FIVE
That evening I put on a pair of super-sized aviator mirror sunglasses and my Dodgers baseball hat, found a thick tree for cover near the left field foul line of my son Ryan’s fall league baseball game. The shade is cool, the bird calls soothing. Who cares if the court order the ex-wife obtained bars my attendance?
By the fifth inning Ryan has earned a walk and two singles, made three or four nice plays at
shortstop. He’s on deck, ready to come up again with men on base when I see a Branchtown patrol car slide quietly into the parking lot. Maybe a cop’s son is playing, too.
Or maybe not. My ex-wife scurries out of the stands to greet the police cruiser. I desperately want to watch Ryan bat, but my ex-wife’s past deeds dictate extreme caution. I turn my back on the field and make like a squirrel, darting through the park’s thick stand of locust trees and pin oaks. I reach my car, key the engine, then glance over my right shoulder to back up. Damn. A beefy Branchtown cop stands directly behind my car, his left hand raised, telling me to stop. The big cop’s right hand rests on his gun holster.
“Turn off your engine and step out of the car please,” says a sharp voice in my ear. My head snaps back. A second cop has approached my driver’s window while I was admiring his partner’s artillery. My ex-wife stands behind this second cop, her face contorted with venom.
“Deadbeat,” she s
ays. More of a shout, really.
The cop motions for her to calm down. “Ma’am.”
I douse my engine and climb out into the fading evening light. This second cop is younger than the first, about my age, and wears a kindly face with soft brown eyes. Friendly looking. Maybe he has children of his own.
I give him the famous, full-boat Carr grin. “I just wanted to see my kid play ball.”
He nods, then spins me by the shoulders, slams my chest against the camper, begins to pat me down. The full-boat Carr grin doesn’t work on everybody.
My ex-wife seizes the opportunity to deliver additional poison. “You can watch Ryan play ball when you pay me what you owe, you damn deadbeat.”
The cop motions her away. “Step back, ma’am. We’ll handle this.”
Good thing the cops are here to protect me. Since the divorce, my ex-wife’s chest and shoulders have grown to the size of an Olympic wrestler’s. Worse, her hatred runs deep, even though I forgave her many years ago. Sometimes her court actions seem vindictive, but I figure she’s just trying to provide for our children.
“Put your hands behind you, Mr. Carr,” the young cop says. “You’re under arrest for violating a restraining order.”
I spend the night in jail with two drunks and a twenty-something pot dealer, but next morning a municipal judge lets me go with a warning.
Walking back to the baseball field from Branchtown’s tiny courthouse, hoping some thief stole my camper, I consider robbing a local branch of the Navasquan National Bank. How else will I ever pay off my past-due alimony and child support?
SIX
Turns out my
cowboy Gerry Burns lives in a captain’s suite at the Navasquan River Boat Club, a swank twenty-story condo with a marina full of big yachts. Hatteras, Grand Banks, Chris-Craft. There’s no horse stable—surprise—but I can say first hand that over the bar of the marina’s public restaurant rests a fine pair of Brahma bull horns.
When I finish my Bombay martini, I drop some money on the bar, gobble a handful of breath mints, and pick up my props. I’m headed for the fancy condo across the street and the opening salvos of my War to Keep the Burns Account. Not quite shock and awe, but I have manufactured a semi-reasonable excuse to drop in.
Today it’s hot. Over eighty at eleven in the morning. New Jersey’s weather is like its politicians. Whichever way the wind blows. Warm, humid, and Jersey Republican weather comes from the south, in this case a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico.
The drivers of two Mercedes sedans and a red Jaguar two-seater are dealing with valet parking in front of the condo. One of the Mercedes belongs to Kelly Burns. She’s standing there in dark sun glasses and a black swimsuit under a short, yellow-flowered green beach wrap. Her red hair is lumped on one side, stiff like an old mop.
When I get closer, I see she’s wearing little or no make-up, and there’s a nervous element to her body language. In a hurry, maybe? Or worried?
“Austin?”
I approach and offer my self-serving gifts. “I just came by to drop off these books for you. Stuff on investing.”
