“Hey, I’m not the one rearranging boxes.”
“No. You’re the one who throws hissy fits like a little girl when things aren’t perfect,” she wisecracked.
“Ah, who else could boost my ego like you?”
“What can we do for you, boss?” Charlie asked.
“I need the box with the Encyclopedia of Economic Models. Find both sets: part one and part two. Leather bound.”
“Beautification project?” Gita-Rae asked.
“Not the point,” Charlie said. “What you show is who you are. Who you become.”
“Suck-up. Watch out. Jake will measure the inches our chairs are from our desks if we let him.” Gita-Rae used a garish orange letter opener pockmarked with fake rhinestones to open a box marked “Jake’s Books.”
“I leave you alone, don’t I?” Jake said.
“Only because our space is off-limits to anyone and everyone.”
True. No way he’d allow that ugly thing that she held to be seen in the brokerage area. After putting up with the dust, overflowing trash and filthy bathroom at Gus’s, along with the subway soot floating in, Jake’s offices would be a showplace. Only deep black and pure white would be allowed, mixing in some steel grey like Phoebe wanted. As much as Jake hated to admit it, her eye was sharper than his.
“So find the books, but first—” Jake considered how much to say in front of Charlie. “First we need to get the statement material ready. Between new clients and moving, we’re gonna be squeezed.”
Gita-Rae nodded, stealing a glance at Charlie before responding. “It’s getting to be more than a one-woman job.”
“What about your assistant? Nanci with the i?”
“She types what I give her. It’s not like she has a brain.”
“So you hired someone brainless?”
“I hired a terrific typist who’s smart enough to do what I tell her and dumb enough to not care what she does. Money’s all she wants.”
Everything had a price tag, including blindness. People like Nanci, Gita-Rae, and Charlie? Jake guaranteed they’d never leave. Nobody would pay them like he did.
“Can Charlie help?” Jake asked.
Charlie stepped forward. “Whatever you need, boss.”
“We’re gonna need more time from Vic,” Gita-Rae said. “I can’t keep up with pricing everything.”
“I thought Vic helped you already.” Jake cocked his head. “You been bullshitting me?”
Her answer—a deep cigarette laugh—irritated him.
“What? I’m funny?”
“Boss, I wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to bullshit you. I’m just happy if I can keep in check. I just didn’t want to overstep with Vic. Give him too much Club work.” She glanced over at Charlie. “I keep everything on a need-to-know basis, just like you want.”
“Send him to me,” Jake said. “We’ll talk.”
He left without another word. God bless Gita-Rae. She knew him. His business motto contained one simple sentence: “No one knows everything.”
Except him. And only one balance of power worked: him on top.
How long since he had really made any buy for the Club? Three months? Four? Soon every penny would be in order, but at the moment, his bills devoured him, and he needed every new client’s money just to keep afloat. The brokerage did well, but not well enough that he caught up with all the bills. Their gorgeous house sucked out more money every day. Georgia forgot to mention how sea breezes brought wood rot along with the scent of salt, or how many people it took to landscape a spread like theirs. The cars he needed to impress. The memberships.
Only fresh client money could feed the gaping maws of his business and life, but fuck it—rules didn’t grow an empire. Who else but Jake Pierce kept everyone’s portfolio going during three years of a bear market? Word of mouth spread plenty when the whispers said that the Club’s returns held when the Dow fell 36 percent. But Jake woke at two, three, four in the morning, adding numbers, smacked by the gargantuan figure he’d need to get everything straight and to buy the stocks and bonds listed as already bought.
He kept a secret ledger—written in code—with every stock trade he purported to have made, numbers that Gita-Rae gave him. As the numbers added up, the mountain of money necessary for client payouts became higher.
His glee at the thought of arranging books on his shelves dissipated as he opened his office door. After placing the pile on his desk, he reached in his pocket for the ever-present Rolaids to calm his sour jitters. Then he rummaged in the back of the top drawer for a pack of M&M’s.
