Flash Point

by Thomas Locke

  16

  Sunday evening, Lena stood outside her awful walk-up studio apartment on Trinity. She wore a little black Versace dress she had bought back in university for some event she could no longer recall. Everything from that time was tinged by a translucent fog, like her memories belonged to someone else’s life. The skirt was a little too narrow, which meant it rode up and wrinkled with each of her long strides, but she had never met a man who complained. Her parents would have given her money for clothes. If they had ever seen where she lived, they would have demanded that she accept their help. But Lena had not come to New York to live off her family’s largesse any more than she wanted to commute. She paid more than half her former salary to live within six blocks of Wall Street.

  The entire southern tip of Manhattan was undergoing a massive change. Since 9/11 many banks and capital groups had moved out, never to return. The huge buildings going up these days were almost all luxury condominiums. Places like Lena’s were being bought up, rezoned, and razed.

  The limo moved down Trinity like a black killer whale. She did not wait for the driver to come around. But when she opened the door, she hesitated at the sight of another woman seated beside Roger.

  “Climb in, dear,” the stranger said. “I hardly ever bite.”

  “Lena, meet my wife. Marjorie, this is Lena Fennan.”

  “My husband is extremely impressed with you, my dear. Roger hardly ever speaks about someone as he has you.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful,” Lena replied. Marjorie Foretrain had slid over far enough for Lena to sit by the side window. Lena wanted to be able to study them. So she settled on the little jump seat facing back across the footwell. “But I can’t help regretting that it only happened when I was almost out the door.”

  “Hold that thought,” Roger said, and pressed a button on his armrest. The divider behind Lena’s head slid up. “You offered me this extra time.”

  “So long as you meet my conditions.”

  “Okay. First of all, your buddy Wesley isn’t leaving.”

  “He is not my anything. And the issue is not negotiable.”

  “What if I gave you a third option?”

  “I don’t see how that is possible.”

  “But you’ll hear me out.”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  “Good.” Roger drummed the window with his fingernails, gathering his thoughts. “The Wesleys of Wall Street play a role that some would call important. Quite frankly, most analysts don’t have what it takes to scale the financial heights. Wesley Cummins is there to weed out the underperformers.”

  Lena stared at the sweep of lights out the back window and fumed.

  Marjorie said, “Tell her the real reason.”

  Roger sighed. “Wesley’s uncle sits on the bank’s board.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “No way you could. It’s his maternal uncle. Different last name. And we intentionally keep such items buried. But it’s true.”

  Marjorie was a trim lady as precisely turned out as a Fabergé egg. Her only jewelry was a large diamond pendant hanging around her neck. Her voice carried a distinctly New York sense of humor, biting and highly intelligent. “Word has spread all over the executive floors of your morning’s theater. Wesley’s uncle is suitably outraged. Which is not altogether a bad thing. The unappealing traits you discovered in the nephew are also present in the uncle. If you could find a way to pry him off the board—”

  “Let’s not go there,” Roger said.

  She smiled at her husband. “I was only saying what you’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a mind reader?”

  “It’s part of the job description. Didn’t they teach you that at Columbia?”

  Lena found the affection between them both genuine and appealing. She said, “If that’s true, the uncle will do everything in his power to have me axed.”

  “Not,” Roger replied, “if he doesn’t know you’re still with the bank.”

  “Sorry. I don’t follow.”

  “We’ve taken a controlling interest in a boutique capital investment group. We intend to keep them at arm’s length. They’re lean and they move fast. And they’ve got a solid track record.” Roger glanced at his wife as though seeking her approval. He must have found what he was looking for, because he went on, “I’ll set you up as a separate entity within their group. You will handle your own fund.”

  She knew she had to be sharp. Focused. Intent upon wrangling everything she could from this ride. But what she really wanted to do was step outside the door and run shrieking down Broadway. “Where are they based?”

  “Madison Avenue and 55th.”

  “So, still Manhattan.” She willed herself to focus. “How large a fund will I manage?”

  “How large do you want?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So what do you want?”

  She said the only thing that came to her addled mind. “What I’ve wanted from the outset. To work with you. To learn from you. To . . .”

  “Grow,” Marjorie offered. “Reach your highest potential. Learn from the best.”

  Roger smiled at his wife. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “In financial matters,” she added, smiling back. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “No, no, you’re right,” Lena said. “That’s exactly my desire here. I don’t know whether the deal I’ve just put together is a fluke.”

  Roger nodded agreement. “All we can say at this point is, you went up to bat once and hit a triple.”

  “The young lady made a thousand percent profit in nine days?” Marjorie nudged her husband.

  “It was a small bet.”

  “Not to her.” She nudged Roger a second time.

  “Okay, okay.” Roger Foretrain acted like he was being forced to give bone marrow. “You knocked it out of the park.”

  Marjorie leaned back, satisfied.

