‘That makes sense,’ Matt says, nodding.
‘We can cold-call 500 people a day all month long in the hope some are looking to invest in the stock market and convert a tiny fraction into new accounts, or we can find people who’re already investing by going through trash.’
‘It’ll be like those brokerages did all the legwork, the cold-calling, the bullshit, for us.’
‘Exactly. If it works out, we won’t have to bust our arses on the phones so much.’
‘Where do we dumpster dive at?’
‘Local brokerages listed in the phone book.’
We buy garbage gloves, trash bags, box cutters. We target Bezner Securities because Ben Gleeson and Jimmy Shargal – the two brokers who gave the motivational speech at Kruger – recently threatened to blow Matt’s car up over a mutual client.
Matt drives us to Bezner, on a street by Metrocenter Mall. From the car, we survey the dumpster, enclosed by three walls with a gate at the front.
‘No one’ll notice us with all these shoppers,’ I say.
‘Let’s go for it,’ Matt says.
We rush to the gate. I push it open. ‘If security comes, let’s say we’re looking for something we threw away by accident.’
‘We’re wearing suits. They’re not gonna fuck with us.’ Matt snaps his gloves on.
Peering in the dumpster, I say, ‘At least it’s full of trash.’
We grab bags and slice them open. The stink of coffee and putrefying fast food assaults us. I search six bags, find nothing, grow disappointed.
Matt climbs in and passes out more bags. ‘Bezner’s trash has gotta be in here somewhere.’
A man and woman peep over the wall. Imagining they’re security guards, I freeze.
‘Ignore them,’ Matt whispers. ‘Just nosy-ass shoppers.’
They walk away.
I slash a bag open and sift through the contents. Spotting account info, I smile. ‘Yes! We’re in business.’
‘No shit! Let me see.’ Matt’s eyes widen as if admiring treasure. We high-five. Encouraged, we tear through bags and find more paperwork. We stash everything in the car and take off.
Poaching clients who’ve written letters of complaint to Bezner is easy. One transfers a six-figure portfolio to me. We return to that dumpster many times.
Our next target is Detherow & Ford, run by our former co-workers. I relish the mission, thinking of it as payback for them trying to shaft us on the pay-out schedule.
At night, we park in an empty lot. The dumpster looks like an easy target. But approaching it, I spot a padlock. ‘Shit. It’s locked.’
‘Fuck, dude! Now what?’ Matt says.
Noticing the cleaners at work, I say, ‘Let’s scope this out. Follow me.’ When I can see into the entrance, I stop. A cleaner is pushing a trolley, others putting trash by the door.
‘Check those bags out!’ Matt says.
‘There’s no way we can grab them with these cleaners around,’ I say, excited by the sight of the bags. My thoughts gallop, searching for a solution. ‘At least we know how they operate. I say we sit in the car and wait to see what they do next.’
We spy for two hours. The cleaners put the bags in the dumpster – but lock it. We decide to return the following night, hoping to snatch the bags before the cleaners dump them. Matt times my journey from the car to the office and back: forty-two seconds. To get the bags into the car should take three snatches, so we need the cleaners to be absent for longer than two minutes.
The next night, we watch the cleaners. When they disappear into the building, we rush to the entrance, grab bags and chuck them in the car. A cleaner spots our second snatch and shouts. A posse of cleaners pursues us, all yelling in Spanish.
‘Let’s get the fuck out of here!’ I say, sprinting to the car. Basking in the fun, thrill and danger of it all, I can’t stop laughing.
Matt screeches away. The car fills with the stink of burnt tyres.
‘Now they know what we look like, we’d better leave that one for a while,’ I say.
Not all of our dumpster missions are successful. Many are locked. Some are accessible but the paperwork is shredded. Security patrols chase us from others. However, the dumpster diving boosts my numbers on the board – numbers around which my life increasingly revolves.
Chapter 9
‘Did you fuck blonde pussy?’ Sumiko yells when I walk through the door after work.
‘What’re you talking about?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Every American guy, they love blonde pussy,’ she says, wagging a finger. ‘England guy probably same.’
