Of course Jackie gazed at the minister—anything to avoid seeing the shrunken old man she’d have to screw later. “He must be the luckiest asshole on earth.”
Gus concentrated on his oversized adding machine, punching numbers as the white tape spewed out paper coils marked with inky blue numbers.
Jake made a sound between spitting and a raspberry. “It just shows. Nothing matters except a huge bankroll. You can be a gnome, you can cheat your way to the top, but if you have the dough, the Times will cover your wedding as though you’re Prince Charming.”
“So, what’s the lesson?” Gus’s rabbinical expression reminded Jake of Hebrew school; that mix of Socrates and soul diving. Jake had hated Hebrew school.
“Money trumps all. Think I’ll make it the company logo.”
Gus took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re joking, but listen to me, kiddo. Here’s what’s more important than your bankbook: your reputation. Shortcuts always come back and bite you in the ass.”
“Doesn’t seem as though Onassis has been hurt.”
“Sometimes the hurt doesn’t show. It’s on the soul. In the end, you answer to God, and I imagine He charges a high price.”
Each time Gus brought up right and wrong, Jake wanted to pop him one. If anything, Jake bent like a pretzel to dot each and every i. The feds had made a lifelong impression when they took his parents for questioning. Look around their office—it was he who practically ironed the paperwork to make it perfect.
When he was an old man like Gus, he’d sit around and pontificate. But this was his time to build his life and dazzle the world.
“Money might not send you to heaven, but having it is a hell of a lot easier than the alternative.” Jake refolded the newspaper to its original shape and gathered the wax paper from his sandwich. He brushed crumbs into his tissue-covered hand and threw it in the trash. Each time Gus threw apple cores and sandwich remains straight into the basket, Jake redoubled his vow to be in his own office by this time next year. Someplace classy. He’d dance naked in Times Square before renting a shit office like this Bronx dump. The place hulked in the shadow of the elevated train—a pigsty where the gloom hiding the dirt and overflowing trash cans was the only positive.
“Are you worried about Onassis being a prick or that you won’t end up being like him?” Gus ripped off the white adding machine tape and stapled it to a sheaf of papers.
“Nobody becomes Onassis without being a prick.” Jake picked up a copy of the Pink Sheet to check stock prices. Like everyone else in the business, he pored over the daily publication for quotes on companies that traded over-the-counter. Smart people could make plenty on OTC stocks.
“Are you ready to go down that road?”
Jake flipped the bird. “Already walking.”
Gus dismissed him with a wave. “Big talker.” He winked and flashed a pure-white grin, showing off the perfect dentures provided by his brother the dentist, Jake’s father-in-law. “But a smart one. You have dollar signs where the rest of us have corpuscles.”
Despite chafing under his lectures, Jake relished Gus’s regard, basking when Gus treated him as a cross between family and the goose laying golden eggs. Jake churned out profits as though he manufactured them for the clients. Sure, vinegar got mixed in when Jake’s father-in-law covered his one mistake, but that was two months ago. He’d worked seven days a week to climb out of that hole.
Red was a hell of a father-in-law. He never even hinted to Gus about the problem once it was fixed. Lola? Another story. Same as ever, his mother-in-law always acted like a bitch. Now she scrutinized him with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to fall again.
Neither Gus, nor the friends and family he brought into the Club, knew a thing about his fumble. They never suspected that their holdings almost disappeared. Thanks to Red, they continued to believe that Jake spun gold.
Who did he hurt? Nobody. Club members got their profits. Red got paid back. Climbing out of his personal financial hole would be his last step in erasing the setback. Barely worth worrying about. He’d end up on top of the world, and he’d play it straight. Not like the shit his parents had pulled, running a brokerage without a license. Every neighbor had come outside and watched those asshole federal agents drag away his parents.
Covering the losses was genius. He took his knocks paying interest to Red but kept his clients. His hot streak returned in no time, and he’d juggle twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to keep all the balls in the air.
