by Adam Mitzner
“Damn.”
“What about you? How’s life at Maeve Grant?”
“If you’d asked me last week, I would have told you that it was miserable. Then yesterday, I met this potential new client. I think there’s a chance that it’s all going to turn around for me.”
“It sounds like we both had professional triumphs this week. Cheers to that.”
She held her glass up for a toast. He clinked his tumbler to hers.
“I had this feeling, even when things were really looking grim, that something was going to happen that would make everything okay. Do you get those too?”
She laughed. “No. I’m from New York City. I just assume the worst all the time. That way I’m hardly ever disappointed.”
He laughed with her. “Well, I suppose that bodes well for your preconceived impression of me. Maybe it’s because I’m a Midwesterner, but I try not to get caught up in that New York City always-wear-black and see-a-movie-star-on-the-street-and-it’s-no-big-deal vibe. When I was a kid, we had a dog, Poochie. Don’t ask—I named him when I was really little. But my point is that my dad used to always say, ‘Be like the dog.’”
“I’m afraid to know where this is going,” Gwen said.
“No. It’s good. You know when you come home, how happy your dog is to see you? Jumping up and down like it’s the greatest thing ever, even though it happens every single day?”
“Yeah.”
“So be like that. That’s what he meant. If you’re happy to see someone, show them. Believe the best in people, like the way your dog believes in you. Your dog never thinks you’re going to leave him, or forget to feed him, or ever treat him badly. He knows that you’re a member of his pack.”
Gwen laughed. “Your dad should start his own religion.”
Will laughed too. “My father died a long time ago, but maybe I’m the . . . Is Paul the disciple who spread the word? Because I’ve tried to be like the dog ever since.”
“I’ll take your word on Paul. I’m many years removed from Sunday school, I’m afraid. And I’m sorry about your father.”
Will nodded to accept the condolence. “Sadly, my mother too. Last year.”
“Oh, now I’m really sorry. I was going to complain about mine being divorced.”
Will wanted to remove the unintended pall he’d created. “Why don’t we get all the first-date stuff out of the way right now?” he cheerfully said. “Like a speed round.”
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “I love that idea.”
“You said you were a city girl?”
“Yep. Upper East Side. I always wear black and never go up to a movie star I see on the street. In fact, there were two movie stars’ kids in my high school class.”
“I’d ask who they were, but then I’d seem too much like the starstruck Midwesterner that I am. Born and bred in Northern Michigan. A tiny town near the Canadian border called Cheboygan.”
“I’ve actually heard of that.”
“No you haven’t. You’ve heard of the one in Wisconsin. The cheeseheads over there spell it incorrectly—with an S instead of a C. Anyway, the Wisconsin one is the big city—they must have fifty thousand residents. Whereas in my town, we had fewer than five. Next question. Any siblings?”
“Three. I’m the oldest. Julia is the baby. She’s in school in Arizona. Carson is the middle, and he’s . . . I truly don’t know what he does to support himself, to be honest, but he lives in Colorado and does a lot of skiing.”
Will got the distinct impression that Gwen came from money: Upper East Side upbringing, brother who was a ski bum.
“I’m an only child,” he said. “It’s actually a family tradition. Both my parents were only children too.”
“That’s so weird. So you don’t have any uncles or aunts?”
“Or cousins. So no family whatsoever, I’m afraid. But I have come to have faith that the best families are those we make for ourselves.”
“That is a very ‘be the dog’ outlook,” she said. “I like to think that’s true too.” After a moment, she continued. “I only have one real dating deal breaker. Are you a gamer?”
“Like in playing video games, or with women?”
“Actually both. I assumed that you’d lie if you actually are a gamer with women, and I take some comfort in the fact that if you were, you’d probably know that the correct word is player. But I really meant as in video games. I say it because my ex could spend hours gaming, and it drove me insane. Although I will say I’m an excellent shot thanks to Call of Duty, can probably fly an airplane courtesy of Flight Unlimited 3, and don’t even get me started about my driving skills, thank you very much, GTA.”