My reflection appears in her dark glasses. I feel probed by alien scanners, two maybe three beats. I have no clue what she’s really looking at, let alone thinking, but the clumpy hair, the lack of make-up…I’m guessing Mrs. Gerry Burns isn’t doing well as nurse to the terminal cancer patient. Call it a hunch.
“I was headed for the beach,” she says. “And frankly, Austin, I don’t have time to read books.”
I sigh, letting my disappointment show. What happened to that chemistry, Kelly? Didn’t you feel it, too?
She laughs. “I suppose that sounds strange, doesn’t it? I have time for the beach, but not for reading—adding to my knowledge.”
I show her the famous Carr half-smile. “Not strange, really. More like typically human, especially for pretty women. Let me stick them in the car for you. In case you change your mind.”
She removes the dark glasses and studies my face. One beat, two beats. “Sure. Why not?”
I toss the books on the Mercedes’ back seat, shut the door, then gaze at the redhead to make my goodbye. At least I tried, made an appearance. She’s staring at the hazy September sky, not me. Maybe she’s thinking about my smile.
She sighs and slips her glasses back on. “As long as you’re here, maybe you can help me with something. I have a little money problem.”
Oh, boy. I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “My specialty.”
She motions toward the Mercedes. “Take a drive with me?”
Did I show up at the right time, or what? I force my eyes away from her trim, barely-covered ass as we both drop into the front bucket seats. Sexual thoughts are a no-no. Toward the goal of seeing my kids again, I have to concentrate on keeping the Burns’ millions under management.
She zooms away from the condo. I notice Kelly’s nine-year-old Mercedes has two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. Wonder why Gerry doesn’t buy her something new?
Kelly turns left on Route 36, north toward Sandy Hook and the Highlands. Although the Atlantic Ocean is less than fifty feet away, I can’t see the water or the sand on our right because of a twelve-foot retaining wall made of boulders and cement.
Just about two years ago, Hurricane Becky pushed the ocean across this highway into the Navasquan River. The expensive beach homes on our left are new and built ten feet higher than the last crop.
“So what’s the financial problem?” I ask.
“I have a pile of cash in the trunk,” she says. “Over a hundred thousand.”
Wow. What’s happening here? I wait for more information but she doesn’t provide any. She has the driver’s window down and her golden red hair is blowing straight out behind her like a ripped flag. That lumpy patch is dancing to its own song.
“Sounds like a big happy to me,” I say. “What’s the problem part?”
“I want to hide it, not spend it.”
I turn my gaze on the rock wall flying by. I can’t believe she trusts me with this. Must be the Carr smile. Too bad I can’t bottle that grin. Or get it to work over the telephone. I wouldn’t have to keep entertaining larcenous ideas.
“Hide it from whom?” I ask. “Gerry?”
When we hit the fork at the Highlands Bridge, Kelly steers us toward the Sandy Hook beaches. Two weeks after Labor Day, every parking lot is a big empty.
Kelly shifts her gaze my way. “Does it matter who I’m hiding it from?”
“If you can tell Gerry about the money, we’ll put the cash in his account. He can give you what you need whenever you want it.”
“And if I don’t want Gerry to know?”
I had a feeling. “We’ll figure out something else. You have any I.D. in your maiden name?”
“An old driver’s license and a U.S. passport. I never got around to changing it.”
“That’s an excellent start,” I say. “Now, are you willing to break the law?”
SEVEN
I suppose it’s common for the mind to conjure nasty thoughts while counting money, but here with Kelly in the back seat of her old Mercedes, sorting her cash into fourteen stacks of seventy-five one hundred dollar bills, and a fifteenth pile that’s one Ben Franklin short, I want to throw her down on the cash, do the sex act like large-eared rodents.
One
hundred and twelve thousand four hundred dollars. Wow. I don’t know if it’s greed, lust, or poor ventilation, but my neck, shoulders, and backside are sweating like warm cheese.
We’re nestled into a secluded Sandy Hook parking lot for birders and hikers. Eight spaces. We’re the only car. On the back seat, where we just counted the loot, Kelly’s half-bare ass keeps inching closer.
“Now what?” she says.