He made sure the brokerage stayed 100 percent on the level. The feds only kept watch on that end of the business. The Club, which he ran as a private group, might as well use Monopoly money as far as how much they looked. Not that it mattered. In just a month or two, everything would be on the level. The market would work for him. What went down must come up. As long as he tracked it, he’d be okay. Reality would match his numbers. At that point he could fold the Club.
This whole setup was temporary. As soon as Jake had enough stashed away to make sure his little girl—and the son he knew would follow—never wanted for anything, and he could look out for his parents, get them out of that awful apartment and buy them a decent car, and ensure that Phoebe could stay home and take care of the kids just like her mother did, then he’d be satisfied. He’d get more clients while he also made killer buys in the market. Solomon could help figure out what was hot.
He had to keep his reputation—the greatest juggler, the perfect stock picker—intact.
Jake closed his eyes and pictured the Club straightened out with all the books in order. The imagined perfection calmed his heart. All he needed was a little time and some rest.
• • •
That night, he tiptoed into his baby girl’s room to make sure she was breathing. He guessed all parents did that once in a while, even when their baby was almost two—like Katie. They always seemed younger when they slept.
He’d look at her tiny back moving up and down and feel his heart crack down the middle. Nobody ever prepared him for the sucker punch of love you felt every time you saw your kid sleeping. Sometimes she’d wake. When she did, she never cried—she smiled and lifted her arms to him. He’d swing her up easy as peeling a banana. She’d hold on like a koala, as though he were her world.
Sometimes, like tonight, he absolutely needed to hold Katie, even knowing that Phoebe would have his head for rousing her. He slipped his hands under her, her body warm under the Dr. Denton footed sleeper. Phoebe and Deb called them footies, and, truly, there was nothing in this world better than the sight of his Katie and her cousin Charlotte in their footies, running down the long hallway and out to the deck to stare at the ocean water lapping in the Long Island Sound. At that moment, it felt as though Jake had personally invented the sea for his family and then conjured up the moon to make shadows dance on the black water.
Katie settled her head into the crook of his neck, her soft curls tickling his nose. He carried her into the bedroom, where Phoebe slept, and laid his daughter next to his wife. The two of them found each other like kittens as they slept, Phoebe curling around Katie.
Jake washed up and put on his pajamas. He climbed in, and between him and Phoebe, they made a Katie sandwich. His wife opened her crystalline blue eyes and, after shaking her head in the tradition of wives everywhere—Oh, Jake—she reached over Katie and stroked his arm.
“She’s beautiful, right?” Jake kissed the top of Katie’s head, inhaling her milky smell, feeling as though he’d fight an army to protect her. “I mean, all babies are cute, I guess, but she’s extraordinary.”
“All parents think that about their kids,” Phoebe whispered. “Especially when they’re asleep.” She ran a finger over Katie’s curls and then took Jake’s hand. “But yes, she’s very special.”
“My girls,” he said. “My two extraordinary girls.”
CHAPTER 11
Phoebe
“Play!” Katie’s piercing voice drilled into Phoebe. “Play now!”
She took a long breath before answering her daughter. God likely wired two-year-olds with grating voices so that parents couldn’t ignore them, and then added shots of big-eyed lovability to prevent those same parents from throwing them into traffic.
“Lower your voice, honey,” Phoebe said. “Mommy needs to get dressed, but if you’re a good girl I’ll let you play with something special.” Phoebe handed Katie a powder puff and a closed lipstick cylinder, confident Katie didn’t possess the motor skills to uncap the tube. “Pretend you’re going to a party. Just like Mommy.”
Katie grabbed the forbidden treasure and then raced away, crouching from view so the prizes wouldn’t be taken from her. Phoebe had to finish dolling up before Jake rushed in—her babysitting mother in tow—ready to take a three-minute shower, step into a fresh suit, and leave.
“Katie pretty, Mama?” She fluffed whatever particles of powder remained on the puff over her face and made a moue of her lips.
Apple.
Tree.
Katie.
Phoebe.
