by Jim Kohlberg
Then Redfield scuttled off. I saw him go over toward the bar and through a knot of people where I lost him as he threaded up steps leading to the entry foyer. When I went to replenish my Jameson a few minutes later, he was gone.
I ventured out to the foyer. Kessler was standing at the bar, his lean figure tilted at odd angles, an elbow on the bar, a hip stuck out. Behind him, Armand left the group, a look of fear tossed over his shoulder. I looked at my drink and swirled it around. The front door opened behind me and I felt the wet breath of fog on my neck. Compared to that cold draft, it felt good inside, with four walls around me, with the press of people and the smell of smoke and the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation.
Hannaford and Hopkins walked in with the fog, trailing the cold metal smell of it with them. They came up to me. Nap had his hand out, a big two-toned hand, the flesh of the palm pale white by comparison to the darkly shaded back.
“Max,” he said, a smile stretching out his lips, his eyes looking beyond me to the crowd. Arty, in a tie, blue blazer, and a clean pair of khakis, came up and slung an arm over my shoulder, turning me to face the door. The two of them closed around me like bookends.
“Max,” Arty said, “we ready to talk?”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure. I was hoping to mingle a little bit first though.”
“We really wanted to talk now.”
“There’re a couple of big shots I should get to first.”
“We’re big shots in your life now,” said Nappy.
“The biggest,” added Arty.
“I know. I know. Listen, I’ll explain it all to you soon. Go over, get some free liquor. Tell everyone you played softball with Joe. You’re friends. Firehouse 241, got it?”
“House 241. I think we can handle it.”
I pushed through their shoulders and dove back into the crowd. Kessler had moved off the bar and was leaning into a different group of men and pearl-necked women who were nodding at him as he spoke, his chin pointed slightly up at the ceiling. Speaking over the crowd, to God presumably. Normally, I would have hesitated. Usually my distaste for crowds would have overcome me, but with Hannaford and Hopkins breathing down my neck, I pushed ahead.
“Mr. Kessler? Max Smoller,” I said. His chin came down.
“The Max Smoller,” he said. He knew my name, that got my chin up.
Then I said, “I’m Max Smoller.” Again.
“You said that,” he responded.
I had one of those moments, like when you’re a kid at a new school and they’re checking you out, sizing you up for the kickball team, the baseball team, the clique, the right table at lunch. You say something so stupendously stupid, so idiotic, it can’t be taken back, erased, or ever forgotten. You carry it around forever.
He grinned wider. “I was wondering when you were coming over.”
“How do you know me?”
“Joe talked of you many times.”
“Really. Why?”
“The famous tax planner, fact checker, accountant extraordinaire.”
“Me?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“All I did was the partnership accounts and the 1040s for the limited partners. Strictly routine. And I stopped doing that a couple of years ago.”
“Joe relied on you more than you knew.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I shrugged. “I only had to send in the W-2s.”
“Minimize your role if you like.” He stood up straight as he finished. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It stayed there as I turned around. Hannaford and Hopkins stood there, silly grins on their faces.
“Hey there, Max,” said Arty, filling the quick silence as they pushed inside the little circle.
“We didn’t see you at Joe’s last game. How ya doin’, man? Come on down to the firehouse and catch up. It’s gonna suck without Joe. He was the softest touch, you know? Always giving me a fifty when the old lady was on my back ’cause I been drinkin’ my paycheck, you know? Seems like we were just having a few beers at the 241 yesterday.”
“I know,” I interrupted, dreading this inane monologue.
Strangely, Kessler stepped forward. “I’m Michael Kessler. A friend of Joe’s. We did a lot of business together.”
“Arty Hannaford. This is my friend, Napoleon Hopkins.”
“You guys firemen?”
“Working for the city, it’s a gig, you know,” Arty said. “Boy, Joe was a good guy; he could sit around on a Saturday afternoon and tell stories, man, stories. He was like our clown and campfire all rolled into one, know what I mean?”
“I suppose I do,” said Kessler. “Let me introduce my friends.” He stood aside and put out his arm, making way for a knot of men and women to step through and onto the stage.
