by Stephen Frey
“What are you going to tell your wife about tonight, Roger?” I ask, glancing over the cubicle wall at him.
“Nothing.”
“Aren’t you usually home by now? I thought all you government workers left your offices by three thirty, and that was why the Beltway turned into a parking lot by four.”
“I told you before, I usually didn’t leave my office at the DOE until five.”
“Well, it’s after eight now.”
Roger shrugs. “So what? I’m allowed to come home late without her permission,” he says, annoyed.
I shake my head. “Roger, you should tell your wife what you’re doing here at Bedford. It’s not right to hide it from her. It’s her money too.” The woman needs to know that her husband is dealing with his midlife crisis by taking a huge risk that could ruin both of them.
“Ignorance is bliss,” he says absentmindedly, not taking his eyes off his computer monitor. “Hey, how about some dinner?”
I was going to stop by the grocery store on the way home and pick up a frozen dinner to eat in front of the television while I watched a baseball game. With that and a six-pack I’d celebrate the Teletekk win.
“Tell you what. I’ll even take you to the Grand,” Roger continues, still fascinated by what I’ve shown him. “I know it’s expensive down there, but you’ve gone way beyond the call of duty staying late with me tonight, Gus.”
“What did you call me?”
“Gus,” he says hesitantly, looking up from his computer for the first time since I rolled my chair out of his cubicle. “Was that wrong?”
Slammer’s nickname is beginning to stick, and I need to stop the momentum. Once a nickname catches on, you practically have to start a new life to get rid of it. “Call me Augustus.”
“Sorry,” he says insincerely, rolling his eyes. “So how about dinner?”
My first reaction is to say no, but, after all, I have given him a ton of free advice and three hours of my time. “All right, but forget the Grand. Let’s go to a place I know over in the mall.” I appreciate Roger’s offer, but I doubt they’d let me back in the Grand anyway. And I don’t want that story getting back up to the trading floor. We shut down his computer and head for the door.
As we walk through the mall I notice that Roger is almost as tall as I am—about six-four—but he’s much thinner. His rugby shirt sways loosely about his gaunt torso as he moves along in his uncoordinated gait, and his legs appear pencil thin inside his poorly fitting jeans.
“I actually never got your last name, Roger.”
He hesitates. “It’s Smith,” he says, grimacing. “Now I ask you, how bland is that? Roger Smith. When I was growing up I always wanted to change Smith to something more interesting. Like Van Horn. Then people would call me Dutch, you know, and right away I’d have a hook.” He shrugs. “But I guess I’m a pretty boring guy, so maybe the name fits. At least, I’ve been boring up until now.”
Sitting in the conference room a week ago with Seaver, Roger struck me as the dark, brooding type who wouldn’t ever have anything interesting to say, a person I wouldn’t want to hang with. But as he chattered away in front of the computer tonight, I came to find that one-on-one he’s basically a pretty good guy. He’s brutally honest—especially about himself—but he doesn’t constantly talk about himself the way most people do. Maybe he’s just shy at first. I can understand that.
As I think back on it, I realize that it took three hours to set up Roger’s software because besides his questions about the market, he got me to talk about my senior year of high school football—the season Vincent and I led our team to an undefeated record and the Virginia state championship. When I’m honest with myself I have to admit that nothing else I’ve done in life has ever come close to giving me the same high I felt that night we won everything. Sometimes, after a few drinks, I try to reminisce with Vincent about those days, but he never wants to talk about them. He went on to bigger and better things in his football career, so I guess he considers a high school championship small potatoes. I wish I did.
Roger seemed sincerely interested in hearing about that season. It wasn’t as if he were asking the questions just to keep me helping him. At least, it didn’t seem like he did. “Are you from around here, Roger?”
“I’ve been in the Washington area since college.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Um, Indianapolis.”
“So, where’d you go to college?”
“The University of Maryland. College Park over on the east side of town.”
“Why Maryland if you’re from Indiana?”
“My older cousin went and liked it. And I’d always been interested in seeing the East Coast.”
“What year did you graduate? I had some friends who went to Maryland.”
Roger ignores my question because he’s focused on an attractive Asian woman wearing tight leather pants and spike heels who’s walking ahead of us. She’s carrying a small Victoria’s Secret bag. “Did you get a load of Anna today in that short little skirt and tight top? She didn’t leave much to the imagination.”
“Anna usually doesn’t,” I say, chuckling. When Anna walks through the swinging doors to deliver a package, action on the trading floor just about comes to a standstill. Most of the traders at Bedford are men, and they all try to get a look.
Roger sighs. “She’s so beautiful.”
“In an exotic way.”
He snaps his fingers. “Right, exotic. Like an island girl. She’s got that incredible body too. Nice firm chest, shapely ass, long legs, and tight, tight abs.”
“In your dreams,” I say, laughing louder.
He hesitates ever so slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
“Her abs must be in your dreams. Somehow, I don’t think you got to see that much of her. I mean, this is your first day at Bedford.”
