The sidewalk sparkles with tiny flecks of crystal reflecting the streetlights—the shopping district. I look up. A sharp black Armani suit in a storefront window catches my eye.
~~~
I remember when I hired on at Edward & Bliss—Mr. Charles told me to buy some business suits and I told him I didn’t have any money and I remember he said, You gotta fake it till you make it, kid.
~~~
I gaze at the Armani suit and see myself reflected in the white mannequin’s mouthless face. The store sign says they’re open.
Tomorrow I’ll talk to Valombrosa about getting paid.
15 Valombrosa II
When I step off the elevator, the phone rings unanswered at Britney’s empty desk. Down the hall, Mr. Valombrosa’s copper doors are closed and I wonder if he’s here.
I go to my office and grab the commodity reports. I check my reflection in the mirror. My new Armani suit looks sharp. Confident. I knock on the copper doors. I hear Mr. Valombrosa say something from inside so I swing the doors open, walk in and say,
Sir, I finished those commodity reports—
Just give them to Britney, sport, he says.
Britney stands from beneath Paul’s desk, tucks her blouse into her skirt, and walks to the door. She shoots me a lipstick-smeared smirk, plucks the reports from my hand and exits without a word.
If Mr. Valombrosa cares that I walked in on him and Britney, he doesn’t show it. He just buckles his belt.
Sorry, I say. I didn’t mean to barge in.
No need for sorry, kid, he says. We’re all family here.
Then he turns his attention to paperwork on his desk. I stand there for almost a minute, half in and half out of the room. I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I put them in the pockets of my new suit. Too casual. I take them out again. Not sure of what to say, I say nothing. Paul looks up. He’s surprised to see me still standing there. What’s up, slick? he says.
Oh, well, I’m sorry to have to bring this up but I need—
Don’t ever say you’re sorry. Now what do you need, champ?
Well I wanted to talk about pay.
About pay?
Yes, we never—
There’s no fee.
No fee?
For your internship.
Internship?
Apprenticeship if you prefer.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing—he expects me to work for free? Not all this money I spent on clothing, not all this time bent over these bullshit commodity reports—no way. I step closer to his desk. I say,
I think we misunderstood each other, sir. I can’t work for free. I came here asking for a job, not an apprenticeship.
Whoa, easy, slugger—I’m just having a little fun.
You are?
Yeah. You’re gonna get paid.
Oh, thanks. I’m sorry—
Quit with the sorry.
Got it. What a relief. Thanks.
You’re a college boy, right Trevor?
My BA’s in political science, I say, but my real major was in campus social studies.
Social studies?
Yeah, you know—bars, cars, and campfires.
Ha! Now you’re having a little fun with me, he says. See how it goes, prentice? Tell me what you know about teachers, Trevor?
I know their favorite months are July and August.
Paul laughs at my lame joke. Then he stares out his window. His brow is tight around the bridge of his nose and it looks like he’s deciding something. He turns back to his desk. He picks up the gold picture frame with the blonde beauty jumping the horse. He looks at her photo. Then he sets the picture down and hits the intercom button on his phone. Britney answers before it even rings. Paul says,
Call the club. Tell them to dewinterize my yacht before lunch. And add Trevor to the reservation.
Paul ends the call and looks back to me. He says,
You’re joining me for lunch today.
Okay, sure. Thank you, sir.
Sir is what a hooker calls me after I’ve fucked and paid her.
I’m sorry—
Stop with the sir, kid. Stop with the sorry.
I will. Thank you, Paul.
Better. We can talk about your pay after lunch. We leave at 11. Now I have a call to make if you don’t mind.
As I turn to leave, Paul says,
And, Trevor—
I turn back.
He smiles. Nice Armani suit.
THE YACHT CLUB RESTAURANT overlooks Belvedere Cove and, farther out, across the cove, the city skyline rising from the shores of San Francisco Bay. The ride with Paul in the town car was quiet. He did tell me we were meeting Benny Wilson for lunch. He said Benny is the CEO of CalTEARS, the California Teachers, Educators and Administrators Retirement System. They have more dough than some small countries and Paul said that even though Benny controls billions, he’s cheap as hell and for me not to be surprised if he brings his tip calculator to lunch.
