for
the sake of everyone’s sanity. It’s just going to take longer than usual.
Behind me, I hear all the noises of this morning—the quiet, tense conversations of interns, the shuffling of papers, the harried footsteps—suddenly stop with the hasty closing of office doors.
This is the second time I’ve heard that particular concerto, and it can only mean one thing.
“Good morning, Mister Barrett.”
Five years and five thousand miles from where I last heard it, that clear, high, and lovely voice is part of my life again. Crises are part of my routine, but this is a whole different set of challenges.
I let some time elapse, soaking in the rare quiet of the office corridor, quietly inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly before finally turning to face Madeline.
That nervous energy is still floating around. I hope Madeline doesn’t sense any of it. As for me, I still have a dry mouth, and my heart is pounding hard against my chest.
“I didn’t mean to send everyone running,” she exclaims from down the hall. She’s wearing a form-fitting dark gray pinstriped suit that flatters her curves perfectly. Her hair is pulled back in a French twist, letting her distinctly striking facial features shine on their own.
She still looks good and knows how to dress well. Good for her.
I’ve got other things to deal with right now. Madeline-related things. But they’ve got nothing to do with her appearance.
“Don’t take it personally,” I reply, walking towards her this time. “Everyone here is very busy, you understand.”
“Of course.”
Drawing closer, I’m struck by a familiar aroma. Roses and vanilla. They remind of other things, memories that come flooding back so strongly—ocean air, pineapple, rum. I almost need to stop walking.
“I know you’re not familiar with our firm,” I say, “but we have a lot of people visit. Keep in mind that not everything that happens is because of you.”