Murder in the North Tower

by Greg Smith

 

  Oak knew Aleks was hooked the moment they walked through the doors of Stratton Oakmont. It was The Pit all over again. Only more frenzied. S/O had an overpowering intensity of its own. An unrelenting energy. The pandemonium was a life unto itself. It had a relentless pulse. A unique rhythm and tempo.

  More than a hundred people were talking into headsets or phones. Most were standing, pacing as they talked. Some were screaming. They were divided into two groups. Distinguished by the way they dressed. And by their demeanor. Those toward the front sported Hugo Boss and Armani suits. Their hair was slicked back. Very Gordon Gekko-like. Behind them were guys wearing Van Heusen shirts and ties. No suit coats. They were beginners. Lacking that air of confidence the suits brandished.

  The entire scene exuded youthful enthusiasm. Aggressive resolve.

  Aleks was immediately seduced.

  Oak wasn’t wrong about his tall friend. Aleks was good. He became exceptionally adept at using the scripts provided to wheedle funds out of unsuspecting clients. Excelled at going off script. Amending the scripts. Making them more effective. More persuasive. Creating credible storylines. Ironclad rebuttals.

  He earned $50,000 his first month.

  Aleks didn’t buy into the Stratton Oakmont cult as completely as Oak, however. While he loved the action, the money, he thought Porush’s motivating tactics were juvenile at best. Pure harassment at their worst. He watched as others vacillated with their leaders’ moods. Rallying around them like frat boys when they were delighted. Cowering like school girls under Porush’s beratings when he was incensed.

  Belfort was revered. Held in god-like esteem. He worked behind the scenes. Used Porush and others as his bullies. None of their demeaning tactics affected Aleks. He never gave the whacked out Porush any reason to insult him or humiliate him in staff meetings. In fact, Aleks stepped onto the fast track almost immediately, was invited into Porush’s inner circle within weeks.

  At first, he was able to avoid the drugs. The women. The debauchery that defined Stratton Oakmont. As long as he was closing, bringing in money, he was allowed to operate rogue-style. Results were all that mattered. The end always justifying the means. And the end was always the same. Stratton Oakmont’s single, overriding tenant was a simple one. Close the deal. Coming in a close second: reap the rewards. Excess in excess.

  Aleks was quickly making a tremendous amount of money. Unlike the other brokers, he didn’t squander his earnings foolishly. Young, impulsive, most S/O operatives were spendthrifts who impudently wasted every dime they made on drugs, fancy clothes, fast cars. Faster woman.

  Aleks was smart with his money. He spent a portion of his earnings to dress the part of the successful broker. Canali and Armani suits. Valentino ties. Bruno Magli, Gucci and Ferragamo shoes. Gucci belts. Cartier watches. He wanted to dress the part. He’d always admired the stylishness of the Gordon Gekko character in the movie Wall Street. Had coveted Gekko’s panache. Living it was even better than he’d imagined.

  He was able to pay off their parents’ mortgage, set up a budget to pay off his, and Step’s, student loans. He wisely handed any remaining funds over to Step to invest. He didn’t trust himself. Knew he’d be tempted by one of S/O’s “sure things.”

  Step, meanwhile, was immersed in the Merrill Lynch methodology. The tortoise to O/S’s hare. He wasn’t bringing in anywhere near the kind of money Aleks was making. However, because he didn’t have the expenses Aleks had, he was still able to match his brother’s investment dollar for dollar. Their joint account was the nest egg the brothers needed to establish their own business. Step made certain they kept on target with their five-year agenda. That they remained on track to launch their own business by the age of thirty.

  Despite the incredible monetary incentive, he wondered how his brash brother could continue working for a place like S/O. The company’s methods were suspect. The firm and its founders were on the NASD’s radar. And his brother’s work habits certainly weren’t healthy for his relationship with Jill.

  Two months in, Aleks had passed up the trip to Hawaii on a private jet full of Gina girls in favor of a Porche 911. His bonus for hitting the goal Oak had failed to achieve. $100,000 in sales in just three days. Jill refused to accept the car as a gift, believed it was ridiculously over-the-top. Aleks tried to explain that Porches were what the poorer S/O agents drove.