“You’re the smartest, strongest little girl in the world.” She and her still-best-friend, Helen, prayed that their daughters might grow up with a greater lust for doctorates than wedding rings. Jake rolled his eyes at the tiny trucks and sturdy blocks Phoebe bought, but she wanted her girl to reach for everything.
Katie stamped her foot as she continued tugging at the lipstick cap.
“Say ‘pretty,’ Mama!” Katie imitated Jake’s stubborn inflection down to a frightening degree. “Katie is pretty!”
“Yes. You’re pretty. More important, you’re smart, and you’re strong.”
Katie shook her head as though educating her mother had become a full-time job. Phoebe resumed matching her face to a recent Vogue cover, trying for a similar wash of a monochromatic complexion contrasting with focused drama on the eyes.
Left to her own devices, she went for simplicity, but Jake insisted she “gussy up” when they went fishing for clients—an expression she despised. Each time he said the words, her lips curled in till she felt the blood leave, imagining herself a sharp-hooked liar reeling in a guppy.
Phoebe assured her husband daily that she understood the psychology he used to grow the Club side of JPE. At first, she’d been insecure about her ability to follow his orders, but he reminded her that they were creating a family business. Doing her share meant building interest for him. He’d schooled her in how to present the Club: always talk about JPE in a sideways manner, subtly working the conversation to the topic—as though the words popped out despite yourself. Eventually, she had not only gotten good at the game but also enjoyed her performance.
“Jake hates when I reveal anything about his sideline,” she’d murmur. “He does love the science of investment. Sometimes I think the Club’s more for him than anyone else—he finds the work fascinating, playing around with formulas and strategies he’s devised. He won’t even tell me the details. He calls it using the Pierce Principles for his secret sauce.”
Followed by:
“Don’t mention investing to Jake. He won’t talk about the fund, he only does—”
At this stage in the conversation, Jake mandated shaking her head as though discouraging them.
“Look, it’s better if you just give me your phone number, and I’ll have his girl get in touch if you really want. Trust me, he’s not going to talk to you directly about this,” she’d say. “Anything else—he loves talking about boats since we moved to the ocean—but not this. You’ll hear from his girl, and she’ll give you a yes or a no.
“Just between us? Sometimes I think the decision is all about what mood he’s in when she approaches him.”
The “girl” translated to Gita-Rae, and what she did with the information, Phoebe didn’t know or care. Supposedly, Phoebe’s routine increased the client base mightily, and in the end, her act helped everyone:
Jake got more clients.
The Club made more money.
Clients benefited from Jake’s principles.
Nobody lost money with the Club. Steady soup beat a sizzling pan every time, Jake said.
“Bring Mommy the lipstick, honey.” Phoebe examined herself. She’d rimmed her eyes in deep chocolate, separated her lashes into fans of black with tips of gold, and burnished her skin with illuminators until her complexion appeared suffused with pale incandescence. Still, no matter how lovely the effect, she doubted the result was worth an hour of her time or wrestling with Katie.
“No,” Katie said. “Mine.”
“No, honey. Not yours. Mine.” She leaned in closer to the mirror and shook her head. Sparkly gold earrings reflected her shine. Phoebe practiced a sensuous smile, appreciating her sexy image. Black waves spilled over one shoulder; she’d grown out her Jackie O bouffant. Too bad they weren’t going to a hotel instead of the country club.
When she listened to her friends, Phoebe realized she didn’t have much company in her attitude toward the bedroom. Just last week, Helen had admitted that between her daughter’s constant demands and working, she never felt like having sex. Not Phoebe. Jake’s success excited her, which in turn frightened her. She saw how his stupid crooked grin attracted women; how they brushed up against him. The aura of money drew them.
“Give me the lipstick, Katie. Now!”
Katie threw the heavy tube, hitting Phoebe in the thigh. Yes, two-year-olds had been put on this earth to test you.
Thank God for her mother providing breaks as often as she did. Lola might drive Phoebe nuts, but Jake and Phoebe trusted that Katie would live through the hours spent with Grandma Lola. The child’s safety with Jake’s mother? Not such a given. The last time they had left Katie with Nan, they had returned to find his mother sprawled out asleep in front of Johnny Carson while Katie rearranged cigarette butts in the ashtray.