“Good to know. But to answer your question, I’m not a gamer. I never have been, but I will now insist on driving when we’re in a car together. Although I will most certainly defer to you if we’re ever in a combat situation.”
“Deal. So I’m all good now. Any other questions for me?”
“Just one. Is Gwen short for Gwendolyn or Gwyneth, or is your name just Gwen?”
“Guess.”
Will knew he was being put on the spot. His answer didn’t matter nearly as much as the reasoning he cited to support his conclusion. “Gwendolyn.”
Her smile told him he was right. Granted, the odds were only three to one, but Gwen seemed impressed nonetheless.
“Lucky guess, or have you been stalking me?”
“I like to think it was an educated guess.”
“So educate me.”
“Well, my dear Watson, I figured you’re too old to be named after Gwyneth Paltrow, because she didn’t actually become famous until the mid-1990s. Also, I assume that your parents, being sophisticated Upper East Side types, wouldn’t name their offspring after some actress. That narrows it down to Gwendolyn or Gwen. I’ve never understood why anyone names a kid a shortened version of a longer name. So, if your parents loved the name Gwen, the smart play was to name you Gwendolyn and just call you Gwen.”
“Very good sleuthing, Sherlock,” Gwen said. “But, sadly, you’re wrong at nearly every turn.”
“It’s Gwen?” Will said, surprised he’d misread her initial expression as confirmation that he’d guessed correctly.
“No, it’s Gwendolyn. But your deductive reasoning is flawed. The sad truth of the matter is that my hypereducated parents named me after a TV character. They loved this show called The Wonder Years. The girl character was named Winnie Cooper, but her full name was Gwendolyn. So they named me Gwendolyn and called me Winnie. Which, obviously, I hated. So when I was able to assert my own nickname, I became Gwen. I can’t say I like it that much more, but at least I’m spared from being called Pooh all the time.”
“I like that you named yourself. My father’s name was William, as was his father’s. Our family doesn’t do juniors or Roman numerals, so my father was William Matthews and I was Will Matthews, for short. When my dad died, some people back home started calling me William, like it was a title I had ascended to or something. But it always kind of creeped me out. So, I think I’m going to be Will well into my old age.”
“But what will your son be named?” Gwen asked.
Will hesitated for a moment, as if he was thinking. In fact, the correct answer had immediately come to him.
“Whatever my wife wants.”
Gwen laughed. “Good answer, Will Matthews.”
The waitress came over and asked if they wanted another round. Will was hoping that the answer would be affirmative, but Gwen set him straight without a second thought.
“I need to get back to work. And researching legal cases while drunk can be even more fatal than drunk driving.”
“Just the check, please,” Will said to the waitress. Then to Gwen: “I’m going to head back to the office too. More cold-calling, unfortunately. Just in case my new client doesn’t actually materialize.”
“Aren’t we the two most pathetic twentysomethings out there?” Gwen said.
“If only there was som
ething we could do about it,” Will replied.
“If only,” Gwen said with a sexy smile. “Maybe that should be the first topic of our second date.”
Will liked the sound of that very much.
8.
The next day began well, on all fronts. Gwen texted that she was free the following night, which meant two dates in three nights. The market was also doing its part to bring Will happiness. Yesterday’s losses had all been recaptured, and Will’s cold-calling had resulted in two new accounts. He doubted that one of them would ever fund, as it seemed that the woman he’d reached was giving him her information solely to have someone to talk to. But the other one might actually be looking for a place to invest.
The one dark cloud was that he hadn’t yet heard from Sam Abaddon. This was another way that investing was like dating: if they didn’t call in the first two days, they weren’t going to.
But he shook away the negativity. Sam was going to call. It was just a matter of when. Everything was breaking Will’s way, and that meant that he was going to reel in the whale too.