  “You should see the parking lot at this place, babe. Porches and Beamers are like Fords. These guys drive Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis! One guy paid over a million dollars for his car. Can you imagine? A million dollars for a car?”

  “Is it legal, what you’re doing?” Jill asked.

  Aleks dismissed her apprehension.

  “Oh, the NASD is always snooping around. They’re like fucking Nazis. Hey, as long as my paychecks clear, I’m fine working for Jordan. They wouldn’t come after me anyway. Authorities always cut off the head of the snake. Jordan and Danny are the top dogs.”

  Jill bit her lip. Aleks knew her well enough to know she didn’t totally approve of what he was doing.

  “Look, this is only temporary. I’m only doing it to get us on solid financial ground. Once Step and I are set up, I’ll bail on S/O. We can get married.”

  In the end, Jill relented.

  “I trust you, Aleks. I’ve always trusted you to do the right thing.”

  Once he’d accepted membership into Porush’s inner circle, Aleks could no longer avoid the drugs. Or the women. Participation came with the territory. It was an effective way of ensuring loyalty, allegiance. It began with a few toots of cocaine. Evolved into daily use of Quaaludes. The Lemon 714s Oak was so fond of. They took away any hint of weakness. Kept him aggressive. Cocky. Arrogant with his clients.

  Stratton Oakmont was a powerful tsunami. An unstoppable force. The atmosphere there was cultish. And Aleks was zealous about his membership. He rode the wave of success for another year.

  Until the rug was pulled out from under his feet one cold December evening.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 32

 

  Tuesday, October 9: Day 28 post-9/11

  The stranger opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling momentarily before sitting up. He was in a bed in a room that seemed vaguely familiar. Though he didn’t know exactly where he was. He got out of the bed, went into the adjoining bathroom, peed, washed his hands. He wondered why he didn’t recognize the bearded man looking back at him from the mirror. Wondered why he didn’t know his own name.

  He brushed his teeth, undressed to shower, noticed a tattoo on his forearm. Something else to wonder about. After showering, he dressed, sat on the bed. He felt as though he was waiting for something. He had no idea what it could be. He had a strong urge to find a television. But didn’t know what he’d watch. He opened the bedroom door, walked down the hallway to another room, where he found a recliner positioned in front of a television console. Easing into the chair, he felt an immediate sense of comfort. He turned the television on, was instantly shocked and dismayed by what he saw.

  An enormous pile of rubble. People and equipment working to move the debris. Digging. Sifting. Searching. Conveyor lines of people moving buckets filled with minute portions of the waste. Trucks and cranes lifting out huge sections. Shattered concrete hanging like tattered skin. Jagged I-beams and rebar protruding like fractured bones. Cable and wiring splayed like severed arteries.

  The crawl scrolling across the bottom of the screen stunned him.

  “Ground Zero. Site of the World Trade Center. Tuesday, October 9, 2001.”

  He stared open-mouthed. Uncomprehending. Alarmed.

  What the hell? Where are the…?

  He continued to gape as the news broadcast showed the Twin Towers burning, collapsing as though they had no structural support. It took only a few seconds for each Tower to crumble to the ground.

  A woman’s voice interrupted him.

&n
bsp; “There you are. Good morning, Ewan.”

  The stranger turned away from the television to identify the speaker. The dark-haired woman standing in the doorway looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think of her name, didn’t know who she was to him. He returned his attention to the television.

  “What happened? To the Twin Towers?”

  A flash-flood of disappointment washed over Nadia’s face.

  Four weeks now, she thought. Twenty-eight days. Still no memory. It’s as if none of those days ever happened.

  “They were destroyed. By terrorists. They hijacked planes. Crashed one into each Tower. Both Towers collapsed. It was horrible.”

  The tall man didn’t understand how the Towers could just be gone. He spoke without looking away from the TV screen.

  “Whuh…when did all this happen?”

  Nadia took a deep breath before answering.