They’d never invited Grandma Nan to babysit again, limiting her time with Katie to family functions—all of which were now held at their house.
Because they had the biggest house.
Because they had the water view.
Because being in Brooklyn depressed Jake.
Helen’s mother’s funeral had been their last trip back together, with Jake’s attendance in question until the last minute. Phoebe had been ready to take the train and drop Katie at Lola’s house, but after finding out how many of the old crowd would show up, Jake decided to go.
She’d like to think Jake wanted to please her, but driving down the Hutchinson River Parkway, he’d instructed her, once again, on dropping hints about the Club.
• • •
“Guess what he talked about the whole drive?” Her mother stood in her hallmark inquisition pose, arms crossed over her chest with her chin thrust out.
“Murder? Mayhem? Sex? Tell me, Mom. What offended you?” Phoebe glanced up the stairs, anxious for Jake’s appearance.
At what point would her mother be proud of Phoebe’s choices? Dear Lord, they stood in a house on the fucking water. Neither she nor Jake had passed the age of thirty, and they had the money to spend for a Tabatabai Tabriz rug in their huge family room. For Lola’s last birthday, Phoebe and Jake had given her an Ebel watch.
“Be careful with that tone, missy. Someday you’ll be on the other side, and that voice will bounce right back at you.” Her mother tipped her head toward the living room. “God and your daughter are listening.”
“God should worry about more than my jokes.”
“Trust me, he worries. About everything and everyone, including your husband. All Jake talked about during the ride—with me stuck in the backseat while his buddy sat up front like a king—was who owned what boat and who had a driver and who bought what house.”
The “buddy” was Ollie Howard. He and his wife—not Phoebe’s best friend, by any measure—lived next door. Of course, “next door” in Greenwich hardly meant sugar-borrow
ing close.
“Plus, he made me take the train from Brooklyn to his office.”
“So you said. Twice. He offered to pay for a cab, Mom.”
“What? Your father and I can’t afford a taxi?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? A son-in-law looks out for his mother-in-law. You think Daddy would ask Grandma—may she rest in peace—to schlep into Manhattan by train? Or to take a filthy taxi with some stranger yakking at her the whole way?”
Phoebe put on a concerned expression as she waited for her mother’s motor to run down.
“What kind of men cackle over boats like women over jewelry?” Lola touched her fingers to her temples as though trying to contain her shock at the men’s antics.
“I very much doubt Ollie or Jake cackled.” Phoebe took hold of the banister and once again glanced up the stairs.
“Oh, trust me. They cackled like witches. Your husband has you wrapped up like a mummy. Jake said this! Jake did that! Did you start your knippel? Must I remind you every week?”
“Again with the knippel. Does it seem like I need to hide cash?” Phoebe gestured around the house, sweeping in the oversized windows highlighting the view. The foyer where they stood could fit Deb’s Brooklyn kitchen, dining room, and living room. Why did her mother think she needed to keep a cache of money like an old woman in a shtetl?
Phoebe’s mother kept her own knippel in an old white pot on top of the cabinets. She’d showed the girls her hiding spot at the same time she whispered the secret passed down from mother to daughter each generation. Deb had been sixteen at the time, Phoebe fourteen, when they learned about the custom of women keeping a secret stash of money.
“Listen to me,” Mom had said. “You know I love Daddy.”
But? Mom’s wisdom was usually prefaced with a but.
“Daddy’s a good man—the best man—but he trusts everyone too much,” she said. “I worry about you girls. You need to keep your eyes open. Don’t be a schlemiel.”
The implication being that Daddy was a schlemiel and people took advantage of him. Deb and Phoebe would nod—unwilling to risk their mother’s cutting remarks—and then go in their room and pinky swear that they’d never be pinched and distrustful like that. They wouldn’t knock down their husbands or roll their eyes behind their backs.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 10