‘Matt, how can you give up so easily?’ I ask, my disappointment boiling into anger. ‘Look at everything we’ve been through since Kruger! I can’t believe you’re letting our friendship and partnership down like this!’ Focused on success, I don’t understand the nature of his burn-out or how he can drop our goal. ‘All we’ve got to do is stick to the programme and we’re going to be rich, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I’m so sorry, Shaun. I just don’t know what to tell you,’ he says, unable to look me in the eye.
‘Tell me you’re going to stop doing drugs and come to work!’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re going to throw your career down the toilet just to get high! I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, the best closer I’ve ever met!’ I say, waving my arms like a madman.
Matt stares at his sneakers, a yellow tint in his eyes, their brightness gone.
‘What am I supposed to tell our boss?’
‘I don’t care,’ he says in a resolute tone.
His answer stings like a jab to the nose. But I still want to help him. ‘Well, I do care! I’m going to tell Nick you’re sick. That’ll give you time to snap out of this,’ I say, feeling helpless, unable to come to terms with losing my friend, my partner.
Matt doesn’t return to work. I beg Nick to give him more time and I pay to keep Matt licensed. After a few months, Nick officially fires Matt. The battle for our partnership is over. I suffer a kind of relationship break-up heartache. I worry about Matt and dream about what could have been. The reality crushes me for a few days. I emerge resolved to work solo.
Matt gets evicted. He telephones sporadically.
‘Shaun, I need your help, man.’
‘What is it, Matt?’
‘Some dudes from the west side are trying to kill me.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Over dope. I need you to call this number and tell them I’ve left town.’
‘Bloody hell!’ I’m shocked, but our bond is so strong, I keep helping him. ‘All right. Give me the number.’
Months go by before the next call: ‘I can’t speak to you on the phone. Meet me at the George & Dragon at two.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘I’ll tell you what happened when I see you.’
In the British pub, I almost don’t recognise the man limping towards me, wearing glasses, his face gaunt, his skin jaundiced. I’m shocked and saddened by what drugs have reduced Matt to.
‘What happened?’ I ask, dropping off a stool to give him a hug.
‘I just got out of jail.’
‘Oh no! What for?’
‘I got in a car chase with the cops,’ he says.
‘You’re shitting me!’
‘They rammed my vehicle. I crashed and ended up in hospital. That’s why I’m limping.’
‘What’re you going to do now?’
‘I’m gonna move to Georgia. Try living with my dad down there. I just wanted to meet you one last time, say goodbye and thank you for everything.’ Matt’s tired eyes glaze over with emotion and I feel his pain.
‘Matt, I don’t know what to say. This is so fucking sad.’ I hug him tightly, squeezing my eyes shut, tears welling. I hoped to still hang out as friends. No chance now. I’m too emotional to speak; the highlights of our two years together flow through my mind.
He calls from Georgia to say he’s made it OK. I never hear from him again.
Partying destroyed Matt’s career, yet I don’t perceive any danger. I’m too strong-minded to end up like Matt. I’m only taking Ecstasy every now and then when clubbing. No big deal. I’m a functional, recreational drug user. My habit will never get out of control.
Chapter 11
Resolved to succeed on my own, I set my sights on ousting Max as the biggest producer. Six months later, all the records on the board are Max’s and mine. In ’94, Goldstein & Associates buy out Radcliff Financial. I flourish at the bigger firm.
FOR THE RECORD
MOST # DIALS/DAY 590 SHAUN ATTW
MOST # LEADS/DAY 31 SHAUN ATTW
MOST # NEW ACCOUNTS/DAY 9 SHAUN ATTW
MOST # NEW ACCOUNTS/MONTH 19 SHAUN ATTW
HIGHEST GROSS PRODUCTION/DAY $10,000 MAX PURCELL
HIGHEST GROSS PRODUCTION/MONTH $27,500 MAX PURCELL
LARGEST TICKET (GROSS) $10,000 MAX PURCELL
LARGEST TICKET (INVESTMENT) 1 MILLION MAX PURCELL
MOST CONSECUTIVE TICKETS/DAY 50 SHAUN ATTW
LARGEST NEW ACCOUNT 1.2 MILLION MAX PURCELL
For a year, Sumiko has been stable on Zoloft – convincing me she’s cured. We go clubbing, but I stop taking drugs. We buy a two-storey house in Ahwatukee, an urban village by the Pointe South Mountain Resort, where she lived when we first met. Moving to the area she loves makes her happier.