And after our long and boring lunch, I know what Paul meant. Benny Wilson sits across from me scanning the table for the bill. He’s 50. Neat. Conservative. Chews every bite until it swallows itself. He’s getting nervous as we finish and he must be expecting a sales pitch from Paul.
Benny wipes his mouth, leans back in his chair, and pulls out his wallet. Paul shakes his head. He smiles at me to say I told you so, and then he looks back to Benny and says,
Lunch is on me, Benny.
Benny opens his wallet. I insist on going Dutch, he says.
Your money’s no good here, Paul says. They charge everything to my member account.
At least let me get the tip.
Benny pulls a crisp $20 bill from his wallet but before he can lay it down, Paul throws a wrinkled $100 bill on the table. Benny frowns at the $100 and stuffs his $20 back. Then Paul says,
Now, about our business—can CalTEARS start transferring assets over as soon as the first of the year?
We haven’t made a final decision just yet, Mr. Valombrosa.
Your board’s all for it, Benny. So is the State Controller.
Because of your pressure they are.
Maybe they just like our returns.
You charge big fees for those returns.
We’re setting ourselves a hurdle rate against the T-bill for your investments. We don’t perform; we don’t get paid.
Benny sets his jaw, narrows his eyes. He says,
I’m concerned about risk.
What risk? Paul says. This is a relationship business, Benny. It’s about trust. What more do you need? How many more lunches? Tell him about our hedging, Trevor.
I almost choke on my water. Then I take another long drink to buy time. Valombrosa Capital is a hedge fund with rich, steady returns—but even all my research didn’t tell me how we invest to generate those returns. Benny must know that investment strategies are like secret recipes to hedge funds. I set my water glass down and smile at Benny. I say,
Yes. Well, you see, Benny—may I call you Benny? We have a failsafe method of diversifying the risk using a mix of derivatives and mortgage-backed securities. Of course, as you know, hedge funds aren’t in the habit of discussing their exact positions and models. If everyone knew the mechanics of how we do it, then we wouldn’t be the best. And the only reason you’re here is because we’re the best. Isn’t that right?
Benny shakes his head. Derivatives aren’t safe, he says.
The way we hedge, it’s as safe as America!
Safe as America? Oh, you’re cute. Paul, why is your man Friday here pitching me as if I’m a housewife investing in encyclopedias?
Before I can jump in to defend myself, Paul holds up his hand. He smiles at Benny and with kill-me-calm he says,
I’m assigning Trevor as your personal contact at Valombrosa.
Benny rubs his chin and looks me over. How long have you been with the firm, Trevor? he says.
I look at Paul, but he gives me no guidance so I look back to Benny and say,
<
br /> Seems like forever.
Benny leans back and looks me up and down. Then he turns to Paul. I need more data, he says. I need to ensure our investments will be safeguarded.
We’ll deliver some risk reports, Paul says.
Fine, Benny says, have Trevor here deliver them.
Benny throws his napkin on the table and stands, signaling that our lunch is over. Paul and I stand too. Benny shakes Paul’s hand and when it’s my turn, Benny squeezes my hand a few seconds too long and then he says,
It was wonderful to meet you, Trevor.
Then, insisting that the next lunch is on him, Benny thanks Paul and walks away. I know Paul is watching me, but I can’t help letting out a sigh as soon as Benny is gone.
Paul laughs. Safe as America? he says. Good stuff, slick. I hope you don’t get seasick because I have something to show you.
Paul leads me into the yacht club. We walk over travertine floors inlaid with nautical tiles and walk past walls lined with sailing trophies and meticulous models of members’ ships. A wood fire roars in the gentlemen’s lounge. Oiled wainscoting shows between tall cases of sailing books in the library. Even when I was high-rolling at Edward & Bliss, I never had business lunches anywhere like this.