Genius. He laughed at his own bullshit. He’d stayed up half the night until he figured out how to manage the crisis. One night he had to sit up until four in the morning, heartburn and stomach pains hit him so hard. Another night he woke in tears, in the midst of a dream about being paraded in front of neighbors. Phoebe might have known if he hadn’t declared that his head was so stuffed from sinus problems that he woke up sniffing because he couldn’t breathe.
Jake tapped his financial bible with an index finger every morning: Registration and Regulation of Brokers and Dealers by Ezra Weiss. He bought the book the day it was published, read every word twice, memorized what he needed, and then gave the text a place of honor on his desk. Occasionally, he stared at the author’s photo, imagining his own picture—though as a New York Times bestseller, not the author of a dry text. He’d already come up with book titles:
Pierce Investment Strategies: Secrets to Success!
Pierce Invested: Strategies to Millions!
Wall Street Pierced: How One Man Beat the Stock Market!
The last line electrified him. He wondered if Pierced would work as a title. The cover—he doodled iterations as he spoke on the phone—he imagined vivid gold with a dense silver title. Somewhere there’d be an artistic black dollar sign, with smaller versions on the spine and back cover.
Unless the dollar sign gave a cut-rate appearance.
At the right time, he’d ask Phoebe. Matters of taste were her specialty, though he worked plenty learning about the best of everything. Once a month, he broke his tedious commute and exited the train in Midtown. He strolled Madison Avenue checking out how big shots dressed, stopping in Brooks Brothers, where he rubbed suit fabric between his fingers and lingered over briefcases, choosing what he’d soon acquire. Until he could afford the best, he waited, carrying his papers in his old college gym bag. Who cared how a guy in his twenties carried his shit to the Bronx?
He read the Wall Street Journal daily, and subscribed to Forbes and Architectural Digest, along with House Beautiful, Gourmet, and Vogue Paris for Phoebe.
His wife turned heads already, but for his plans, she needed to add a little sheen. Less Brooklyn, more Manhattan. Phoebe would make beautiful children. A daughter with her Snow White skin and delicate features, or a son with her brains and his balls, and life could be perfect.
Fuck it, he loved the hell out of her.
Crisp piles of money, scorching nights of sex, and silver-framed photos of a flawless family defined Jake’s endgame. Tons of dough. Tons.
Men climbed over one another these days for over-the-counter and initial public offerings, convinced that every OTC stock and IPO would be the next Ma Bell. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thought they were next in line to be a millionaire. Jake might as well be the one to sell them the chances to hit the jackpot.
Phoebe wrote down every brokerage trade, but details about the Club he kept private. Jake didn’t need to be answering questions about that pot of cash. As long as the Club’s clients got their statements, it was nobody’s beeswax how he used the money it generated. If it took a few days to catch up on the buys he claimed to have made, so be it. Eventually he followed through. Cash flow required an elastic touch.
Gita-Rae, his first hire—though he shared Gus’s assistant, Ronnie Gallagher—provided his missing puzzle piece. He could only afford her part-time; her hourly rate would astound Gus. But she kept secrets like a sphinx. She was no genius, but she wasn’t a dummy. Shrewdness, tha
t’s what Gita-Rae excelled in, and a head for numbers.
Money was her god. Growing up, she’d lived in the apartment next to Jake’s and also attended Erasmus High School same as him and Phoebe, although they hadn’t traveled in the same crowd. At fifteen the two of them discovered sex. Gita-Rae was boney as hell and flat-chested, but nobody gave a better hand job. Her dirty-sexy looks screamed bedroom. They lost their virginity to each other, though they never touched now. His need for her skills for the Club exceeded her carnal pull.
The Club might not be the main attraction of JPE, but it gave him a bigger thrill than boning Gita-Rae could. Private investment funds didn’t need to be opened to the public, and they weren’t strangled by regulations. No one got in without an invitation. His invitation. Gus told him people whispered about the Club, asking how they could join.
“Any new clients?” Jake called across the room.
“Don’t be so impatient,” Gus said. “I don’t know how you stay on top of the clients you have now.”