To generate more business, I unleash Sumiko’s cooking on my clients. Before they arrive, Sumiko stays up all night, pacing from pot to pan like the commander of a war room, stinking the house up with beef, chicken and seafood recipes. When my clients arrive, she serves too many dishes to fit on our dining table. After eating, my clients loosen their clothes. They invite us to their homes and more business follows. With my career and marriage flourishing, I’m high on life. Drugs slip further from my mind.
I dumpster dive less, but it’s still lucrative. Targeting a brokerage in Mesa run by Kruger refugees, I set off at dusk. The dumpster is full of client paperwork. With no one around, I take my time loading bags into the Toyota Celica. It’s all so easy.
Driving home on the US-60, revelling in the thrill of stealing clients from ex-colleagues, tapping the wheel, bobbing my head, crooning to radio tunes, I’m oblivious to the car behind. I accelerate – Sumiko’s chicken curry is waiting, and the nightly massage that leads to other things. The speedometer hits 100mph. I’m lost in a daydream revolving around converting the garbage stinking up my car into thousands of dollars – until a bright light smothers the Toyota as if a spacecraft is trying to land on it. I come to my senses. Fast. My eyes lock onto a police car, its lightbar on, flashing me to pull over. Oh shit! How do I explain a car full of trash from Mesa when I work in Phoenix? I pull over, drop the window and tremble.
The police vehicle parks and floods my car with light. The driver gets out and approaches my side. ‘Driver’s licence, insurance and registration.’ He shines his flashlight on the bags on the back seat.
‘Here you go,’ I say in a weak voice.
‘I’ll be right back.’ He takes my documents to his car.
For a few minutes, I worry about getting busted for industrial espionage.
The cop marches back to my car. ‘Why’re you in such a hurry, Mr Attwood?’
‘Late for dinner. Wife’s cooking. You know how it is.’
‘No, I don’t know how it is. Food that good you’d risk your life and the lives of others by speeding? We’ve been following you zigzagging in and out of the traffic for four miles.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, officer.’
His partner materialises at the passenger side like a ghost, making me jump. He traces his flashlight over the bags. I see myself in handcuffs.
‘Any idea how fast you were going, Mr Attwood?’
‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Stockbroker.’ But not for long. This will end my career.
‘Those bags from your office, Mr Attwood?’
The lie leaps out before the consequences sink in: ‘Yes.’ Great, now I’ve fibbed. That’s probably a crime.
‘Do you mind if we take a look at those bags?’
‘No. Go ahead.’
‘Step out of the vehicle. Go and stand by the passenger side so you don’t get run over.’
I walk around the car fast. Trucks roar by, wafting fumes and dust and heat that add to my nausea. Radiating guilt, I watch the cops extract the bags and arrange them in a row on the hard shoulder. They pop the trunk, find more bags,
add them to the row. Exchanging cautious glances as if expecting to find body parts, they prod the bags with flashlights. They open a bag. My body tenses. Surely they’ll notice the paperwork’s not mine and handcuff me. They poke around inside the bags, ignoring the paperwork. Maybe they’re looking for drugs. On finding nothing, they trade confused looks and shrug.
‘Do you have anything you want to tell us?’ one asks, tilting his head back and scrunching his brow as if he knows I’m up to something.
‘If you let me go with a warning, I promise I won’t speed again.’
They laugh and put the bags back in the car.
Driving home in the slow lane, nursing a speeding ticket on my lap, air con blasting my face, I tell myself, No more dumpster diving.
Chapter 12
Citing side effects, Sumiko stops taking Zoloft. I’m having a shower when she bursts in and tries to slice my penis off with a Ginsu knife. Stopping the blade, I cut my hand. She bites my arm, leaving a wound that looks like my bicep has grown a mouth. Blaming her mental illness and committed to marriage, I stay with her.