  “The attacks were on September 11th. A Tuesday morning just like this. The same morning you came to me. Exactly four weeks ago today.”

  Four weeks ago?

  “Are we…are we at war?” the stranger asked, wondering why he didn’t know the answer. “Is America at war?”

  Nadia shook her head.

  “No. It was an isolated terrorist attack, Ewan. All the terrorists died when the planes crashed.” She paused. “They also crashed a plane into the Pentagon. And a fourth plane crashed somewhere in a field in Pennsylvania.” Again she paused. “It all happened in one day.”

  The stranger gaped at her.

  Four planes. Four attacks. Four weeks ago?

  “The Pentagon was attacked? And we’re not at war?”

  He found that almost as incredulous as the Twin Towers tumbling down.

  “U. S. troops invaded Afghanistan two days ago,” the woman said. “They’re calling it a war on terrorism. Officially, though, America is not at war.”

  Questions were bouncing around inside the stranger’s head like lottery balls inside an air mix chamber. Where was he? Why was he there? How had he gotten there? Who was this woman?

  Nadia could see the usual confusion on the tall stranger’s face as he considered his situation. She patiently began her morning litany.

  Though her daily narration was pretty much the same each morning, the stranger’s response had evolved. At first, he’d received the information catatonically. As his condition improved, he’d begun asking questions, initially asking the same ones repeatedly. Where was he? What had happened to him? Who was she? Who was Griggor? Why wasn’t he in a hospital? Recently, he’d gotten to the point where he’d mull over her answers, connect some of the dots himself. Still, Nadia found it incredulous that the stranger’s memory was wiped clean each night. Like writing on a chalkboard that gets erased after class. Every morning, he started over with a blank slate.

  The stranger heard her out, listened carefully, finally spoke.

  “You said I came to you. What do you mean by that? If we’re strangers. If we don’t know each other. Why would I come here? To you?”

  “You were wandering in the street. You were injured. I took you in,” Nadia repeated.

  “So…I didn’t seek you out. I didn’t come to you specifically.”

  Nadia simply smiled, raised her eyebrows slightly. As though the distinction was inconsequential.

  “We don’t know each other, right? You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?”

  “No, Ewan. I don’t know you. We’d never met. You were hurt. I helped you.”

  The stranger deliberated momentarily.

  “What happened to me? Was I hurt in those attacks?”

  He tilted his head toward the television.

  “No. You came to me before all that. Before the first plane hit. I thought you might have been mugged. By negri.”

  “Negry? Who’s Negry? Why would he attack me?”

  “Not ‘he.’ ‘They.’ Negri means blacks, Ewan. Nih…Negroes. It’s a Romanian word.”

  She almost dropped an n-bomb, the stranger realized. She doesn’t like them. Maybe she was robbed. Even so…

  “Why do you… Do you speak Romanian? Are you Romanian?”

  “Yes, Ewan,” Nadia responded proudly. “I came here to New York City as a child. With my bunica…my grandmother.”

  As a child. That’s why she has no accent.

  “I really don’t speak much Romanian any more. But I understand it. I still use a few Romanian words. Griggor keeps me sharp. He uses quite a few.”

  “Griggor?”

  “I’ve told you about Griggor. He’s…like an uncle to me. He stitched you up. He was a doctor in Romania. He runs a clinic here. He gives free medical care. To the…needy.”

  Sensing the dark-haired woman’s disapproval of Dr. Griggor’s clinic, the stranger reflected that by “needy,” the woman had meant “negri.” He had a vague recollection of a bearded, older man who always carried a satchel, was always asking him questions, spoke with a strange accent. The man made him uneasy.

  “Griggor visits you every day, Ewan. He’ll be here later this evening.”

  That name she kept calling him bothered him. He didn’t like the sound of it at all. It didn’t feel like something he owned.

  “Please, don’t call me that. It’s…it’s not my name.”

  Nadia seemed surprised by his request.

  “Have you remembered your name?” she asked.

  The stranger opened his mouth to answer, was surprised his own name didn’t automatically leap from his lips. A puzzled look crossed his face.

