Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “What’s the significance of that?”

  “Banking laws, Petey. Untraceable accounts.”

  “I still don’t get it. Jackson is an intermediary between us and a Swiss bank that’s brokering for some other client? Who and why?”

  Stuart reached for his cocaine, this time satisfied with doing two lines. When he finished, he said, “Sometimes Muller has me do his grunt work. Same as you do for me, only his stuff is mega—not this nickel and dime stuff we do in the trading room.”

  “Whoa. I’d hardly call making a few million bucks a day nickel and dime.”

  “Peanuts. Muller’ll hand me a stack of twenty or thirty matched buy and sell tickets booked with Jackson Securities—currency and commodity trades mostly. My job is to go through these tickets and calculate the P&L, then report that number to Muller. A couple times, Muller’s accounts made a fortune trading with this untraceable Jackson Security account. I’m talking a hundred million or more, in a morning. That means the other side is losing that much money.”

  “Must be somebody stupid.”

  Stuart cackled. “You’re a beauty. Stupid? I don’t think so.”

  “If they’re always losing money—”

  “Maybe Howard Muller’s the smartest damn trader that ever lived. Did you ever consider that possibility, dude?”

  Without warning, Stuart began to laugh. At first controlled, the chortle grew in intensity until he sounded like a small child, tickled by a relentless parent. He hugged his ribs with crossed arms, but failed to settle down. Through watering eyes, he snatched the vial, used his forearm to mop the table of all powdery remnants, got up, and said, “That thing I almost told you earlier?”

  “The thing you never told anyone else?”

  “Yeah. You’ll keep it a secret?”

  “Sure.” Peter leaned forward.

  Stuart choked the words from deep in his throat. “Muller. Him and me is related . . .” Stuart folded his forehead into his crossed arms, trying to stifle his laughter, coughing in the process. “Thank God,” he struggled to say, “I didn’t get that elephant noggin. Oh man . . . this is so damn funny. Cousins . . . Can you imagine my poor aunt giving birth to that head? Must have been like . . .”

  It was contagious. Peter laughed, also out of control. “Ouch! That head, in the birth canal . . .” Peter couldn’t finish the thought.

  “Dart boy,” Stuart managed to say. “Drop the dude, and his head falls fastest . . . Baby Howie’s feet sticking up in the air . . . like a dart . . . or a lab experiment gone very wrong.”

  Peter felt like he might cramp, as if he had done drugs with Stuart. “That head, on that body—he looks like a Stonehenge column and top.”

  “You’re cruel, dude.”

  “He’s in New York,” Peter continued through his own guffaws, “at Thanksgiving. The Macy’s Parade. They’re gonna tie rope around him and pull him alongside Garfield the hot air balloon.”

  “Oh, my God. Funny . . .” Stuart choked.

  “Billed as the giant, floating head. Weird, scary, floating head.” Peter wondered how he got on such a roll. He couldn’t stop himself. “Muller trips . . . on his head . . . his skull would dent linoleum. Break bricks. Here, Howie, mind banging your gourd against this cement wall? . . . Need to knock it down . . .”

  Stuart sniffed, then swabbed a tear from his cheek with a sleeve. “Hey, I can’t take no more. Maybe the guy’s just the best damn trader in the whole friggin’ world . . . that’s what got this laugh-riot started. That’s rich. Gotta go.”

  Stuart left the room, his high-pitched cackles silenced once the soundproof door clicked shut. Peter’s mania immediately subsided. Why, he wondered, did Stuart think the comment concerning Howard’s trading prowess was so hilarious? Everybody knew Morgan Stenman and her CIO Howard Muller were two of the best—if not the best—traders in the world. The President of the United States, members of Congress, Third World central bankers, heads of states—all called for advice.

  “Has to be the drugs,” Peter said under his breath.

  At home an hour later, Peter put Henry’s food bowl on the kitchen floor, the episode with Stuart a dismissed curiosity. He changed his clothes and got ready to pick up Kate. It would be their fourth or fifth date in the last few weeks.

  He wondered about their relationship. Were they more than friends? Kisses goodnight and handholding, but friends do that.

  “Gonna go slow, old man,” Peter said to Henry. “Don’t want another Ellen Goodman.”

  Peter grabbed his car keys—to his new BMW—and stepped out, noting that the keys to a Beemer felt different than those of a Jetta—heavier, as if made of gold. He jangled the key ring in a hand as he patted the sides of his jacket. For the first time in memory, he forgot to drop the moonstone into his pocket.