“Wake up, Uncle. Now’s the time. Can’t you see dollar bills falling from the sky? It’s like pollen in the spring, leaves in the fall—you only need to sweep up the piles. Everyone’s wallet should be bulging.”
“What goes up must come down, boychik.”
“You think Onassis lives by that weak-sister philosophy?” Jake wiggled his eyebrows.
“Live by his philosophy when you have his bank account.”
“I’m thinking like a wealthy man starting now. Think rich, be rich.”
“Big heads are the first thing to bring men down. The ego takes away your balance, and whomp, you tumble over like Humpty Dumpty.”
Gus might produce clients, but, Jesus, he depressed Jake.
Thank God for Ronnie Gallagher, who lived and died by numbers. Gus had brought the young accountant into the office fresh from school a few months ago. Each week, Jake paid for a few more of Ronnie’s hours to have him report directly to Jake. The kid’s skills were crackerjack. More important, he didn’t spend his time lecturing.
Patience and details weren’t Jake’s strong suit. Worker bees like Ronnie and Gita-Rae took care of the small stuff while he added bricks to his base. Jake planned on being a millionaire before he hit thirty. When the baby came, they’d live in a house, not some crummy apartment, where just by sniffing the air you knew how much garlic Mrs. Lynchowski threw in her soup and whether she served sweet or sour pickles.
Anyplace where your neighbors didn’t hear every time you farted.
Jake read real estate ads the way that some men read girly magazines. He’d already shoved plenty into his secret bank account, earmarked for their house, which he didn’t touch even when he borrowed the money from Red. His father-in-law could afford it.
Jake’s path led straight up, and nothing would stop him.
• • •
A week later, he circled house ads as he drank his first cup of coffee. As Phoebe grew larger, Jake worried. Imagining his future house soothed him. He could draw the place he wanted for his flawless family. Phoebe would bounce right back from her pregnancy—he hated seeing her tight body stretch out. No way would he let a fat wife drag him down. Wrapping his arm around her waist brought him top-notch pleasure. Other guys’ eyes opening a bit wider when they saw his doll of a wife almost gave him a hard-on.
If he expected her to be perfect, he needed to provide the right place. They should have already moved someplace where Phoebe could breathe in sweet fresh air and eat farm-fresh food. He wanted her healthy and happy.
“Is breakfast coming anytime this year?” Jake held up his coffee cup. “I need to be at the office early. I gotta get outta here.”
“You work for you. What are you going to do? Dock your own pay?” Phoebe flipped a piece of French toast.
Egg-soaked challah browning in butter might be the scent of heaven. God, she cooked like a French chef, soaking the bread overnight until the slices expanded to twice their size.
“Did you tell Mira House you’re leaving?” he asked.
Phoebe piled the French toast on a blue plate, ignoring his question.
“Did you?” he repeated.
“There’s no reason for me to quit so fast.” She reached into the fridge for syrup and butter, carrying the bottle of Log Cabin to a pan of hot water.
“No reason? I don’t like the idea of you traveling on the train while you’re pregnant. Especially now, when it’s getting cold and you could end up slipping in the snow.”
“Snow? It’s only October.”
“October in New York. Anything can happen. Sixty degrees today, twenty tomorrow. Plus, you need to be fair to them—the settlement house.”
Phoebe placed the plate before him; it was flanked by the warmed syrup in a china creamer and pats of butter on a small glass dish. “Fair?”
“The more time you give them to find a replacement, the better.” He took her hand. “They’ll be heartbroken, but I need you here.”
When she shook him off, he pointed to her belly. “We both need you. And I got plenty of work to keep you busy but safe.”
Pregnant and working in a slum—Christ, she’d make him look like a loser. How were people going to trust him with their dough if they thought he needed money so badly he sent her to work in a ghetto? Plus, memories of that night in the hospital never left him. If need be, he’d be careful for both of them.
Just shut up and for once do what I tell you. That’s what he would have liked to say.
“I’ll curl up and die from boredom in that dusty office,” Phoebe said. “The two of you yakking about every article in the paper, not to mention having to listen to Uncle Gus’s stupid jokes. It’s torture.”
