The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  “It’s just… that’s not who you are.” Ricky shook his head minutely.

  “Damned right that’s not who I am.” That wasn’t how Jon would have explained it had Ricky asked. “But what I don’t get is why who I am isn’t enough for you.”

  He wouldn’t press anymore; he couldn’t say another thing without demanding something that Ricky couldn’t or wouldn’t give him, and if he stayed another second without demanding it, he’d either punch Ricky or cry. Or both. He shoved out the bedroom door, past Ricky, whose mouth was hanging open, and fled barefoot for the beach.

  Ricky came outside about twenty minutes later, carrying a fried egg sandwich wrapped in a napkin. “You’re bonking after your run. Here.” Jon put down the stick he’d been using to randomly draw and dig in the sand and accepted the peace offering. “It’s all worse when you’re hungry.”

  Maybe the hollow pangs in his gut weren’t just misery. Jon ripped off a corner of toast, hating that Ricky had a point.

  Ricky sat down in the sand, assuming the same cross-legged position Jon had, and picked up the twig. Jon ate silently, feeling his blood sugar coming back up point by point. He licked his fingers, knowing that he’d lost control of his tongue earlier because of how much his exercise had taken out of him; he’d met other men wearing that expression and kept silent. The encounter with the stranger in the beach house wasn’t the first such, and hadn’t Ricky come as close to declaring his affection as he ever had? Jon had given up the jealous scenes after the first he’d pitched, a year ago, when he hadn’t touched Ricky for a week after and had only seen him in the office in passing.

  “It is,” Jon finally admitted. “But it’s bad enough the rest of the time.”

  “You really hate that I’m not faithful, don’t you?” It wasn’t really a question. Ricky dug the twig deeply into the sand, finding the damp, dark layer under the surface.

  “I try not to push, but yeah. I do.” Jon crumpled the napkin in his hand just for something to destroy. He looked out at the water in the bay, not at Ricky, or he’d need the napkin to wipe his eyes.

  “I don’t know that I can ever be, Jon. Home base with you is as close as I’ve ever gotten.” Ricky smoothed the dry sand over, hiding the damp below. “I won’t make you a promise I can’t keep.”

  “That’s something.” Jon sniffed in spite of himself. “I don’t want broken promises. Or lies.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “No, you’ve been more open than I can stand sometimes.” Ricky had never hidden his adventures, but he’d been more sparing with details after that week’s hiatus. Jon didn’t want to know more than “Did you use condoms?” There’d been a six-week gap and some blood tests before they’d been intimate again the one time Ricky had said no.

  “Jon, what you want and what I want are… aren’t the same. Would you be happier if… if we didn’t see each other?” Ricky’s voice was low, almost lost in the mumble of the surf.

  “Yes.” Ricky jerked around to stare at him. “No.” Jon wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in spite of the warmth of the day, and leaned into Ricky. “I don’t know.”

  The hell of it, Jon thought, with his face buried in Ricky’s neck and their arms tight around each other, fallen backward onto the sand, was that he truly didn’t know.

  “JON, darling, are you awake yet?” The phone had tweeted him to awareness. Jon flipped it open before it could wake Ricky.

  It was ten o’clock, not early if he was alone. This caller had learned to inquire.

  “I am now, Mom.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled his shorts back on, and headed to the back deck.

  “Sorry to wake you, dear. Did I disturb Ricky?”

  “No, he’s still fast asleep.” Trust his mother to be considerate of her “other son.”

  “How was your week?”

  Jon could imagine his mother reclining sideways on the sofa, one of her tiny spaniels perched on her lap and another at her feet, looking out over the green jewel of Central Park.

  “Profitable. The fund made a couple of nice scores.” He sat down in the Adirondack chair but then jumped up again. The deck faced bayside and lay in the shadow of the house; it was still chilly. Jon ambled down the wooden walkway to the sand, where it was warmer.

  “So your tiny little fund is now a tiny bit bigger?”

  “It isn’t that tiny, Mom.” This was an old argument. “Your investment in it has done very, very well. Name one investment that Ben Fleisher put you into that’s up as much.”

