There was silence before Kelly spoke again. ‘I should have known by the way she was acting last night.’
‘Kelly, we all should have known.’
They talked about Angie and the circumstances and how horrible it was before the conversation hit a wall of futility. With nothing else to add, nothing else to be done, they hung up, each left to deal with Angie’s death in her own universe. Suzanne put the phone down on the kitchen table and stared out her window at the canvas of sailors and power boaters on the lake. The vacuum of loss returned in all its intensity.
Suzanne met Angela their freshman year of high school when alphabetical coincidence placed them next to each other in homeroom that morning and every other morning for the next four years. Lundgren. Lupino. How do you sit next to someone for that long and not become friends? Despite having completely different personalities and dispositions, their friendship had been rock solid from high school through college and beyond. Suzanne had even served as Angie’s maid of honor. But in the years that followed Angie’s wedding they drifted apart, so that they didn’t speak daily anymore, and they stopped sharing secrets. One might have thought it was because Angie got married, but in actuality it was Suzanne’s own commitment that proved the greater impediment to their friendship. Suzanne was married to her job.
Suzanne couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t wanted to be rich. Finding that path to riches had been her driving force in life. When she was growing up, she resented that her family was of modest means compared to everyone else in Winnetka, where poverty was not belonging to the right country club. Second to that was not belonging to any country club, which was Suzanne’s situation. Her parents were immigrants from Sweden who owned a toy shop on Green Bay Road next to couture dress shops and linen stores where sheets cost about as much as a used car. She had secretly envied her peers, who got their allowances from attorneys and CEOs and third generation industrialists. Suzanne had to work for her money, spending long hours behind the counter at Skanda, the family store, so she could buy herself the kind of clothes her friends got to buy with their father’s credit cards.
Suzanne’s ambitions made her far more serious about school than any of her friends. She was taking college-level classes as a sophomore, always working that bit harder to insure an A. Her grades and test scores won her a scholarship to Purdue where she majored in finance. After graduation, she went on to get her masters at the University of Chicago. When she was hired by one of the best brokerage firms in Chicago, no easy task for a woman at the time, she was certain her payday had arrived.
She quickly learned otherwise. While her gold-embossed business cards read Financial Advisor, her job was basically as a salesperson working the phones to drum up customers to financially advise. The firm provided her a modest draw and a list of prospective clients, doctors, lawyers and other professional people. Unfortunately, everyone in the business worked from the same list of candidates. Hammered to death by solicitors, the prospects seldom took her calls. The times she did manage to finesse her way past a secretary, more often than not the beleaguered prospect banged the phone down in her ear. A successful call was when the prospect stayed on the line long enough for her to practice her pitch.
After six months of dialing her fingers raw, she had yet to open a single account. She was lost in despair, questioning her choice to become a broker, her dreams of riches tumbling before her. Then one night while she was riding home on the bus in a pounding rain, trying to figure out how she was going to pay her rent on her miserly draw, the bus pulled to a stop in front of a huge construction site. Suzanne turned her head toward the window and saw dozens of construction workers in yellow ponchos, working in the rain. A building boom was underway and the city was one big construction site. Inspiration struck. What about construction workers? They had to be making decent money and since they wouldn’t have college loans to pay off, most of it would be discretionary income. After all, how much could a person spend on beer?
She did some investigating and learned construction workers were averaging well over $40,000 a year, the pay scale climbing higher for men who worked the higher floors. That was more than some people at her firm were making, including herself. And when it came to construction workers, Suzanne realized she had that something extra going for her. Her looks. Nearly six feet tall, blessed with the Scandinavian combination of blonde hair, blue eyes, and perfect skin stretched over amazing bone structure, she was beautiful. She wasn’t in the least bit vain about her beauty, but she wasn’t beyond using it to her advantage. Being face-to-face with potential male customers would give her an advantage she didn’t have on the telephone.
The next day was bright and sunny. She put on extra makeup and started visiting construction sites, asking the site manager’s permission to speak to their employees about financial counseling. Had she tried this pitch at a law firm or corporate headquarters she most certainly would have been shown the door, but with all the testosterone bouncing around a building site, well, suffice to say, they not only welcomed her, she had carte blanche.
Within a year, she had opened hundreds of small accounts. And since they were operating in one of the greatest bull markets of all time, her clients were making a lot more money than the lousy five percent the credit union was paying. Word about Suzanne spread, and soon she was doing business with the general contractors themselves, who then started referring her to their suppliers. It wasn’t long before she was handling the portfolios of so many presidents and chairmen of the board that she found herself in the top tax bracket. Right where she wanted to be.
Suzanne had an unfulfilled taste for extravagance dating back as far as she could remember. Her parsimonious parents looked down on any kind of waste, and thrift was always revered in their household. Now that she was making so much money, it was time to fill those desires. She went shopping with a fervor.