When we get to the yacht club manager’s office, Paul knocks on the open door. He says,
Drinking on the job, Francis?
G’day, Mr. Valombrosa.
Francis would look like he just stepped off a yacht if he weren’t trying so hard to look like he did. His legs are crossed, his sockless feet stuffed into white felt loafers. White trousers, white shirt, a blue sweater wrapped over his shoulders. He’s leaning back in his desk chair sniffing a crystal glass of brandy with his bulbous nose. Paul introduces me. Francis says,
Nice to meet you, mate. How was your lunch?
Before I can respond, Francis spins around in his chair and paws through a cabinet of hanging keys. He talks over his shoulder. We’re very proud of our buffet here, he says. I always want a second plate, but I know if I do, I’ll be uncomfortable. Now, which one is your key? They just brought them back. Here! I should remember yours. Shall I give them to the new man?
Francis hands me a set of keys. On the end of the chain is a small curved, black horn in a silver setting. Francis taps the horn. That horn charm reminds me of a dik-dik, he says.
A what?
Dik-dik!
Paul grabs the keys from my hand. It’d be a small dick, he says, and I don’t see why you keep saying it twice, Francis.
Francis chortles. No, he says, not cock-and-balls, mate—dik-dik. He holds his index fingers against his temples to make horns. It’s a little African antelope, he says. Makes a warning call when predators are near. Goes dik-dik, dik-dik!
When we’re clear of the club and walking down the docks, I ask Paul about Francis. He says Francis is just Francis and that he’s been here so long nobody knows who can fire him.
The marina is filled with sailboats and motor yachts tucked away in slips. The boats nearest the gate are smaller, but the farther out we walk the larger and taller they grow, each one bigger than the next.
At the very end of the dock, parked in a wide berth, floats the largest boat yet—an antique motor yacht with clean lines accented by polished teak and brass fittings gleaming in the sun. Painted on the back in elegant black script is VALOMBROSA II.
Paul hops aboard. Untie us, sport, he says.
I unbutton my suit jacket and struggle with the huge knots tethering the yacht to steel-dock cleats. Paul starts the engines and revs them like a teenager impressing a girl at a stoplight. He backs the yacht from its slip with no warning. I jump aboard. The yacht lurches forward, turns too soon and squeezes the giant rubber bumpers against the dock. I make my way toward the bumpers to pull them in, but I nearly fall in the water when the yacht turns sharp again, this time to avoid colliding with a small sailboat motoring into the protected marina.
We cruise into Belvedere Cove and turn out for San Francisco Bay. I climb into the pilothouse, loosen my tie, relax. It’s beautiful. The sun bores a hole through the perfect blue-dome sky and the deep-blue bay is flecked with silver running like fish on its surface. The sailboats plying the waters in front of the San Francisco skyline look like toy ships in some looking-glass snowglobe world and the whole city seems a mere movie set to be folded up and shipped ahead of Paul when he travels. I say,
Wow! I’ve never seen the city like this before.
The wind tousles Paul’s thick hair and he looks like a Kennedy when he flashes his white smile. He says,
I’m going to show you lots of things you’ve never seen before.
I walk over to Paul at the wheel. Why do you call your ship Valombrosa II? I say.
Because my old-man’s boat was named Valombrosa, he says. Quit asking questions, kid. Go down and get us something to drink.
I leave Paul at the wheel and drop down into the plush interior. Passing polished wood and gold fixtures, I stop to take in a regal, painted portrait of Paul grinning beneath coiffed hair. He’s even wearing an ascot and it looks so much like portraits I’ve seen in museums, I can’t decide whether it was posed as a joke. The painting is the same style as the painting of the bald man in Paul’s office, the painting that looks like his dad. Paul said his dad’s yacht was named Valombrosa, but I remember reading in the Chronicle article that Paul grew up in New Orleans as an orphan.
The galley is bigger than the kitchen was in my house. Polished wood panels conceal high-tech appliances. Granite counters swirl with black and gold marbling.