‘I’ve been at the office all day, making money so we can save up and get a house.’ Exasperated, I stomp up the stairs and take a shower. I hear her destroying the kitchen, yelling in Japanese.
The next day, she apologises and smothers me with kindness. But every few weeks, the cycle repeats. Afraid for her health and our marriage, I urge her to see a doctor. He prescribes Zoloft. Much to my relief, her anger disappears and we start behaving like newlyweds.
Sumiko’s sister, Shuzuko, flies from Fukuoka. Wearing a white suit, a veil and enough rosary beads and crucifix necklaces to deck out a nunnery, Shuzuko floats towards us in the airport like an apparition of the Virgin Mary with a Japanese face. She speaks no English, so I greet her in Japanese. The sisters hug, chat and giggle like schoolgirls. In our apartment, they cook bulgogi: marinated barbecued meat. At night, they pray in the living room. I appreciate Shuzuko’s calming influence on Sumiko.
A few days later, I arrive home at night, ravenous, open the door and step inside.
Sumiko leaps and blocks my way. ‘You fucking asshole! You motherfucker!’
‘What’ve I done?’ I ask, my stomach tightening. ‘Sumiko, please calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Yelling in Japanese, she chases me around the coffee table. Shuzuko drops to her knees, closes her eyes and prays.
‘Why’re you mad at me? What’s going on?’
‘Shuzuko told me my medicine Western poison. You and the doctor sending me to heaven to join my mom. Shaun, why you try kill me?’ She starts bawling.
I turn to Shuzuko. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’
Shuzuko shuts her eyes tighter.
‘I’m not trying to kill you! The medicine is supposed to help you! I think you need some right now!’
‘Shuzuko put medicine down food disposer. Medicine gone. How could you, you bastard?’
Sumiko marches to the kitchenette, tears open cupboards and launches dishes. One almost hits my head. Another crash-lands on the coffee table, breaking the top into jagged pieces of glass. Terrified, I dance around the living room, dodging plates.
‘Why you try kill me, Shaun?’ she yells, throwing a can opener at me.
‘Your sister’s wrong. I’m not trying to kill you,’ I say.
Whispering in Japanese, Shuzuko fondles rosary beads, with shards of glass bouncing around her like hail.
‘Bastard!’ Sumiko charges at me.
I run around the coffee table. She closes in, clawing me at every opportunity, ripping skin off my neck and chest. Hoping to lock myself in the bedroom, I dash inside but fail to shut the door in time. Sumiko hurtles in and flushes me out. Attempting to trick her into following me to the far end of the living room, I head in that direction. She falls for it. I sprint back to the bedroom, lock the door and heave a chest of drawers behind it. She pounds on the door but can’t get in. I sit on the bed, my heartbeat rapid. When the banging and yelling stop, I go to sleep.
At 5 a.m., my alarm beeps, startling me back to reality. It’s going to wake the sisters! My arm lashes out to turn it off. I listen. Silence. It must be safe. I put my suit on and shift the chest of drawers. I open the door, cautiously, scanning every inch coming into view – no sign of hostilities. I step out, surprised by the sight that greets me. It’s an apartment-cum-chapel: Christian artefacts on the carpet; rosary beads and crucifixes on the walls; a poster of the Virgin
Mary cradling the baby Jesus, their heads emitting an eerie yellow glow; flames flickering from rows of candles adjacent to the sleeping women, illuminating two pale faces so at peace with the world they appear to have the auras of angels; Sumiko, wearing a jade rosary and gold crucifix, a flame casting the shadow of a bottle of holy water down one side of her face. Praying not to wake them, I tiptoe towards the front door. I reach for the knob, vigilant for signs of life.
Sumiko springs her eyes open like a vampire getting staked through the heart. She yells something in Japanese akin to a battle cry and pounces like a cat. I spin around. As her face lands between my legs, I feel her teeth graze my skin as they clamp shut. Wanting to get my penis out of harm’s way, I recoil. She falls on the floor, a piece of cloth dangling from her mouth.
My eyes shoot to my trousers, where my boxers are visible. ‘Look what you did!’ I yell, pointing at the hole. ‘I can’t go to work now!’