“We visit fifteen to twenty banks and/or savings and loans, as many as it takes, exchange one of these stacks at each bank for a
seventy-five hundred dollar bank check. Then I deposit the checks into a new account for you at one final institution, write a check on that new account to Shore Securities.”
“That’s against the law?”
“Avoiding record-keeping on cash transactions? Uh, yes. It’s called laundering money. Not to mention the multitude of regulations and laws I have to break by opening an account in your maiden name. Maybe you never heard of the Patriot Act?”
Her hip touches mine. I blink when a bead of sweat slides down into my right eye.
“Don’t they require identification when you get those bank checks?” she says.
I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. My heart rate feels a bit high. “As long as the amount’s under ten
thousand, usually not. But if they do, I’ll just say I left my driver’s license in the car and walk out. Go on to the next bank.”
She lays her hand on my thigh. It burns like a hot iron. “How efficient.”
Man, oh, man. The redhead is coming on hard and I’m not sure what to do about it. I mean, my dick’s wanted to get naked with her for over a year, that chemistry thing, but my brain says I must focus on maintaining the account. I need the business. My kids need the business. Sex could louse things up.
“I should call my office,” I say.
“Why?”
“To tell them I’ll be busy all day with a client.”
“Sounds like an excuse for sex to me. Do you use that one a lot?”
My heart ticks up another notch. “Only Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Naughty boy.”
Kelly leans her body against me. She smells like flowery soap. Lilacs, I think. Her hand on my thigh hums like an electric vibrator. Despite direct orders from the brain, my gaze won’t leave the roundness of her breasts peeking above the swimsuit.
“Would you like your bonus in advance?” she asks.
Oh, my.
“Kelly, this isn’t a good idea. Our relationship should be—”
Kelly presses hard against me, sticks her tongue in my ear. Blood rushes to my crotch.
“Sorry I’m acting like a whore. It’s just Gerry’s been sick a long time. I haven’t…you know…in six months. And I felt something for you a year ago. I thought you did, too.”
Damn. That’s it. I mean, how am I supposed to resist this? At least Luis can’t see me sleeping with another man’s wife. He would be shocked and appalled.
The redhead massages me between my legs. “Ooo. Looks like you’ve already got your bonus.”
That night, alone in my camper, a
nother conjugal date with my married lover set for the day after tomorrow, even memories of my children Ryan and Beth become sleepy time second fiddle. I dream exclusively of the future widow, the natural and true redhead, Mrs. Kelly Rockland Burns.
And I feel like a heel doing it.
EIGHT
At the office next morning
, I’m collecting various forms for Kelly’s new account when our fixed-income desk uncovers bad-ass ugly news: an issue of tax-free St. Louis hospital bonds Shore helped underwrite is trading flat, or without interest.
“Crap,” Walter says.
This is a major disaster. As opposed to your everyday so-what calamity we’re all used to. Shore’s principle owner, Straight Up Vic Bonacelli, received a personal and substantial bonus for every one of these St. Louis hospital bonds we sold during last year’s public offering. Thus Mr. Vic made hawking them mandatory, and the object of a special sales contest. Thus we sold our little fannies off. Thus Shore customers own a boat-load.
I personally have three or four big clients in these St. Louis bonds, including one wild man who’s already pissed at me for a previous and equally unfortunate investment recommendation. Can’t wait to call Psycho Samson with this news. Psycho’s just his old stage name, but
Wacky, Nutso, or Crazy would work as well.
There’ll
be more information for us at a sales meeting in five minutes; the head bond trader shouts above the salesmen’s groans and sighs, but bottom line, our customers won’t be getting their semi-annual interest checks anymore. And oh yes, the bid on these now-defaulted puppies—if you can find a bidder—is nine cents on the dollar. Our customers paid par, or one hundred cents.
Just what I need. Another financial debacle. My limbs feel heavy, my eyes droopy. Is this stress? Or the result of banging my head regularly inside that camper?
I stagger back to the tile and stainless steel kitchen, make a fresh pot of strong coffee, and soothe myself with extra non-dairy creamer and double the non-sugar sugar. By the time I wander into Shore Securities’ oak-paneled meeting room, sales manager Tom Ragsdale is already delivering another one of his infamous and insightful analyses.