“This is Arthur Molino. This is his lovely wife, Geena.”
Arthur and Geena stepped forward to shake Arty’s hand and say, “Hello,” then moved on to Napoleon. Another woman stepped forward. She had on a long black dress with a high neckline, a small diamond at her throat. A white pinch around the flesh of her eyes and nose gave her a fearful, exposed expression. Her eyes were summer morning blue, and a pile of yellow hair stood on her head. She held a highball glass filled with amber liquor and ice.
“Ann Stoppard,” she said. Then she turned around and offered up her husband, standing behind her. He stepped in, a tall wiry man with a mop of unruly graying curls, pushing forward, bent over like a question mark.
“Hi, I’m George Stoppard,” he said. His high, reedy voice had the uncertain timbre of an adolescent boy. He coughed into his hand, then said, “Nice to meet you.” His shoulders sagged and hunched, as if he were exhausted from all the wealth on his shoulders.
“Mr. Stoppard,” said Arty.
“How’d you know Joe?” asked Napoleon.
Stoppard’s eyes darted around the room seeking desperately to land on something solid and steady.
“Mr. Stoppard,” Napoleon continued, “you do a lot of business with Joe?”
George Stoppard pumped a smile onto his face, which retraced the deep lines in his cheeks and mouth, like a statue smiling along tracks of dirt and grime. He looked at Nap a second, then darted his eyes back and forth between Nap and Arty. Ann looked up at him, a smile on her face, a political tableau.
“Not much,” Stoppard said, “mainly neighbors.”
Napoleon pushed on. “No derivatives? No mortgage trading? No futures? We heard Joe bragged he was making, what, forty, fifty percent a year. That true?”
“I was a small investor,” he said.
George turned and handed his drink to his wife. Her corn silk bun caught the light on top of her head, turning it into a honey-colored torch. The single multicarat diamond pendant twinkled at her neck, held by a black satin band at her throat. How do the rich do it? She was so polished, elegant, poised. Does the sweet smell of success get under their skin and muscle, then make them glow like pregnant women, with a physical inner certainty, an I am shouted to a you’re not world?
Ugly, awkward, rich men like George Stoppard always seemed to marry beautiful women. Wealthy men and gorgeous women were alike in many ways: a beautiful woman could never be sure she wasn’t desired simply for her beautiful assets, and an ugly rich man could be sure he was.
“You sound like a policeman to me,” George said, looking at Arty, still keeping that grimacing smile lining his face.
“Me? A cop? What makes you think so?”
“Well, first of all, the fire department code doesn’t allow ponytails,” he said, nodding at Arty.
He retrieved one of the highballs from his wife, drained it, and handed it back to her. He was flushed when he turned back to Arty and Nap.
“Second, no firemen wear Brioni suits from Wilkes Bashford. It’s outside the culture, not to mention way above the pay scale. Same goes for the cops, except for the detective branch. If the homicide crew gets a lot of overtime, they can earn well into six figures. A
couple of them even go for fancy suits. Plus, you’ve always gotten too much press, Detective Hopkins. And the owner of the Chronicle is a friend of mine.”
“So, Mr. Stoppard,” Nappy asked, a little smile on his face, “where do you get your suits?”
George smiled. He looked Nappy up and down. “Wilkes Bashford suits you good, Mr. Hopkins. You have the right shape. That enviable V. But me—a beanpole with a pouch for a belly? I tried a few at Wilkes. One or two off the rack at Neiman’s, believe it or not. Finally, I had to go to Savile Row.”
“Sharp,” said Nap, studying Stoppard’s dark green suit and bright canary-yellow tie.
“They end up being cheaper than Wilkes. And they do Prince Charles’s suits.”
“What’s your tailor’s name?”
“Anderson & Sheppard. They take forever. But you get a crotch that doesn’t hang down like pajamas.”
“Cheaper than Wilkes? Really?”
“I know what Wilkes sells Brioni for. They’re cheaper. Believe me.”
With a smile, Nappy asked, “Tell me, why does a man like you need to save a few bucks on English suits?”