I open the refrigerator. It’s empty except for a martini shaker and two chilled glasses. The freezer has a bottle of Kauffman, the only vodka I’ve ever seen with a labeled vintage. I search the galley cabinets. They’re empty too. I find a built-in climatized cellar full of expensive French wines, but nothing else.
I climb the stairs back to the pilothouse empty-handed. Where’s our drinks? Paul says.
Don’t you have any club sodas, or juice, or something? All that’s down there is booze.
Paul shakes his head disappointed.
That’s a great painting of you down there though, I say. It reminds me of the one in your office. Is that your dad? In the other painting? In your office?
You’re perceptive, kid. I like that—but not too much.
Who’s the other one? The photo on your desk? The woman on the horse?
Tara, he says.
Who’s Tara?
Paul grins. You’ll see, he says. Come over here.
Paul motions for me to take the wheel from him. He stands behind me, puts his hand over mine, and turns the yacht toward a long white Beneteau under sail. He places my other hand on the dual throttles and pushes them wide open. The engines scream to life. At first, not much happens but then we pick up speed and charge straight at the Beneteau.
What are you doing? I say.
Paul pushes the throttles harder. I turn the wheel away. Paul grips my hand, turns the wheel back. I pull away from the wheel. Paul pushes himself against me. As I struggle with Paul, the Beneteau crew screams and waves from the deck. At the last second, the Beneteau turns to avoid a collision—its captain flipping us the bird as the ships pass within feet of each other.
Paul releases me. He grabs my shoulders, rubs them hard. Then he pats me on the back and laughs.
I HAVE NO IDEA what that game of chicken was about and when I asked Paul, he just grinned and steered us back to the marina.
My adrenaline is still running high and I can hear my heartbeat over the motors as Paul pulls the yacht back into its slip. Relieved to be on semisolid ground, I jump onto the dock, bend over and secure the main line to the cleat with a figure-eight hitch.
When I look up, Paul tosses me the yacht keys. He says,
Make yourself at home, pal.
I look down at the black dik-dik charm in my hand. Home?
That’s right, he says, home. I told Francis you’d be staying here awhi
le. He’ll treat you like family.
But I—
Cut the shit, kid. I know that fleabag motel you’re living in.
How could you know that?
You think I don’t know the man I’m doing business with?
We’re doing business?
Everything’s business. Benny for example, he’s not as straight as he lets on.
You mean he’s on the take?
I mean you did real good today. He liked you. Payday is Friday. Britney will get you a company car tomorrow.
I have a car.
You have a car?
Well, I had a car—I put it up for a loan.
Who gave you the loan?
A place on Mission called Second Chances.
Paul shakes his head and smiles. I’d say living on a yacht is one hell of a second chance, he says.
I look at the yacht pulling against the rope at my feet. I’m sure it cost millions. I look back to Paul and say,
I really appreciate this, Paul.
I know you do, he says grinning. Then he walks away leaving me standing next to the Valombrosa II.
16 Dancing with Strangers
Two weeks ago when I was getting out of rehab, if someone had told me I’d be living on a yacht drinking Coca-Cola from a martini glass, I’d have told them they were smoking crack. There’s no silverware in the galley, just a gold wine opener, and all the delivery guy brought is chopsticks so I’ve been fighting with this box of Kung Pao chicken for 20 minutes and I’m still hungry.
I didn’t feel right sleeping in Paul’s stateroom last night but even the guestrooms on the Valombrosa II are larger than my room at the La Hacienda. I’d already paid for a second week there and when I checked out today after work, the old man in the dragon hat just pointed to the fine print that said—NO REFUNDS. I didn’t bother arguing with him.
Between the clothes, the Ferragamos, the Tiffany’s necklace for Stephanie, and the Armani suit, I’m running thin on cash. Paul said payday is Friday. I’ll just have to wait and see how much he pays me. I keep replaying that chicken run with the Beneteau yesterday. I guess Paul must have some beef with its captain because otherwise it makes no damn sense.
South of Bixby Bridge Page 8