  “You’re right, darling, and I shouldn’t tease.”

  Jon wondered if the faint trace of bitterness in her voice, replaced completely by contrition, was prompted by a thwarted brag race at one of her charity functions. No, he wasn’t a rising star at one of the biggest investment banks on Wall Street, nor had he presented her with a litter of grandchildren. He was an established star in a smaller firmament, something that the other Fifth Avenue matrons occasionally found humorous. They generally stopped laughing when they heard how much Wolfe Gorman was up year-to-date and for the life of the fund.

  “None of your cronies have made an investment. Don’t they like the juicy returns as much as you do?” Jon thought he’d prod a little.

  “At least you called them cronies and not crones.”

  “As if I would say such an untrue thing.” His mother and her friends were the best preserved “ladies of a certain age” on the planet; it wasn’t only politeness that dictated his word choice. Though he wouldn’t put an incantation or two past some of them; it might only be the “word in an influential person’s ear” sort, but those tended to be extremely effective. “Seriously, Mom, they’re missing out on the returns, and then the fund wouldn’t be so tiny.”

  “Oh, you know, our old stick-in-the-mud advisors get apoplectic even thinking about the risks a hedge fund takes.” Jon could almost see his mother shooing away the risks with one daintily manicured hand, just from her breezy tone. He didn’t buy it, but he wouldn’t press her. Any one of her friends would overrule her financial advisor if the whim took, especially over sums considered “play money” in those circles and, if apoplexy resulted, would send a tasteful flower arrangement to the hospital.

  “How very fragile of them. We aren’t all LTCM.” In a way, he could understand it; Long Term Capital Management had made hedge funds pariahs after they’d nearly collapsed the world economy with the truly egregious risks they’d run. The Russian bonds were hardly their only risky strategy—their highly leveraged arbitrage and pairs trading had ended with losses in the billions. Wolfe Gorman did nothing that exotic, only bought a mixture of stocks, bonds, and options, but the very name “hedge fund” tarred the firm.

  “Speaking of which, please give Ben a call this week. You really need to get in and see him soon.” His mother had gone serious. “He’ll be the one stroking out if things aren’t organized and arranged well in advance of the trust expiring.”

  “It’s still three months to my birthday, plenty of time for Ben and me to plan.” Jon sat down in the sand and watched the waters glitter over the shallow sand bottoms of the bay. “He’s had a reasonable investment mix all this time. You worry about my birthday cake.”

  “Yes, but he’s all about preservation of capital and you’re all about making more money. Don’t you think you’re going to want some changes?” his mother pursued.

  “Actually, I may want about four million in cash soon.” Jon had spent much of the night thinking of things that would make him happier, and a few of them could be accomplished without Ricky’s input. “I’m thinking about a different apartment. And chocolate cake.”

  “Oh, really?” His mother sounded interested. “You do know that this one will be yours someday.”

  “May that day be far distant, for many reasons.” Jon shuddered. “You and Dad will need it for years to come, I’m sure, and I’m not really the ‘fourteen rooms on Fifth Avenue’ demographic.” The more he thought
about that Art Deco building, the more he yearned to shed the glass and metal building that didn’t really feel like home.

  “You never know. You and Mr. Right could decide to raise a brood—you’ll appreciate the space.” If she hadn’t been pushing her good intentions into his pain, Jon might have appreciated his mother’s kind words more. “I don’t suppose Ricky feels ready for fatherhood yet?”

  “The real question should be ‘Is Ricky Mr. Right?’” The catch in his throat choked the words to a whisper.

  “Oh, dear. Trouble?” His mother was all sympathy. He’d never confessed how open his relationship with Ricky was, knowing that his mother would never understand why he tolerated that. He didn’t exactly understand it himself but believed that part of Ricky’s time and attention was better than none at all. Until now. Now—he didn’t know.