First on the list was a penthouse condominium on the lakefront with south, east and north views which she proceeded to decorate in a manner straight out of Architectural Digest. She drove a BMW convertible. Her clothes were the finest couture, and she was a recognized regular at Chanel. Monthly facials at Elizabeth Arden and haircuts from the top stylist at Sassoon were de rigueur. A black willow mink and a sheared beaver armed her against those brutal Chicago winds while diamond earrings, Mikimoto pearls, and a Cartier watch fed her self-esteem.
A good percentage of her purchases were financed, and the payments gobbled up much of her paycheck, but it was 1986, and the markets kept going up along with her income. Suzanne turned her head from the vortex of debt that sucked her money out as fast as it flowed in. She was confident her client list and her own investments would continue to grow. In the meantime, her cash flow covered her payments with lots of wiggle room.
Until October 19, 1987, a day later named Black Monday, when the bubble burst. The DOW dropped 22.6 percent in one day, and more than $500 billion dollars of wealth evaporated, gone to parts unknown. Along with the vaporized money went the portfolios of most of Suzanne’s customers – as well as her own.
To make matters worse, the crash occurred while Suzanne was on her first vacation in three years. She was sipping an espresso in a Venice café when grumblings about some disastrous problem in the markets caught her ear. Since this was well before the now ubiquitous cell phone, she ran for her hotel and the television. When the extent of the implosion became clear, she tried calling her office. The lines were tied up for hours before she was able to get through. Her assistant confirmed things were as bad as, if not worse than, she had heard. She arranged for a flight the next morning and after a sleepless night caught a six a.m. flight from Venice to Frankfort and on to Chicago. If she could have flown out sooner, she would have, but it seemed most of Venice wanted to get out.
By the time she landed at O’Hare, clutching her precious Venetian vase to her breast, the damage was beyond repair. In truth, there was little she could have done to save her customer’s portfolios even if
she had been at her desk that fated day. The system had been so overwhelmed that getting out of positions had proved nearly impossible. But try telling that to someone who has just lost twenty-five to fifty percent of his or her net worth. Many clients lost confidence in Suzanne for being out of town when the crisis hit. She hadn’t been there to take their calls, and the broker covering for her had been in his own swamp. Scores of them showed their displeasure by closing their decimated accounts.
She tried explaining to her clients that their losses were only on paper and that the market would come back again, but they still wanted out. She tried convincing them to buy now while prices were low, but nobody was listening. Her small customers, the construction workers, went back to the credit union where they knew their money would be safe. The only thing she was able to sell to her remaining clients were certificates of deposit, which paid a miserable commission. The realization set in that, with any luck, her income would be one-quarter of what she had made the previous year.
There was no way to service her debt on so little income. The mortgage. The car payment. Her credit card accounts. She pared back on shopping. No more dining out, no facials, no new purchases. She even decided to sell some pieces back to the jewelers who had so happily sold them to her. When she learned the offer was twenty cents on the dollar for a necklace she was still paying off, she nearly died. But desperate for cash, she sold it at the discounted price anyhow.
With her cash reserves drained, she found herself forced to liquidate her own holdings, taking losses on stocks and mutual funds she was certain would come back in time. But there was no time. And though it was the last thing in the world Suzanne wanted to do, it soon became apparent that she was going to have to sell the lakefront condominium. Her fortieth-floor residence with its herringbone floors and crown molding and elegant wainscoting was the pinnacle of everything she had worked for. After sacrificing social life, love life, and family to own something so grand, the thought of losing it was devastating. For the first time, she envied married women like Natasha and Carol Anne who didn’t have money woes because their husbands were big earners. Maybe putting up with a husband was worth it if it freed a person from worry.
The beast was hungry. It needed money now. Even if she listed her condo right away at a fire-sale price, it would still take a while to sell, even longer until the closing. There was no sense in asking her parents for a loan. They made it no secret they considered her spending reckless. Asking them for money would only get her a lecture, and a long lecture at that. The situation looked hopeless.
Then the real-estate developer, Vince Columbo, came into her mind. One of her few big clients whose account remained active, he was the most prominent developer in the city and his bottom line remained huge, even with the downturn. Suzanne had long suspected that he was attracted to her, but she had ignored his subtle advances. He was married, and she had no interest in ever being someone’s second choice. But ever the astute businesswoman, she had used her physical assets to maneuver him into a business relationship, while deftly keeping that relationship professional. Suzanne surmised that the reason Vince’s accounts remained active was because his interest in her remained active. Maybe she could leverage his infatuation with her into a loan. Under normal circumstances, such a drastic move would have been abhorrent. But these were trying times.
Her call to his office was put straight through, and he readily accepted her lunch invitation for the following Friday. To discuss some investing options, of course. She dressed with special care that morning, choosing a royal-blue suit that flattered her creamy complexion and enhanced her blue eyes. She arrived at The Pump Room early and settled into the cushy leather of the corner booth, beneath vintage photos of Chicago celebrities and Hollywood icons. Her eyes were cemented to the door. At exactly noon, Vince Columbo walked into the room wearing a fitted grey suit and red tie, his silver hair swept back from his widow’s peak. The way he stood out among the tony crowd told her he had taken the same care in dressing as she had.