“Oh, right.” Roger grins. “No, no. One of the guys on the trading floor was talking about her this afternoon while you were out. He said he saw her jogging around here at lunch last week, and she was wearing a cutoff tank top and biking shorts. He said her stomach was really tight, Gus. I mean, Augustus.”
The Asian woman strolls into a boutique and my eyes follow. “Do you have a good relationship with your wife?” I ask hesitantly.
Vincent is the only person I talk to about things that really matter, but he’s never been married so he can’t relate to what it feels like to wake up beside the same person every day of his life. He’s usually seeing at least three women at the same time. One he’s just started to date, another who probably considers herself his girlfriend, and the third who he’s in the process of dumping—even if she doesn’t realize it. Vincent goes through women like most people go through bread, so he has no idea what commitment means. No idea how I could take Melanie, and our relationship, for granted. But Roger might.
“What kind of question is that?” he asks defensively, his mood darkening. “I have a very good relationship with my wife.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“What did you mean?”
This afternoon, while Vincent and I were talking about Melanie, it tore me up to think she’d had sex with Frank Taylor. But I wonder if I was actually mistaking jealousy for love. In fact, I wonder if that was all I ever did. Did I break down at the morgue because I’d lost my soul mate, or because experiencing the death of someone I had been so close to served to remind me of my own mortality? We got together so young. Melanie always said that would turn out to be a problem. “Do you ever think about other women?”
“In what way?”
“Being with them physically.”
“Of course, I do. That’s just part of being a man. That’s the way we’re programmed when we drop out of the womb.”
“Have you ever—”
“No,” he says curtly.
“Ever come close?”
He lets out a long breath. “Once or twice.”
“But yo
u didn’t?”
“No,” he says firmly.
“You think Anna’s beautiful, don’t you?”
“She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” he says honestly, his eyes focusing on something far away. “She could be in magazines. Cosmo or Penthouse. Clothes on, clothes off. Either way, the issue would sell a million copies.”
“If you had the chance to be with her, would you take it?”
“We both know that isn’t going to happen.”
We walk in silence for a few moments. “Do you and your wife have children?” I ask.
“Yes. A boy, five, and a girl, three. Roger Junior and Alice. They’re good kids. I’m very proud of them.”
That’s nice and all, but what I want is an answer to my question about Anna. “Let’s just say an opportunity with Anna, or someone like Anna, presented itself. What would you do?” I’m ready for another guarded answer, but that isn’t what I get. Like I said, Roger’s a pretty straightforward guy.
“I don’t know, Augustus. I was with only a couple of women before I met my wife, and they weren’t much to look at.” He glances down as we walk. “My wife’s a wonderful person, but … well, I doubt anyone would put her in Anna’s league physically.”
“There aren’t many women in that league.” Not even Melanie.
He grimaces. “I’d like to think I could resist, but given the right situation, I don’t know that for sure. She’s an incredibly beautiful woman.” He looks over at me. “Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
I thought it was, but now that he’s admitted it, I don’t feel any better. I point at the Capital Grill. “There’s the place.”
“Did you come here with Mary for lunch today?” he asks. “Is that how you knew about this place?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask you or was it the other way around?”
I’m a little uncomfortable answering because I know what he’ll think. “She asked me,” I reply quietly.
“You dog,” he says, slapping me on the back. “You just better hope that old man I hear she has at home doesn’t find out and hire some goons to come looking for you. I bet he’s possessive as hell. I know I would be if I were eighty years old and I were married to someone as pretty as Mary.”
“She was being nice,” I say firmly as we walk into the restaurant. “I’m just starting out at Bedford, and she wanted to make me feel welcome. That was the extent of it.”
Roger holds up two fingers to the same maître d’ who was working the floor this afternoon. “I’m just starting out at Bedford too, and she hasn’t asked me to lunch.”
“She will.”
“Sure she will.” Roger laughs as we follow the maître d’ through the restaurant.
When we’re settled at a table with our drinks, Roger picks up his beer. “Here’s to you, Augustus. Thanks again for the help tonight,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after gulping down half the glass’s contents. “So, are you married?”
“No,” I answer, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
“Girlfriend?”
“Nope. I’m unattached.”
“Lone wolf, huh? Guess that’s why you were asking about Anna. Got your eye on her, don’t you?”
“I don’t dip my pen in the company ink. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Bullshit. You’d do the same thing I would if you got the chance.”
He’s probably right.
Roger takes another long swallow of beer and relaxes into his seat. “I’m going to take your advice about the trading, Augustus. I’m going to be very careful.”
“You just need to ease into it.” I’m glad Roger doesn’t push too far into my personal life. I’ll tell him what happened to Melanie at some point, but I don’t feel like talking about it now. “Don’t fall into the churn-and-burn mentality. You do that and you’re only making money for Michael Seaver.”
“I know. I may be new to the game, but I know what his angle is.” Roger looks out over the restaurant. “You’re a golfer, right?” he asks, changing the subject.