  “Not more than usual.” That was true. He lifted a handful of sand and let it dribble through his fingers. “I’m just asking harder questions.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  “I don’t know what anyone can do, really. Let’s talk about happier things.” Actually, there was a certain humor to the thought of his petite, formidable mother explaining in no uncertain terms to Ricky how he was not to break her darling’s heart. Not that it would help, though Ricky would surely be cowed, at least for a time. But no.

  “Your old friend Davis Willingham is staying with us. It’s good to see him again.”

  That did not count as “happier.” Nor did her next question.

  “Do you ever hear from Spencer?”

  “No, Mom, I don’t.” And if he did, that wouldn’t likely be happy, either.

  “That’s really too bad; you two were so close.” She sighed. “Anyway, you’re still coming for dinner on Monday?”

  This was his chance to beg off, but she sounded so hopeful. “Yes, Mom, as usual.” He’d deal with Davis somehow. “See you tomorrow night.”

  RICKY woke to the slider opening and shutting, and to quiet movement in the kitchen. He rolled over, missing Jon next to him, and wondered what his lover was thinking. They’d gone out to a movie, walking into Cherry Grove to do it and finding a drink after, but Jon had flinched slightly every time someone had come to talk with them. That had included friends, not just the casually interested and a few that had been “very interested” at other times. Ricky had called it a night early, and they’d gone home to bed.

  Jon had been extraordinarily ardent, and the edge of desperation in their lovemaking had made Ricky grateful for the last orgasms and the chance to turn over and away from Jon’s face. Once he was sure Jon was asleep, he’d wormed out from under the arm thrown over his chest and wiggled to the edge of the bed.

  One-night stands didn’t get the chance to make demands.

  Jon wasn’t making demands.

  He was trying to show how very, very good it would be to be Ricky’s one and only.

  And if Ricky wanted a one and only, it would be Jon.

  But he didn’t.

  Did he?

  The ferry ride back to Long Island was quiet, and the train ride into Manhattan quieter yet. They changed trains, and when drawing near to the 51st and Lexington stop, Jon asked, “Are you coming with me?”

  Not “Are you going home?”

  Jon knew him well. He knew Jon too. “No, I’m going to take my well-used ass home and put it in the tub. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” He didn’t lie to Jon, and the relief that Jon couldn’t quite hide made him both glad he’d answered honestly and angry that he’d felt the need to explain himself.

  He kissed Jon goodbye in the subway station and rode on to his own stop thinking about what Jon wanted. He could go home, soak, and then change his mind and go to the club anyway.

  So Ricky told himself again, floating in the warm water that soothed the small bruises and tired muscles that Jon had left him with. So he told himself again, opting for a pair of underwear that cupped his balls and showcased his ass, and drew the light blanket over his legs to ward off the breeze from the air conditioner.

  He could have anyone he wanted, he told himself, turning off the lights, and he wanted them all, once.

  Ricky came partway to consciousness in the night, wondering why there was no small sound of breathing beside him and trying to wrap his arm around someone who wasn’t there.

  Chapter Seven

  “ANY changes from Friday?” Edgar inquired of the assembled staff. “No? Out, Dr. Iggy.” A quantitative analyst from the huge fund down the hall looked up from the Bloomberg where he leaned over Dwight’s shoulder, reading. Edgar made a shooing motion; information that the quant took back to his employer could totally spoil Wolfe Gorman’s projects. Araucaria Hedge controlled two hundred times Wolfe Gorman’s capital and could get into anything they liked. Iggy shot out the door. “Ricky? Have you decided on Logan’s project yet?”

  “More research.” Ricky didn’t look up from the doodle on his piece of paper to answer.

  “Kate? Closing out those shorts?”

  “Soon, Edgar. Don’t wet yourself.” Kate had one eye on the Bloomberg monitor on the desk, playing split screens with the sound off. Jon wondered what she was looking for.

  “Jon? What did you and Dwight decide?”

  “More research. Could be big.” Jon was actually thinking that he’d find more opportunities to make some money out of Dwight’s concerns than he had trading capital to finance. If Ricky was looking at Lasker Builders, he might want to pile into this project.

  “And Orewatt?”