Shuzuko opens her eyes and makes the sign of the cross. Sumiko springs at me again. Sprinting for the bedroom, I bump into Shuzuko, knocking her over. Sumiko catches up, grabs my collar and rips my shirt, the buttons flying off like tiddlywinks. Feeling her nails dig in and strip away skin, I wince. I push her away.
At my wits’ end, I lock myself in the bedroom and dial 911. ‘My wife’s out of control. I’m worried she might hurt herself. Can you take her to a friend’s house to calm down?’
‘You no call police!’ Sumiko yells, thundering on the door.
When I hear a radio crackling, I emerge to two policemen, stunned, watching Sumiko wriggling on the floor like a demented worm, sobbing, slobbering on the carpet, slurring in Japanese, and Shuzuko praying over her, hands together, kneeling, eyes closed, swaying.
‘Goddam!’ says a policeman, shaking his head.
I explain recent events. The police disapprove of Shuzuko disposing of the Zoloft. When questioned, the sisters say nothing, but Sumiko eventually provides some basic answers. The police take the sisters to cool off at a friend of Sumiko’s.
Thank God it’s all over! I sink into the sofa, flop my arms down and try to stabilise my breathing. Her behaviour makes no sense. Maybe she’ll get back on Zoloft and things will normalise. Need to call the office. Tell them I’m running late. I pick up the phone and start to dial.
The door bursts open. Sumiko charges in, her face contorting as if she’s in the throes of satanic possession. Everything happens in slow motion. Starting to rise, I drop the phone. Sumiko swerves and grabs the iron from the countertop. She careers straight at me, raising the iron to strike my head. Hemmed in by two walls, I only have seconds to act. Running to the bedroom will expose the side of my head to the iron. Staying put, I raise my forearms to shield myself.
‘You no kill me, bastard!’ she yells, thrusting the iron at my head.
As I duck, the iron glances off my shoulder. Sumiko runs into me, bounces off, loses her footing and collapses onto the coffee table. Jagged pieces of glass puncture her body. We both stare, paralysed by the sight of blood gushing from her limbs.
If the bleeding isn’t stopped, she’s going to die. I want to do something but don’t know what.
The two policemen from earlier rush in, radio for help and order me outside. Siren noises grow louder.
Come on, Sumiko, pull through. You’ll be OK.
Emergency vehicles fill the parking lot. Police surround me.
‘What did you do to her?’
‘Why’d you do it?’
‘You attacked her, didn’t you?’
‘What made you do it?’
The firestorm of questions frazzles my brain. Over and over, I sputter the truth: ‘I called you out so something like this wouldn’t happen. The two cops let her give them the slip and look what happened. How’s this my fault?’ No matter what I say, they insist I assaulted Sumiko and that it’s in my best interest to come clean. I reiterate my innocence. They don’t believe me.
A policewoman steps forward. ‘Take your shirt off.’
I comply, embarrassed by the scratches.
She examines my body while the rest remain silent. ‘Look at those marks. This man’s obviously a victim of domestic violence.’
Familiar with the term from the news – usually used to describe female victims – I blush. A policeman confirms I made the emergency call.
‘You’re free to go,’ the policewoman says.
‘Is she OK?’ I ask.
‘A few severe cuts, but she’ll be all right,’ she says.
At least I’m not going to jail! I trudge away, grateful to her, relieved, a headache setting in. Shit. I’m so late for work, the boss’ll be mad. I rush into the apartment, put clean clothes on and dash out.
In the office, my colleagues see the scratches on my face and neck, clearly the work of a woman’s fingernails. Mockery rains down upon me. Only the secretaries offer sympathy. They advise me not to see any clients.
When the stock market closes, I go home for lunch. The door opens, surprising me. Sumiko limps in, her legs bandaged. Shuzuko takes one look at me and her eyes widen as if I’ve grown horns. She hisses something in Japanese, grabs a bottle of holy water, rips the top off, splashes me, collapses on the floor and starts wriggling around, weeping. I’m wiping holy water off my face when Sumiko yells her battle cry. She chases me out of the apartment, but she can only hobble, so it’s easy to keep her at bay. Determined to catch up, she almost tumbles down the stairs. We end up in the parking lot, looping around cars, her swearing in Japanese. We’re playing cat and mouse when her ex-husband screeches into the lot. He jumps out of his car. Burly. Bearded. Grinning slyly.