He greeted her with a businesslike handshake, and they made small talk, Suzanne hoping the tension in her voice wouldn’t give away her apprehension. The waiter interrupted and they ordered quickly, shrimp cocktails followed by Dover sole. Suzanne chose a bottle of Chablis Premier Cru from the extensive wine list and nodded her approval when the sommelier poured her a taste. Knowing Vince to be a baseball fan, she steered the conversation to the Cubs’ upcoming season opener. Suzanne made it a point to be well-versed about the sports world. The knowledge came in handy when dealing in the world of men.
‘What’s your opinion about lights in Wrigley Field?’ she asked, taking a sip of the wine.
‘Long overdue. Cubs need to come into the real world. I know a lot of people are fighting it, because they hate change, but my philosophy is accept change or die. People who are unwilling to make or accept change end up swimming in the same pond their whole life. And that water gets so murky they don’t see the opportunities out there.’
Suzanne nodded as she bit into a Parmesan crisp. Normally, the crisp would have melted on her tongue, but she was so nervous that it stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. She took another sip of wine, larger this time, to loosen up both the Parmesan crisp and her tongue.
‘Vince, this is very embarrassing, but I have a confession to make,’ she managed eke out. ‘I brought you here under false pretenses. I didn’t really ask you to lunch on business. Not normal business, anyway.’
He put down his glass and stared at her with unblinking dark eyes.
‘We’ve known each other five years or so now, and – well, I consider you a friend,’ she continued, wondering if this whole thing was a colossal error in judgement. ‘I just don’t have anyone I can go to, and I thought of you, and I think you are aware of my integrity and my work habits.’ She stopped talking. This wasn’t going right. Despite all her practice, both in her mind and in front of the mirror, she realized she couldn’t make the ‘ask’ after all. ‘This is a mistake,’ she said, switching from wine to water.
‘What is it, Suzanne?’ His eyes were compassionate, as he tried to draw her out.
Back to the wine. Take a deep breath. It was like diving into a cold lake. She thought of the one-week vacation her family took each summer when she was a child, to northern Minnesota where her mother’s relatives lived. She and Johnny would dip their toes into the icy lake and scream as the cold cramped their feet. After repeated tries to wade in failed, they learned the least painful way was to just dive in and get it over with. After the initial shock, the water wasn’t bad at all. The anticipation was worse than the actuality.
She dived.
‘I need a loan,’ she blurted.
His face gave no indication of his thoughts as she explained her situation. She told him about all her lost clients, and her own losses, that she would sell her condominium as soon as the real-estate market recovered, and when it did sell she would pay him back with interest. She didn’t see the stock market recovering any time soon, but she was doing her best to find good value out there and she was certain it was only a matter of time before she would be in the black again. He cut her short when she said that, of course, she would provide a promissory note and—
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I asked how much.’
Could it be possible he was actually considering lending her the money? ‘Right now I need forty thousand,’ she said, and then she held her breath.
Without a word, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a checkbook. He wrote a check for forty thousand dollars and made a notation in the memo line that read ‘loan’. He handed her the check and she stared at it with incredulity. It had been so easy. She’d thought at the very least she would have to do some more explaining, pleading her case. But in her hand was a check for forty thousand dollars, totally above board by virtue of that one little word in the corner, loan.
‘Thank you,’ she said, looking him firm
ly in the eye. ‘Let’s discuss the terms of the payback.’
‘Suzanne, I’m not worried about the payback. I know you’ll pay me back as soon as you can and at fair market interest.’ He was smiling as he spoke, and she found herself noticing how attractive he was. ‘I feel more secure lending you this money than I would some members of my family. But there is one string attached.’
Uh-oh, she thought. It had been too easy.
‘I want you to have lunch with me once a week. To discuss the market, of course. And maybe a little baseball.’
Suzanne didn’t have a naïve bone in her body, and she knew where he hoped their lunches would lead. But that didn’t worry her; she could handle herself. The most important thing was Vince’s loan would keep the debt collector from the door for the next couple of months. She would deal with the other issue if and when it ever came up.
‘Deal?’ he asked.
‘Deal,’ she answered, and they shook on it.
When the check came, she grabbed for it. He tried to wrest it from her, but she held firm. ‘Please, I invited you to lunch,’ she said. ‘This one is on me.’
He didn’t argue, and she pulled out her American Express card and laid it on the table. It was the last check she would pick up.
EIGHT
Angie
Angie stood inside her entry watching out the front window until Suzanne and the cab were entirely out of sight. She had caught a second wind in the taxi, and home wasn’t where she wanted to be. Home was just too lonely a place these days. Finding a cab on her quiet street was an unlikely proposition, so she started walking towards Halsted Street where they would be numerous. A car came from behind, and she turned to see if it was a cab, but it was a passenger car, which drove past, turning at the next street. She was spooked a little, walking alone down the deserted street, the click of her heels echoing in the darkness. Once she thought she heard someone behind her, but it was only the trees swaying in the breeze. Nevertheless, she picked up her pace, the clicks of the stilettos coming at closer intervals until her walk turned into a high-heeled run.
The Last Night Out Page 7