  When they entered the MOMA, Marjorie Foretrain served as the genteel bond between her husband and Lena. Roger played huffy because Lena had not leapt at his job offer. In contrast, Marjorie seemed pleased by her response. When Roger said he hoped Lena didn’t feel obliged to bring her attorney into the process, especially after the bank had agreed to drop all complaints regarding the previous transaction, Marjorie said, “That’s enough, Roger.”

  “I want to hear the lady say yes.”

  “The night isn’t about what you want, is it, my dear. Tonight is Ms. Fennan’s. She is the star being fought over. This is Lena’s hour, to do with as she will.” She smiled at someone Lena did not bother seeing, while her husband handed over their invitations. “Will you have champagne, Lena?”

  “I’m already flying, thanks.”

  “Well, of course you are. Roger hates these events, he really does. He hasn’t been good with crowds since he was a child, have you, darling.”

  “She really doesn’t need to hear my private history.”

  “Private, that is the word to describe my husband. You really rocked him, knowing about his boat in Tahiti. He thought he had managed to hide that away from the entire world.”

  Roger snagged a pair of glasses, passed one to his wife, and said, “I’m going upstairs.”

  “There’s only one reason why he’s here at all.” They joined the crowd pouring into the escalators. “Otherwise he would have stayed in the limo and sulked over not getting his way. Wouldn’t you, dear.”

  “I don’t sulk.”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes.

  Lena said, “You’re here for the Gauguin exhibition.”

  Roger looked directly at her for the first time since she said she needed to think over his offer. “You’ve seen it?”

  “It’s not open to the public yet.”

  Marjorie said, “Roger has been here six times. Or is it seven.”

  They passed through the portal decorated with a Gauguin motif and entered a different realm, one of vivid colors and primitive forms. The exhi
bition was full of chattering people who talked far too loudly and paid scant attention to the priceless artwork on display. Lena wanted to tell them to shut up. She saw Roger wince at a woman’s particularly high-pitched laugh and knew he felt the same.

  Marjorie halted before the first central dais and exclaimed, “What on earth is this?”

  Lena heard no guile behind the question. But when Lena replied, Roger moved in close enough to catch her response over the din. She said, “Gauguin’s first sojourn in Tahiti started in 1891 and lasted a little over two years. During his stay, he carved a series of small totems that he called ultra-savages. They weren’t modeled after reality. They were his attempt to describe a world that had never been touched by European civilization.”

  Lena had seen photographs of several, but no picture could capture its latent force. Savage certainly described the item. Two figures, a man and woman, were fiercely intertwined around a section of tree trunk. They were big-lipped and strong-limbed. Lena studied them intently but could not decide whether they grappled out of love or anger or battle. She would never have thought such passion could be captured by a carving. The longer she studied it, the more she felt intertwined by the same conflicting emotions.

  When she looked up, she discovered that Roger was studying her intently. She seemed to possess a new clarity of vision, as though her inspection of the artwork now carried over to this man. She saw how his world was dominated by swift analysis and instant decisions. Roger Foretrain was carved by the world she wanted to enter, and the one thing global finance could not afford these days was time.

  She said, “Let’s talk.”

  Roger followed her out of the display. She stepped past a sign saying the museum café was closed, into a hall shared only with a woman speaking intently into her cell phone.

  Lena gave Roger the truth. “The reason I didn’t respond is because I don’t know what I want.”

  He glanced around as his wife approached and settled in beside him. “So tell me what you are certain of.”

  “I know I don’t want to be paid for being a top gun when I haven’t yet proven myself. And one success doesn’t make a career.”

  His eyes tightened in what did not quite become a smile. “Agreed.”

  “I know I need guidance. I need access to people who are more experienced than me. I want that more than a bigger paycheck.”

  Marjorie said, “The two don’t have to be exclusive, do they, dear.”

  “You’re damaging my negotiating position,” Roger replied.

  “But the young lady is not negotiating. She is seeking to forge a bond. Isn’t that right, dear.”

  Lena went on, “I don’t want to be isolated in this other group. I want my fund, but I also want them to consider me part of the team.”

  “Very wise,” Marjorie offered. “A balanced approach, minus the ego one often finds on the Street, and which I utterly detest.”

  “I’d like to have weekly appointments with you. Go over strategy. Analyze together. Have you feed me possible ideas. Walk with me through the next venture. And the one after that.”

  “I can do that.”

  Lena took what felt like the first free breath in months. “Then we have a deal.”

  17

  Lena started to follow Roger and Marjorie back into the exhibit when it happened. This was the shortest event of all, a single word that carried the force of a royal command.

  Wait.

  Roger noticed her hesitation. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “You go ahead,” Lena said. “I need . . .”

  “A moment to gather yourself.” Marjorie reached for her husband’s hand. “Come along, dear.”

  “But we need to discuss terms—”

  “You’ve succeeded at rocking her world. That’s enough for now.” Marjorie waited as the woman who had been arguing into her phone steamed past. Then she said to Lena, “Join us when you’re ready.”