  “Once Dwight and I decide what we’re doing, I’ll liquidate that, but in the meantime, it isn’t going anywhere but down, and we don’t want to leave money on the table, do we?” Jon could probably ride Orewatt almost to zero, but not if other opportunities beckoned. He did shoot a glance over to Ricky, whose eyes were full of the certainty that he’d be bent over the brocade couch before the ink on the transaction had dried.

  “Then trade wisely, boys and girls.” Edgar offered his morning benediction, followed by his morning curse. “Dwight, a moment of your time?”

  No escape twice running, Jon thought sadly, watching the young man follow their boss. If he had some sort of leverage to use, Jon would put a stop to Edgar’s predations. He hadn’t found anything that worked, short of warning off the potential hire, something he hadn’t had the opportunity to do more than once. No HR department, no one strong enough to take Edgar on, not even his partner, who was once again off on a “due dilly” trip, meant that the man could indulge in the tender young brainiacs he’d hired. Jon tried to tell himself that these were all big boys and girls and knew what they’d signed on for. Edgar had never approached him, and a good thing too, or Jon would abruptly have a new career as a trust fund baby, though he wasn’t ready to make that career change on someone else’s behalf.

  After the interesting time he’d had finding this job, Jon had no illusions about working for a bigger firm. Even his father had been unable to find out why Jon had been turned down by every major outfit and a good few of the minor ones. It wasn’t his credentials; his trading department had been profitable at his last job, or maybe it was his credentials, because the name of his last employer was now a hissing and a scandal. Some of its top executives were currently on trial, on charges one had pooh-poohed as “being guilty of too much innovation.”

  Time to see what innovations WideWest Financial was concocting. Jon headed to his office, ready to dive into the stacks of paper Dwight had left there earlier.

  “Where do we start, Dwight?” Jon didn’t comment on Dwight’s expression when he finally came in—he wouldn’t embarrass the young man by even looking up from the 10Q report he’d picked up, as good a place to start as any in this morass.

  “I’m looking for trouble in the pipeline, Jon, and I’m not sure where it will hit first. The ABX, the Asset-Backed Securities Index, hasn’t twitched in, oh, a year or more. I didn’t go back farther
than that. It’s been trading at par.” Dwight opened a laptop and balanced it on his knees, tapping away at the keys.

  “We really need to get a table in here.” Jon found a pull-out shelf on his desk and let Dwight set the computer down. “Then those big mortgage-backed bonds have been going for full price. If the ABX moves, we’ll know that’s changed. Who’s been rating those?”

  “Moody’s, Standard and Poor’s, all the big guys.”

  “Did they even think about those interest resets?” A rhetorical question, but to Jon, a basic one. “Do we know the current default rate on mortgages?”

  “Um, no. Um, not yet.” Dwight made a note. “I’ll get that. Maybe they saw the resets as more revenue and didn’t think about what it would do to grocery budgets.”

  “There’s a lot of stuff on Wall Street that’s too convoluted to decipher without a couple days and a magnifying glass, but basing good credit for bonds on people with marginal credit for loans isn’t one of them.” Jon could scoff; his previous job experience had involved some of those impenetrable products. “NINJA indeed. I’ll set this to track the ABX.” He fiddled with the controls on the Bloomberg terminal, and a small window materialized in the lower right corner of the screen, showing a tiny graph featuring a flat line.

  “Okay, rolling backwards from the bond itself, who’s originating the loans?” Jon thought that might be fertile hunting grounds. He grabbed a legal pad to make notes.

  “A lot of players there, enough to give everyone in the US two or three loans if they maintain the current growth patterns.” Dwight handed Jon a sheaf of papers. “Which they can’t, of course, but the prices for the stocks would make you think so. These are some of the biggest: WideWest, the one we looked at on Friday, NovaFin, AllyStar, Corax Financial, Galacta Lending, ClearFuture Mortgage… NovaFin’s paying a 10 percent dividend.”

  “Wow.” Insurance companies and drug companies didn’t pay dividends that big. “That’ll push up the stock price.”