And then, as if his very belief had made it happen, Will’s phone rang. The caller ID said the number was blocked, but somehow he knew it was Sam.
“Is this Young Will Matthews?”
“Sam! I was hoping I was going to hear from you. I actually wanted to reach out myself, but I didn’t have your contact information. I tried googling you, but I must have the wrong spelling of your last name or something, because nothing came up.”
“Then it’s a very good thing that I remembered the correct spelling of your name. I thought that, the fact you’re a Rangers fan notwithstanding, we could do some business together. Am I right about that?”
“Yes, you are definitely right about that. The way it starts is for me to open an account for you, which means I need to take down some information. And then—”
“I’m stopping you right there, Will. That’s not the way I start. The way I start is by taking my new wealth manager to dinner. I’ll be out in front of your office at seven sharp.”
With that, the phone went dead, leaving Will with only one thought: How much will Sam deposit? A few thousand? A hundred grand? Dare I hope—a million?
As had been the case after the hockey game, they were chauffeured. Sam was in the back, and like before, he looked to still be on the clock—dark-gray flannel suit, power tie perfectly dimpled, crisp white shirt, collar standing at attention.
Will was disappointed not to see Eve. Of course, her presence at a business meeting would have been out of place. He took solace in the fact that Eve’s absence meant that Sam was serious about opening an account.
The car headed for the RFK bridge, which meant that they’d be leaving Manhattan for dinner. The driver followed the signs for JFK Airport. For a quick second, Will wondered if this was going to be like one of those scenes in a movie when the man whisks his date off in a private jet for dinner. But about a mile before the turnoff to the airport, the car turned onto Lefferts Boulevard.
They came to a stop in a strip mall. Will might have thought that Sam was pulling his leg—surely a restaurant he had traveled an hour to dine at wasn’t located in such unimpressive surroundings? Three things made him hold his tongue: a sign above the place that said DON PEPPE, a line in front of the establishment, and the fact that Sam didn’t strike Will as the kind of guy who joked about restaurants.
“They won’t take a res,” Sam said as they alighted from the car, “so people line up to get in.”
Even from his limited interaction with Sam, Will had already surmised that his future client was not one of those people who lined up to get in anywhere. As a result, Will wasn’t the least bit surprised when Sam headed straight for the door. Sam didn’t even flinch when one of the poor saps standing in the cold shouted out, “Line’s back here, buddy.”
Will quickly followed Sam inside, fully expecting a sharp contrast from the restaurant’s exterior. But the interior design was equally unimpressive. Don Peppe’s was an open space with about fifty tables. The ceiling was low, and the walls were beige, with framed horse-racing memorabilia the only artwork. It took Will a moment to make the connection, but then he realized that the Aqueduct Racetrack was nearby.
A large man approached. His white shirt strained against its buttons, and his black tie made it just to the beginning of his protruding belly. He could have been an extra in The Sopranos, and Will wondered if he had a colorful nickname like Fat Johnnie or Tony the Butcher.
“Mr. Sam,” he said as he and Sam kissed each other on both cheeks. “So nice to see you today.”
“Will, say hello to Vincent LoRossi.”
Will merited only a handshake, which was fine by him.
“Give me thirty seconds,” LoRossi said. “A table just asked for the check.”
As promised, within a minute, they were seated. Before anyone even brought them water, a bottle of red wine without a label was plopped on the center of the table. The waiter poured it into two tumblers—the kind you’d drink orange juice out of at breakfast.
Sam said, “They have two types of wine here. Red and white. Both come cold. They know I think white wine is an abomination with any form of meat and that I always order meat. So we’re drinking red.”
The waiter cracked a smile at Sam’s comment. “What can I get you, Mr. Sam?”
They hadn’t been given menus, but blackboards located around the room listed food choices with prices. Will was quickly reading through them so he’d be ready to order when his time came. It turned out that there was no need, because Sam said, “Lorenzo, my friend, we’re going to start with the baked clams. Then bring us the fried peppers with the veal Don Peppe.”