George smiled back, twisting his mouth and bringing an imaginary cigar to his lips. “How do you think a man like me gets to be a man like me?” His George Burns imitation was pretty good for a guy who stood six foot six and had real hair and no cigar.
The group broke up laughing. Arty, too. Tension whispered out of the room. People looked for drinks. George stepped up to Nappy.
“The chief’s a friend of mine too.”
“Lots of friends. That’s nice.”
“It is.” Stoppard paused for a moment, then added, “I won’t tell him you were here impersonating a fireman.”
“That’s nice, too. But you can tell him anything you want.”
“I know you have to do your job. I’m glad you’re doing it. But don’t they already have Christina in jail for killing Joe?”
I stepped in. “She’s out on bail, Mr. Stoppard.”
“I see. The papers appeared to say it was open and shut. Why investigate?”
“Just doing our jobs,” said Arty. Stoppard nodded.
He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with long fingers ending in perfect half-moon cuticles and came out with a card.
Handing it to Arty, he said, “Give me a call. That’s my private phone and e-mail. I’d be happy to assist.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Arty. “We’ll call if we need anything.”
“We’ll say goodnight then.”
The group nodded to us and wandered off to the open part of the house. They leaned into each other, knowing this was a story they could retell a good dozen times at the next dinner party, the next performance of the ballet. The moment felt exciting, as if life was really alive.
Arty and Nap and I were left near the steps leading to the front hallway, stranded and alone. The crowd had parted from us.
“Our cover’s done,” said Arty, surveying the party and guests.
Nap jerked his head at the door. “Come on.”
Arty looked at me. “You got some ’splainin’ to do, Lucy.”
“Me? You guys blew the firehouse story before I could finish a drink.”
“Stoppard’s pretty smart. Rich, too.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The old-fashioned kind.” I smiled. “He inherited it.”
Arty nodded. “So what the hell is a derivative?” he asked.
“Let’s go outside,” I said. “We need air for this.”
I took them outside into the fog. It was cold even in our leather jackets. We got into their car, a blue Crown Vic with no hubcaps and three aerials sticking from the roof. It might as well have been a black-and-white. The seats could have been cleaned, at least once. Arty got into the driver’s seat and promptly punched in the cigarette lighter.
“Man,” said Nappy, “I thought you said you weren’t gonna smoke and drive anymore.”
“I ain’t driving,” said Arty around the cigarette in his teeth.
“At least turn the engine on so we can open the windows.”
Arty twisted the ignition key and the engine turned over. The engine rumbled, exhaling O rings out of the tailpipe that the fog whipped away. Arty put the lighter back, puffing a filterless Camel. Eventually, he pressed his window button and the glass hummed downward.
“So what the fuck is a derivative?” asked Nappy.
I said, “It’s pretty simple really. A derivative is a synthetic credit instrument that large institutions like banks or financial companies use to allocate risk to different companies or institutions over different time periods.”
“It’d be pretty simple if you’d speak English,” said Arty, nodding outside. “That’s clear as this pea soup.”
Nappy joined in. “You mean it’s like insurance?”
“Exactly. Except with derivatives there’s no payment on death or anything like that. One party is indemnified against losses, the other pays some negotiated amount. The only trick is that it’s all based on credit.”
Their eyes began to glaze over, so I took a breath and said, “Think of it like a poker game. The stakes are ten-dollar ante. Hands are going upwards of a thousand bucks. You only have fifty grand with you, five hundred in the bank. You make a deal with some guy who’s watching the game, maybe the pit boss, maybe the house, that no matter what happens in the game, you won’t lose more than ten grand. You lose more, they pay the difference.”
“How much?”
“It’s negotiable.”
“Some negotiation,” said Nappy. “Why would they bet on me?”
“It’s not a bet. They’re doing the same thing for the other players.”
“Both ways?” asked Arty.
“Both ways,” I said.
“That’s pretty neat,” said Nappy. “If I lose, they pay, but they got another guy on the other side of the trade, who pays them. They can’t lose. That’s a pretty good deal.”
“It can be.”
“That’s not gambling,” Arty said.