“After a late escrow payment, the bank trustee issued a notice of technical default,” Rags says. “The hospital was forced to file for bankruptcy, so it looks like our bondholders won’t be receiving their interest payments for a while.”
Looks like? For a while?
Rags being a genius is why Shore Securities’ owner Straight Up
Vic made him sales manager. Well, that and Rags’ recent engagement to Vic’s daughter Carmela.
“What do we tell our clients?” Walte
r says.
“Tell them the hospital filed for bankruptcy protection under Chapter Eleven,” Rags says. “That’s a voluntary reorganization. It could take a while, but our clients’ principal is secured by a first mortgage on the hospital’s land and property.”
I see two or three inexperienced brokers sigh with relief. They believe Rags’ implication that a first mortgage means our bondholder clients have the St. Louis hospital firmly by the short and curlies. Experience has taught me otherwise. If the hospital’s land and property could pay off the bonds—as well as other similar lien holders in a yet-to-be-determined class of bankruptcy petitioners—the bid on our bonds would be a lot higher than nine cents. The market knows this stuff.
“That’s right, Rags,” I say. “Our bondholders have the right to foreclose on the hospital’s land and property. Maybe we can turn the facility into a drug rehab center. I hear that
St. Louis neighborhood would provide an excellent base of potential clients.”
Rags stares, then scowls at me. My humor is slow-acting in his system. And extremely toxic. Too bad, boss. This isn’t my first Shore Securities’ bond default. I guarantee the hospital’s expensive medical equipment is one
hundred percent leased, thus not attachable, and the buildings and land are worth virtually nothing. An inner city location puts nasty limits on financing and alternative construction opportunities.
I’ve had about enough of this day. Staying at my desk means calling clients to tell them their bonds defaulted. Psycho Samson, a former Notre Dame lineman and pro wrestler, now a fishing boat captain, will probably strangle me. I should probably give him another day of ignorant bliss.
What a world. What a world. I walk out of the meeting and out of the building. I hate to retire so early, but I couldn’t give investments away feeling like this. With rest and attitude adjustment, however, perhaps I can bounce back tomorrow.
Fifteen steps into the fresh air and sunlight, Shore’s open-air parking lot, I hear the door click behind me. Someone’s followed me outside.
It’s Rags. With narrowed eyes. Pinched lips. A twitching muscle near the bottom of his jaw. It ticks with every angry heartbeat.
Rags marches closer, but not too close. I’m standing beside my pick-up mounted camper now and Rags doesn’t want to chance rust on his tw
o thousand dollar Canali suit. Or even dirty his shoes or tie.
“You’re close to getting fired, you know that? Your numbers suck, Carr, and that’s enough for me. But this attitude of yours lately…since I got promoted…it’s affecting the other salesmen.”
The sneer on his lips clenches my right hand into a fist. I’m sick of taking everybody’s shit. My ex-wife. The judge. The gouging divorce lawyer who no longer takes my calls. A daily dose of complaining clients. And now Rags, the new punk sales manager from Staten Island who screwed his way into boss-dom. My hand wants to explode on his nose.
“My attitude isn’t about you,” I say. “This is Shore’s third default in five years, Rags. Any idea how many clients I’ve lost?”
“You’re such a pussy,” he says. “Have you even tried to replace them? When was the last time you stayed late to make cold calls?”
I stare at
Rags’ silk tie: baby blue with silver dots shaped like…what, anchors? Knowing Rags’ penchant for fine apparel and ass-kissing, the tie probably cost two or three hundred bucks and he picked the design because of Straight Up Vic’s interest in boating.
“You’ve lost the killer instinct,” Rags says.
“Not really. It’s just no longer directed at my clients.”
He steps back, maybe wondering if I’ve threatened him, and I seize the opportunity to scramble behind the wheel of my movable home. Rags shakes his head as I start the engine. The snotty, brown-nosed jerk would love to fire me, take my good accounts for himself and pass out the rest to suck-up brokers he wants to cultivate.
But getting rid of Austin Carr won’t be easy, Rags. Straight Up Vic has developed a fondness for my golf game. I regularly make him big money at his club.
Still, Rags could talk him into something stupid if my numbers don’t pick up.