With Sumiko constantly angry, I feel lonely, miserable and on the verge of going berserk. More than ever, I crave the relief provided by Ecstasy. I want to rave, get high and forget about Sumiko. Listening to tapes I made in England, I close my eyes and pine for raves. As each weekend nears, I hear wolves howling for me to come out and party. The wolves represent everyone I ever partied with. Their call fills me with sadness – and longing to be reunited with my wolf pack.
My colleague, the ruggedly handsome Scott Virani, invites me to join him at The Hi-Liter Gentlemen’s Club.
‘What goes on in there?’ I ask.
‘Women dancing topless.’
‘Let’s go!’
The valet parks Scott’s sports car and three bouncers greet him at the door. He pays a woman in a booth, and a waitress takes us to a table in a dark room. He orders a bottle of Dom Pérignon. We are by a stage that protrudes like a catwalk, with two poles and neon tube lights glowing pink and purple. Men are howling at a brunette gyrating in a bikini, one minute slowly moving her curves, the next using the poles with the agility of a gymnast, rotating upside down and spinning her legs like helicopter propellers. The dancers recognise and flock around Scott, who brushes them off to sip champagne, his indifference provoking them. Cat fights almost erupt as they compete for his attention. I marvel at the fuss. Later, he explains that he is dating more than one of the dancers. Having never seen so many women compete for a man’s attention and stuck in an unhealthy marriage, I envy his lifestyle.
After the club, I drive his car to Van Buren Street, so that he can score drugs from dealers lurking around pink hotels that advertise hourly rates. One disappears into a hotel room with Scott’s money.
‘Wait in the car!’ he growls.
‘Don’t do it,’ I say. ‘It looks dangerous. You could get shot in there.’
Scott jumps out. I lock the doors. He forces his way through a wall of tall black men and barges into a room. Several men yell. Scott’s voice rises above the others: ‘Nobody rips me off on my fucking birthday! You really don’t wanna make me angry on my fucking birthday!’
Revving the car, with my heart beating violently, I expect to hear gunshots at any moment. Scott appears, waving a tiny bag with a white crack rock. ‘I’m going to take you to an interesting place,’ he says.
Following Scott’s directions, I arrive at an industrial zone on the west side of Phoenix and pull up to a building with a pink neon sign that reads: SOCIABLES. Two men approach the car with shotguns, flashlights and beards down to their bellies.
‘What’s with the guns?’ I say, my heart speeding up again.
Scott waves at the men.
‘Follow us, Scott. We’ll show you where to park around the back.’
Walking towards the entrance booth, I skulk behind Scott.
‘Hi, Scott! What’s your friend’s name?’ asks a brunette on a stool. She’s wearing a see-through blouse and porn-star lipstick.
‘Shaun. He’s an English guy.’
‘Welcome to America. Is it S-E-A-N?’ she asks so enthusiastically that I’m reluctant to correct her.
‘No. S-H-A-U-N.’
With a black marker, she writes SCOTT and SHAUN on two stickers, and puts them on our clothes.
‘Enjoy yourself, Shaun. Enjoy yourself, Scott.’ While casting Scott a steamy look, she slides her tongue across her top lip.
Entering the unknown, I’m afraid and excited. I imagine that Scott has brought us to some kind of orgy. We walk into an ordinary bar, mostly empty except for a few bearded men. At the bar, a woman is standing in front of a man with his hands on her hips.
‘Is this it?’ I ask.
‘No. This is just the bar. Most of the action occurs in the back rooms. Let’s get some drinks before I give you the full tour.’
Approaching the bar, I notice that the woman in front of the man has her skirt hiked up, and they are having sex. Facing the barmaid, I can’t stop glancing sideways. If they’re doing it right here, it should be OK to watch.
The barmaid must have leaned into my personal space because I jump when she asks in the kind of sing-song voice that old ladies reserve for poodles, ‘What would you like to drink, Shaun? And how about you, Scott?’
‘What’s available?’ I ask.
‘Well, Shaun, we’ve got Coke, Sprite—’
‘No alcohol?’ I ask.
The couple’s heavy breathing impedes my decision-making.
‘Alcohol’s not allowed in these bars,’ Scott says.