  Lena stepped back into the corridor leading to the café. She stopped in front of the glass wall overlooking the garden atrium. Rain spackled the glass, adding an illusive blur to her reflection. Lena knew she was staring at herself. But what she felt was that a second person had joined her. The sensation was so powerful Lena felt an undercurrent of fear.

  The voice of all her events said, I really was beautiful.

  Lena asked, Are we talking? Finally?

  For a brief moment only.

  Why now?

  An excellent question. If I answer, will you do something for me?

  Correction, Lena said. Do something more.

  Lena knew with utter certainty this was far beyond some internal dialogue. Each word she received held the same explosive impact as before, a verbal assault that blasted her ever so gently. Now the absence of any response to her comment was a vacuum.

  All right, Lena conceded. I’ll do it.

  There are two reasons for this dialogue, the voice said. First, there is a final task.

  Final?

  For me, not you. Which brings us to the second reason. I am dying. All the rules that kept us from this sort of discourse are fading with my time in this physical realm.

  Lena spoke the word aloud. “No.” When no response came, she asked, How old am I?

  That would be telling. As I said, there are rules, even at this juncture. Now pay attention.

  The images flashed upon the rain-streaked glass, seven in all, so powerful Lena spasmed tightly with each arrival. Then they were done, and the silence returned, and Lena could think of nothing to say except, I’ll do it.

  Of course you will. But that was not my request. Go to the third Impressionist gallery. Hurry. I don’t have much time.

  18

  Brett loved being inside the MOMA. It was his first visit to a gallery of any kind in over a year. He yearned to visit the new Gauguin exhibit, but the crowds and the false gaiety repelled him. He moved through the Impressionist halls, one high-ceilinged chamber after another, drinking in the glorious colors like a parched and famished traveler. Which, of course, he was. One of the glories of art was its ability to transport him. This evening it granted him the opportunity to revisit the day’s events and see them anew.

  That morning he had entered the grand Park Avenue residence precisely at nine and been ushered into the sickroom, where Agnes was awake and eager to ascend for the second time. As he booted up his laptop, she asked, “Does everyone want to dive back in?”

  Brett settled the headphones into place. “Very few. A handful in all the time I’ve been doing this.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Brett had wondered the same thing. “The most common response of first timers is that they feel as though they’ve just experienced a small death.”

  “Fascinating,” she murmured. “Though I would never describe any part of this process as small.”

  “I think their reluctance to repeat the experience is because they’ve ascended and discovered what they needed in order to find peace. The last thing they want is to bring death any closer.” He touched the keypad and said, “I’m starting the count now.”

  Eleven minutes later, Agnes reopened her eyes and announced, “I’ve had another chat with your counterpart.”

  Brett could feel the gazes of her nurse and butler, but that was not what caused his voice to shiver. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Several things, actually.” She took pleasure in drawing out the moment, as though her message released her from the bed’s captivity. “When was the last time you bought new clothes?”

  “I . . . Last year sometime.”

  “That will not do. Not with this crowd. Frederick.”

  The butler rose from his chair. “Ma’am.”

  “Make an appointment for our young gentleman friend to be properly dressed and coiffed. That place on Park where my late husband shopped should do.”

  “Most certainly, ma’am.”

  She said to Brett, “There’s a reception tonight. I
had utterly forgotten about it. But it is happening, is it not, Frederick.”

  “One moment, madam.” He slipped from the room and swiftly returned holding an engraved invitation. “The Gauguin opening.”

  “Of course. I remain an honorary member of the MOMA’s advisory committee. One of the galleries bears my name. It was my husband’s idea, giving my father’s collection a proper home. Rather than letting my daughter sell them off to whoever has the biggest purse. Do you even like art, young man?”

  “It’s been a passion since childhood.” Brett could see that the effort of speaking had spread a sheen of moisture over her brow. He knew the pain must be registering. Even so, he could not repress the clench of eagerness. “Did this counterpart tell you why I needed to go?”

  “Most certainly.” Agnes lifted a finger, all the signal her nurse required to jump into action. Agnes watched the broad woman prepare the syringe and continued, “He said you are to treat this as a life’s turning.”

  Back when Brett was on the UC Santa Barbara faculty, he had driven down to LA every few weeks, taken in a show or gallery opening, and gorged himself at one of the many art museums. He had never been bitten by the collector bug, which was good, because an assistant professor’s salary did not grant him the ability to buy what he liked. He had not cared much for poster art or reproductions. Nor had he ever yearned for wealth, except at times like this. When he stood before a masterpiece and wondered what it would be like to have this on his wall, see it every day, and call such perfection his very own.

  Being here in the MOMA, standing before paintings he knew so well he could claim them as friends, was a mixed bag. Part of him wished he had not come. Memories of other such visits carried the weight of everything he had lost. All the false assumptions, the blind ambition, the wrong moves, the terrible mistakes . . .