‘What’re you doing here?’ I ask.
Sumiko yells at him in Japanese.
‘Sumiko called me from the hospital and explained what’d happened.’
‘She’s still wild. Why don’t you take her to your place till she calms down?’ I say.
His laugh destroys my hope. ‘Hell, no! I don’t want her back. I’ve got a refill for her medication, and I’m gonna take her sister straight to the airport and put her on the next flight back to Japan. Look at those injuries. This is ridiculous, man! Her sister should have never told her to stop taking her medication. Look, Sumiko, you’ve gotta take your medication!’
‘Go to hell!’ Sumiko yells.
He coaxes Sumiko inside and insists she take the Zoloft.
‘I feel so bad about all this,’ I say.
‘Don’t sweat it,’ he says. ‘The cops used to come out all the time when I was married to her.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, I’d call them or the neighbours’d call them. The cops used to say, “Oh no, not her again.” She used to break all our most expensive shit.’
I’m shocked, yet relieved that I haven’t caused Sumiko’s anger. But the more I think about it, the more I fear it can’t be fixed.
Chapter 10
Two hours after the opening of the stock market, Matt shows up for work.
Exhausted from fielding calls from our clients, I say, ‘If you’re not going to respond to my wake-up calls, I’ve got a better idea.’
‘What?’ Matt asks, making a cup of coffee.
‘Why don’t you move from your mum’s to a place near the office? That way I can bang on your door in the morning and we can walk to work together.’
‘And then I don’t have to be bothered with my piece-of-shit car,’ Matt says, nodding.
‘The rent’s dirt cheap around here, too. Being right by the office makes it much easier for me to be in here more. No commute. None of that shit.’
Matt moves and for a while everything seems fine. He shows up at work one morning in a new convertible BMW, wearing an Armani suit.
‘Where’s all that come from?’ I ask.
‘I struck gold,’ Matt says, flaunting a Motorola cellphone the size of a house brick. ‘I’m dating Amelia Guss.’
‘Who?’
‘Dr Guss’s daughter!’ he says, referring to his biggest clie
nt.
‘Does Dr Guss know?’
‘Yeah, he’s all good with it.’ Matt pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Check this account statement out.’
‘Wow!’ I say, ogling the seven-digit balance.
Matt beams. ‘He’s gonna transfer that money to his account with me. Not only is he a doctor, he owns a printing company, businesses, property all over the freaking place.’
‘Good job, Matt!’ We high-five. ‘How soon are you marrying his daughter?’
‘Asshole!’ he says, punching my arm.
I’m pleased until Matt starts disappearing for days on end, gallivanting with Amelia. When he does show up, he parks the BMW at the foot of the building, blazes into the office, places some massive trades and takes off. His production remains high, but his behaviour upsets our boss – and me. He’s no longer building the pipeline of leads brokers need to replenish their business. I can’t express my frustration because his contribution to our partnership has nudged above mine, and he barely spends time with me anymore. Getting pushed out of his social life is hurting me, too.
A few months later, the fling with Amelia ends. Matt loses his new toys. He stops coming to work altogether. Worried, I go and bang on his door.
A woman answers, tanned, barely clothed, wide-eyed, her bright-red lipstick smudged. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m Shaun. I work with Matt.’
‘He’s … er …’ She casts a sly look over her shoulder and frowns. ‘He’s feeling … sick and doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.’ Before I can respond, she slams the door.
Hurt, disappointed, I walk away.
Days later, I spot Matt leaving his apartment. Excited, I increase my stride. ‘How’s it going, Matt?’
His face tightens. ‘I’ve gotta level with you, Shaun. I’ve been fucking off work to do crystal meth and party.’
‘What?’ Shocked, I pause to think of an appropriate response. ‘Matt, I like to party just as much as anyone, but I’m not going to throw away all the hard work I’ve done just to get high all the time.’
‘I’m just not motivated to come to work anymore.’
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