My eyes flash to his. “Yeah, but how did you know?”
“Didn’t I see a putter leaning against the wall in one corner of your cubicle?”
I smile. “Yes, that’s right.” Sometimes I practice putting on the carpet in my cubicle. I did the same thing before and it irritated the hell out of Russell, but I didn’t care because it really helped ease stress.
“Do you play a lot?” he asks.
“I did a few years ago, but it costs so much and the public courses are always crowded.” Plus my clubs are ancient—I got them at a garage sale right after Melanie and I were first married—and after a while I got tired of the disparaging looks I got from other people on the first tee. “How about you, Roger?”
“I play every once in a while. Maybe we should go out sometime.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Roger chuckles. “It’ll be interesting to see if we ever do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ideas hatched over a drink always seem good at the time, but people don’t usually follow up. It’ll be interesting to see if we do.”
Roger is a candid guy. I’ll say that for him.
“What are you investing in?” Roger asks after the waiter has served us our second round.
His question reminds me that I made thirty-five grand today—thanks to Jack Trainer, the same guy I was cursing at lunch. I’m suddenly worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, with the big check still to come. It’s overwhelming.
“You all right, Augustus?”
“Yeah, fine.” I can tell Roger wants to know what I was thinking about so intently, but he doesn’t push.
“What are you investing in?” he asks again.
“Psychiatric practices and gun manufacturers,” I answer immediately, doing my best to keep a straight face.
“Really?”
Roger doesn’t know whether to take me seriously or not. Vincent would take one look at my expression and realize I was kidding, but Roger hasn’t known me long enough. “Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Last time I checked more people were getting divorced, more people were shooting up schools and workplaces, and more people were committing suicide. Which means more business for those kinds of companies all the time.”
“Okay,” he says, holding up one hand, “I’ll give you all that, but gun manufacturers? The government’s trying to put them out of business, for Christ’s sake.”
“Which will only make people want to buy guns more in the short term. The market really only cares about a company’s next quarter results.” I pick up my scotch. “Shouldn’t be that way, but it’s true.”
Roger nods. “I thought maybe you were bullshitting me, but it all makes sense.”
“I was bullshitting you, Roger.”
“Oh,” he says, glancing away.
“I’ve bought a few stocks to hold for the long term. I haven’t actually started to day trade yet, but I will soon.”
“Care to be a little more specific about those stocks you bought? That sure would be helpful.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to be giving out recommendations all over the place. Helping Roger personalize his software was one thing, but taking him completely under my wing would be quite another. “Well, I really don’t want to—”
“Oh, I see,” Roger interrupts, suddenly sounding annoyed. “No sharing tips with the guy buying you dinner.”
“I just don’t think I ought to be—”
“You’ll give Mary a killer tip,” he blurts out, “but not good old Roger.”
I freeze. “Mary?”
“Mary told me all about the tip you gave her. She wouldn’t tell me the name of the company, but she said she almost tripled her money this afternoon. I guess you and she had a pretty cozy lunch after all.”
“She told you about a tip I gave her?” I ask incredulously.
“She told all of us. Bragged about putting a bunch of money into a satellite company or something you told her about, and how an hour later it went through the roof. You were out when she jumped out of her seat and started yelling. Christ, I thought she had won Lotto. Slammer looked like he was going to strangle her when he found out what was really going on. He, Daniel, and Mary have an informal agreement to share hot information with one another. But she said you told her to keep it quiet, so she couldn’t say much.”
“But when it hit, she—”
“She shouted all about it,” Roger says, angry. “Slammer was about to throw his computer at her. He actually picked it up for a second, but then he put it back down, grabbed his briefcase, and took off. He was mumbling to himself about how you couldn’t have possibly known the stock would go up that much in such a short time without some kind of inside information. He yelled across the floor that he was going to sic the Justice Department on you. Then he called Mary some pretty awful names.”
“Christ,” I mutter. “She hasn’t done very well in the market lately and I was just trying to help. That’s all. It was just one little tip.”
“Little? Jesus, she bragged about making almost two hundred thousand bucks on the trade.” He extends his right hand across the table as if he wants to shake mine. “Good to know you, pal. I like a man who thinks of two hundred grand as ‘little.’ ”
“Like I said, I was just trying to help a friend. There’s nothing between us.”
He pulls his hand back and smiles. “I don’t care why you gave Mary the tip. What I care about is that you didn’t give it to me. I want to make certain you understand that if you give me a tip like that, I won’t tell a soul.”
“I didn’t have any inside information, Roger.”
He shrugs. “Hey, I’m not at Bedford to make ethical judgments. I’m just here to make as much money as I can any way I can. I figure everybody out there knows the stock market is a tough sandbox to play in, and that things go on in it that aren’t always visible to the naked eye. And I’m not saying that’s what happened in this case,” he adds quickly. “All I’m saying is that I don’t give a damn either way.”