“No. It’s business. They’re in it to make money. That’s why they call it business,” I said.
“But they’re just ripping people off, aren’t they?” Arty asked.
I shrugged. “Nappy here paid him of his own free will.”
“Because he couldn’t take the risk.”
“That’s right. But he wanted to play.”
“I guess so,” said Arty.
“Still. It seems squirrelly to me. I work my ass off fifty hours a week, I’m making a grand after taxes.”
“They’re providing a service. People ask for it and pay for it,” I said.
Arty said, “But . . .”
Nappy stopped him with a hand. “Arty. You happen to recall we’re detectives? Can we just forget the social justice implications and find out what Joe did and why someone wanted him dead? We’re supposed to be detecting.”
“Jeez,” said Arty. “What are you so touchy for?”
“Look,” I said. “Joe did do some of this stuff. He bought stocks. Sold short. Bought derivatives, mortgages, high-yield debt. Bank loans. Pretty much anything.”
I held up my hand when Arty started to ask more. Nappy rolled his eyes. Arty lit another cigarette, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth while Nappy tried melding with the door. “He did lots of speculative trades. But it was all to make his clients money. Trading. Making different bets on different markets, or differential securities, the same securities—it’s called arbitrage.”
“There’s no sense in that,” said Arty.
“There’s no motive in that,” said Nap.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” I said. “He was just trading.”
The conversation broke off and stalled; then Arty opened his door. The car was wrapped in a cocoon of gray as cool night air blasted through the opening. Arty got out and leaned against the front fender. He twisted his neck a couple of times, cracked his knuckles
, looked at his fingers. Then he straightened and exhaled. He turned into the car and stuck his head through the window.
“Want a ride home?” Arty asked, looking at me in back.
“I live close.”
“You in the high-rent district too?”
“Not this high. I live down in the flats. The Marina.”
“It’s nice,” said Nappy, nodding.
“Not this kinda nice,” said Arty, his head twisting and looking at the gargantuan houses guarding the spine of the Heights.
There was a fortress-like solidity to the houses. They gave the illusion time could not assail them, though it would. It was just that stone and cement and wood decayed slower than flesh. But a wrecking ball could destroy almost anything. So could a baseball bat.
“I’m going back in,” I said. I pushed my door open.
“Brave soul,” said Arty.
He pulled his door shut as I stepped out from the backseat. The light reflected off the window, and they became invisible as the car slipped away into the fog.
I climbed the steps again and opened the doors and was assaulted by the noise and the light and the heat, which hit me like a wake-up slap from a twilight sleep. I walked through the house, looking at Joe’s pictures in the hallway, looking for Kessler or Redfield or Cleveland, anybody to talk to. There was no way Joe could have gotten that big without my knowing. He would have told me, if only to make sure I knew.
I scanned the place, walked to the fireplace mantel, and fingered the frames of photographs. A shot of JFK’s hands reaching down to an adoring crowd. The house was peopled with a drunken band of firemen, the real ones from Firehouse 241, where Joe had left them with a trail of stories building into legend and drinking legends fading into history. Joe would be remembered at Uncle Tom’s Tavern in the Bermuda Triangle, the trio of famed bars kitty-corner from each other on Fillmore and Greenwich. Firemen launched into bad renditions of “Danny Boy” with full-throated toasts and tears dripping off stubbled cheeks, wiped away with fast, angry palms that stretched the skin of their faces. Toasts and tears drenched with Jameson.
I wandered back out the door and walked jerkily on the sidewalk like an untethered balloon. Before I got to my car, I realized I still had one of Joe’s photographs in my hand. It was one of us at Andersen, back in the cubicle days. I hiked back up the steps, through the emptying house, now with quiet singing still in it, and replaced the picture on its perch. Joe and I, ten years ago, a lifetime younger, stood draped over our contiguous stalls at Andersen’s old office south of Market. Joe was holding up our exam certificates, that easy contagious grin on his face, my own smile a haphazard reflection of his, lit not so much by our passage into certified public accountants as by Joe’s virulent and happy ease, his comfort, his blarney.