  What is my name? Why can’t I remember?

  “No,” he answered, embarrassed that he didn’t know even the basest of information about himself.

  Nadia had hoped the man might surprise her. She would have lingered. Would have spoken with the stranger all morning. If things had been different. If he’d shown any signs of improvement. If this morning promised anything beyond the same broken record of the previous morning. The morning before that.

  She’d recited her mantra. She needed to make him breakfast. Then get ready for Madam Magda’s first reading of the day.

  “Well. Let me go make your breakfast. You’ll find a television in the room at the end of the hall.”

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  He was walking down a crowded corridor. Surrounded by young teens. He was in a high school hallway. Changing classes. Someone shouted, “Aleks!” He kept walking. He heard the name again. “Hey! Aleks!” He turned. He was taller than most of the other teens, could see over their heads. A young girl was standing on a stairway in the distance. She waved at him. “Aleks!” she called again, smiling cheerfully.

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  He opened his eyes, stared at the dark-haired gypsy woman standing in the doorway holding a tray of food. He spoke matter-of-factly. As though making a statement that was irrefutable.

  “My name is Alex.”

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 33

 

  “That was the most amazing experience of my life! Hands down. Thank you so much, Aleks! I loved it! I love you!”

  Jill hugged Aleks’s arm as they made their way through the crowd at the Majestic Theater. They’d just attended a sold-out performance of The Phantom of the Opera. Her eyes sparkled with delight, her smile dazzled.

  “You can thank Stratton Oakmont,” Aleks replied. “Perks of the job, babe.”

  “I can’t believe I got to see that. Michael Crawford and Sarah Brighteman were sensational. They were…scintillating!”

  “Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day.”

  He loved seeing the girl he planned to marry on Cloud Nine.

  “She’s Lloyd Webber’s wife, you know!” Jill said.

  They’d made it to street level, were headed east on 44th. Toward Seventh Avenue. It was a brisk evening. Not frigid. Jill wanted to walk to Times Square. Bask in the euphoria of the evening out.

  It was Aleks who suggested they follow t
he handful of people cutting through Shubert Alley. Most on their way to Junior’s for a bite to eat, he assumed.

  The car came out of nowhere. Careening around the corner. Bouncing off a curb. Riding up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered like roaches.

  Aleks and Jill both turned at the sound of the screeching tires. The revving engine.

  The Ferrari F40 bore down on them.

  And nothing would ever be the same.

  Jill had taken the brunt of the impact. Was killed instantly, according to Dr. Cameron, the ER doctor who’d pronounced her dead on arrival at St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital. Aleks had been knocked unconscious. When his head smacked the brick side of a building as he’d sprung out of the way. A witness told police the tall man’s reactions had been unusually quick. Witnesses also told police the man’s female companion had been pinned against the red Ferrari’s hood and grill. Until the car skidded to a stop some twenty feet later. Depositing her limp body onto the pavement. The car had then squealed in reverse several feet, before accelerating around her, speeding away. A couple of witnesses had gotten a good look at the driver.

  Afterward, Aleks would be thankful he’d been knocked unconscious. That he hadn’t seen the crushed and lifeless body of the woman he adored lying on the callous pavement of Shubert Alley on that brisk December evening.

  Jill’s pelvis was shattered. She had several broken ribs. Her sternum was crushed. Both femurs were fractured. Her right humerus was broken. She’d also suffered severe head trauma. But it had been the blunt force to her chest that had killed her, Dr. Cameron claimed.

  “If it’s any consolation, she died immediately. She didn’t feel anything.”

  Aleks had been livid, had shouted angrily at the attending physician.

  “You don’t know that, you smug son-of-a-bitch! You weren’t there. So you don’t know what Jills did – and didn’t – feel! For all you know, she felt every one of those bones break! She felt her chest being crushed! Her heart being squeezed!”

  Dr. Cameron had seen these kinds of reactions many times during his shifts in the ER. He realized the tall man’s words weren’t directed expressly at him. However, he felt he should set the record straight.