Torture? His spoiled wife wouldn’t know discomfort unless the devil himself grabbed her by the neck.
“This won’t be for long, honey. I got plans. We’re going to be living someplace fantastic by the time you’re in the delivery room.”
“I’m fine living here,” she said. “I can’t stand being stuck behind an adding machine.”
Pinched, pursed, her face folded into a suspicious expression that mirrored her mother’s—the face Jake hated. Fine. He wouldn’t pressure her anymore on helping at the office. He’d get Gita-Rae to come in an extra day if it meant marching down the street wearing a sandwich board to attract more clients.
“Okay, Pheebs. I don’t want you worrying. Just stop working in that ghetto and concentrate on the baby. I’ll manage the rest.”
• • •
Jake’s phone rang minutes after he stepped into the office.
“All morning it’s been like this,” Gus said.
“Picking it up was too hard for you?”
“Do I look like a secretary?” Gus held up his hands. “You want to be a big shot? Act like one. Hire your girl full-time.”
“I thought you were my girl.” Jake grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“You wish,” Gus said.
“JPE.” Jake stuck up his middle finger. “Jake Pierce speaking.”
“Jakie! Just the guy I wanted. It’s Eli. Eli Rosenberg. Gus’s cousin.”
He wedged the receiver between his chin and shoulder, gestured as though making a writing motion, and then pointed to the receiver, mouthing “Eli.”
Gus threw over a pencil followed by a pad. Eli—Gus’s wife’s cousin—held hot-ticket status. Not only did he invest $15,000 in the Club, but he also brought in three others with as much.
“What can I do for you?”
“Already done, buddy. Heck of a return. Couldn’t be happier.”
Happy? Hell, the man should be ecstatic. Eli and his family realized over 25 percent returns in the Club last year when the S&P 500 did about 16.5 percent—he’d pulled a fucking miracle out for them all, picking winner after winner. Some of his clients needed to be educated to understand just what a big deal that was—beating Standard and Poor’s index of the country’s top companies.
“Glad to hear you’re a s
atisfied customer.”
Finding Dippin’ Donuts just as the company went public placed the huge cherry on the sundae of his ride of perfect picks. Again Jake felt the rush of calling it right, following his hunch that the good old USA was ripe for breakfast on the road. He put everything available into Dippin’ and never regretted the move. Hell, he even bought some for him and Phoebe.
“More than satisfied, big guy. You did it. We’re cashing in on top.”
French toast flipped in his stomach. “What are you, crazy? The ride’s just begun.”
Eli laughed. “I bet lots of people said those words the day before the Crash. Hey, pal, I’m sixty-one. I’m not looking to be Midas. Comfortable works just fine. So thanks, you did well by us. We made money. You made money. Everyone’s happy. Now send us all checks. We’re investing it in a house. A place in the Catskills.”
“Us? Who do you mean by us?”
“The cousins. They’ll be calling later. We’re going in together and buying an empty bungalow colony in Loch Sheldrake. Making it a family place. Four cabins. One for each of us and one for guests. We’ll have a lake, a couple of rowboats. Come up with your pretty wife. Bring the whole mishpocha.”
Fuck him and fuck his mishpocha. Like Jake gave a shit about bringing his family to visit Eli at some pissant farm. He added up Eli’s and the cousins’ profits and almost croaked. Between the four of them, he’d end up paying out close to $150,000. A fucking fortune. You could buy ten houses for that money. This move would bankrupt him.
The Club didn’t come close to having cash like that on hand. When Dippin’ Donuts hit the high-water mark, Jake cashed in to make a killing on another stock, borrowing a little Peter to buy some Paul. He used a personal float once in a while, when hot stuff was ripe for the buy, when his bills were due and it worked—as long as the Club clients didn’t act like assholes.
Jake planned to put it all into the clients’ accounts and keep it neatly zipped, buy all the stocks timely as Big Ben, just as soon as his client base solidified. For now, he moved it in and out. Another year or two, and then he’d have it all under control.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 7