Not a single item that Sam had ordered was listed on any of the blackboards.
Sam raised his wineglass. “Cent’anni.”
Will knew what that meant from the opening scene of The Godfather. Part two, if he recalled correctly. A hundred years. Although it was not clear to him what exactly Sam wanted to continue for the next hundred years, Will touched his glass and drank the chilled red wine.
“How’s Eve?”
Will immediately regretted posing the question. He actually hadn’t meant to mention her. Unfortunately, his nerves had gotten the better of him, and he’d just blurted it out.
“She’s good,” Sam said. “She liked you. And I take it that, like all red-blooded men, you liked her too. But don’t like her too much. Will you do me that favor? Because if you did . . . well, I’d have to kill you.”
Will smiled awkwardly at the joke. Sam, however, remained serious for a telltale second before he smiled at the approach of a waiter carrying a plate full of clams. At least a dozen were on the platter, each roughly the size of a quarter, and the breadcrumbs on top were burned to the same degree but made slightly different patterns. The smell of garlic wafted up, making Will’s eyes tear slightly.
“For my money, these are the best clams in the world,” Sam said. “It’s because of their size. It allows them to retain their flavor, so the topping doesn’t overpower the clam. You go to Umberto’s, and the clams there are the size of your fist. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not leaving any of them on the plate either, but these . . . Marone.” Sam said the word with an exaggerated Italian accent and his fingers pinched together.
They each ate a few in silence. Will couldn’t disagree with Sam’s assessment. He’d never had a baked clam as good.
“You’ve been very patient, Young Will. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Once you had a client on the hook, the cold-calling script flipped. You wanted to let them speak, so Will offered only a silent nod.
“I’m always on the lookout for guys who I like, and I like you. I’ll tell you straight away—I’m not the smartest guy out there. But I am the best judge of character you’re ever going to meet.”
“Thank you,” Will said, largely because he didn’t know what to say. The compliment was more about Sam than h
im.
“I know you’re a young guy, but in my book, experience is the most overrated predictor of success. What matters is hunger. And I can see that in your eyes from a mile away.”
“I’m not just hungry, Sam. I’m downright starving to death,” Will said with a smile.
Sam laughed loudly. “That’s what I want to hear. I’m working on a few ventures at the moment, and they’re beginning to throw off some cash. I’d like to invest that return with you and see how well you can manage my wealth.”
Will detected sarcasm in the phrase “manage my wealth,” but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “That’s what I do.”
“Good. So the way this will work is that I’d like you to . . . you got a pen, Will?”
Will hadn’t come to dinner expecting to take notes, which must have been apparent from the look on his face. Sam handed him a pen out of his breast pocket. A Mont Blanc, of course. Wolfe used one too. It was Brian who had alerted Will to the fact that the pens cost anywhere from $50 to over $10,000, and were recognizable by the white “snowcap” emblem at the tip.
The writing instrument helped with only half the problem. Sam raised his hand, and a waiter—not Lorenzo—ran over. “Carmine, you got something to write on? An order book is fine. Whatever.”
The waiter reached into his back pocket, pulling out the pad on which he took dinner orders. He held another one in his hand, so this must have been his backup.
When he walked away, Sam continued, “The accounts should be in the following names: Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion.”
Will scribbled the names on the pad. It took him a moment, but then he realized why they sounded familiar: they were the dragons in Game of Thrones. He wanted to share with Sam that he got the reference, but before he could, an army of busboys descended on their table. Within thirty seconds, all evidence that they’d enjoyed the clams had been removed, and two platters were situated in their place. One clearly held the fried peppers, which reminded Will of a fire due to their bright-red flame and black tops. The other dish, he concluded, was the veal, but only by the process of elimination. All he could see was a mound of chopped tomatoes, onions, and large chunks of garlic.