The rate of thrusting increases until the man appears to be trying to bore a hole into the bar.
‘We’ve got Mountain Dew, 7 Up—’
There is an ecstasy of groaning.
‘I’ll take an OJ,’ I say.
The woman collapses onto the bar, out of breath.
The orange juice tastes watered down.
A woman walks in, each step lifting her green skirt a little further up tanned thighs.
Scott approaches her. ‘I’ll see you in the back rooms later on.’
‘I look forward, Scott,’ she says.
Each time Scott is acknowledged, I feel excitement by association.
Scott finishes his drink. ‘The back rooms then?’
‘The back rooms. Yes.’ Although hoping to see the woman in the green skirt, I’m terrified of getting asked to do anything sexual in this strange place. I follow Scott into a corridor. The rooms are bare except for beds and jars of condoms. Further down, men are gathered by a doorway.
‘Let’s take a look in that room,’ Scott says. ‘I bet that’s where the action is.’
‘OK.’
We walk in on a blonde receiving a middle-aged man, another masturbating in a corner and a sweaty sexual odour.
‘It’s like a live porno,’ I whisper. Although I want to laugh, I adopt the serious air of the other spectators.
The man groans. The bed springs stop squeaking. He walks away with a deflated condom dangling off his penis. Several men have sex with the woman, masturbating themselves hard as they approach her. Throughout the gangbang, the man in the corner of the room masturbates alone.
Worried that it is almost my turn, I say, ‘Fancy shooting some pool?’
‘Wanna go set the table up?’ Scott says. ‘I’ll be right there.’
At the pool table, I’m approached by the woman in the green dress and a man.
‘Who’s your partner?’ she asks.
‘Er … my wife’s …’
She laughs. ‘Your pool partner.’
‘Scott’s in a back room.’
‘Oh, Scott.’ They smile knowingly.
‘He said he’d be right back.’ I imagine Scott having sex by now or masturbating.
About five minutes later, Scott arrives. ‘Do you wanna have a go back there?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘That woman who’s getting fucked, it’s her
birthday. It was her fantasy to get fucked by a bunch of men on her birthday, while her husband watches. The guy whacking off in the corner is her husband.’
‘Oh my God!’ I say.
‘Do you wanna join the celebration?’
‘I … er … can’t, Scott. I’m married. And even if I was single, I just … er … don’t think I could do it in a room full of men watching like that.’
‘You guys gonna play pool or what?’
‘Sure,’ Scott says, leering at the woman in the skirt.
Halfway through the second game, I miss a shot, and turn around to the woman on her knees going down on her partner. Game over. He is sinking into a low chair, his legs open. The bearded men gather around to watch. After the woman comes up for air, her face spasms when she sees the crowd.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I say.
‘Already? But it’s just warming up,’ Scott says.
‘I’ve seen enough. All these bearded men are freaking me out.’
‘There’s more women on the weekends. This is nothing compared to the weekends.’
‘Let’s come back on a weekend then,’ I say to get us out of there.
‘You’ll just love it on the weekends.’
Rather than return to Sociables on the weekend, I convince Scott to go to The Works, a nightclub in Scottsdale popular with gays and ravers. Sumiko refuses to come, so I go in her sports car.
At The Works, I buy wine from a topless pretty boy and enter the techno room. My eyes widen as I take in the sight: hundreds dancing on a wooden-plank floor and platforms of various heights; walls adorned with sailors; latex-clad females in black thongs prancing on a suspended metal catwalk; windowpane-like screens displaying psychedelic visuals. Around the edges of the club, on luxurious sofas in dimly lit balconies, people are snorting drugs, drinking and fondling each other. I spot the dealer Moo and take a hit of Ecstasy. I’m getting into the music, anticipating a good time.
Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turn around, smiling, expecting to see Scott – but it’s Sumiko. She attacks me and the bouncers escort us out. She departs in her sports car, leaving me stranded.
I’ll talk her into picking me up later on. Just then – as if it was waiting for her to leave to arrive – the Ecstasy takes effect, raising my temperature, evaporating my stress. I approach the bouncers, convinced the joy I’m radiating will penetrate their dark souls and they’ll allow me back in.
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