  With his thumb, he repeatedly pressed the button on the key chain that activated the car door-lock system, listening to the high pitch go on and off as he neared his forty-four thousand dollar machine. Beep, beep, beep, beep—unlock, lock, unlock, lock. His moonstone never sang to him, he thought. One more beep and the door unlocked a final time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE LAW OFFICES OF LEEMAN, JOHNSTON, AND AYERS WERE DOWNTOWN, overlooking the San Diego Harbor. A forest of masts and sails, moored to a labyrinth of docks, bobbed along the shoreline below Jason Ayers’ windows. Farther south, the arch of the Coronado Bay Bridge cut through his view of the marina and the ocean. At eye level, cumulus clouds looked frozen in place, back-lit by the late-day sun. For Ayers, the view was nothing more than an anchor, to keep his vision from floating around his office.

  Usually law associates worked slave hours, billing clients at the rate of fourteen hours a day. Friday was the only day the firm tolerated—even encouraged—moderation. Most associates and partners left the building by six p.m. On this Friday, as Ayers pretended to be busy, Kate and two others remained in the outer offices, finishing projects deemed of sufficient importance to ignore Friday’s early-out-the-door rule.

  Ayers jumped to his feet and began to pace. He staggered in the direction of the picture window, turned left, and shuffled towards a wall of built-in bookshelves filled with six-inch hardbound legal volumes. Along another wall, photographs stared down at him. One picture in particular stole his attention—a forty-year-old photo, framed and preserved. A boy, twenty-one years old, wore a grass- and blood-stained football uniform. Tucked under one arm, he held a battered helmet. The jock’s other arm draped around a grinning, skinny, bright-bore of a boy, dressed in a blue and gold sweater. That day, Matthew Neil had scored three touchdowns and caught eight passes for over two hundred yards. The last statistic remained a school record. Jason Ayers scarcely recognized himself as the geek in the photograph. He still recalled how warm he felt, being the best friend of the best player on one of the best teams in the country. Matthew had been his best friend. And what had it gotten his friend? Endless tragedy. And the duplicity had not ended. Not by a longshot.

  “Nothing I can do, either,” Ayers said, as if explaining life’s unfairness to the ghosts of the two side-by-side buddies. Hidden somewhere, he suspected, were additional pages—and the life of anyone unlucky enough to discover those pages would become worthless. Peter Neil was the most likely candidate. Worse than that, if Peter became a target, so did anyone he cared for, including Kate.

  “Insanity, Hannah. Why, Goddammit. Why?”

  With exaggerated care, Ayers pushed an ice-cube floating in his drink. Licking the scotch off his index finger, he held up the tumbler, allowing the setting sunlight to plait through the light amber. He gulped, then set the glass down. With this last dose of courage coursing through his brain, he rang for Kate, wishing, more than anything else, Peter didn’t remind him so damn much of Matthew Neil.

  When she entered, his resolve wavered. If only the stakes weren’t so high, he thought. “Sit down, Kathryn,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  “This has to be quick, Father. Peter will be her
e in ten minutes. We’re having dinner with his friend Drew Franklin. He and his wife just found out she’s pregnant with their first child, and we’re celebrating.”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss. Do you want a drink? I think I’ll help myself to one.”

  Kate shook her head. He took his cocktail tall and neat. Without turning, he said, “I do not want you seeing Peter.”

  “Is something wrong with tonight?” she asked.

  “Not tonight. Not ever. End it.”

  Kate ran a hand along her temple, moving a shock of hair over an ear. “I don’t understand. You can’t mean what you’re saying.”

  “He is no good for you. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re the one who got him his job. You’re the one who told me what wonderful people his parents were.”

  “I forbid you.” Ayers regretted the words the moment they flowed from his dry throat.

  “You forbid it?” Kate’s face strobed red. “You have no right, no authority.” Anger and confusion laced her words.

  “Listen, Sweetheart. I know what I’m talking—”

  “You can barely get the words out of your mouth. You’re drunk, Father. You’ve been drunk most of your waking hours for over a month, and I’m going to chalk this conversation up to intoxicated dementia.”

  “That’s not true.” Though he tried, Ayers couldn’t hide the fact that his speech was thick-tongued.

  “Whatever’s wrong with you, Mom and I are praying it passes. And while I love you, and I am sympathetic to your problems, I will not have you dictate who I can or cannot see. I am not a little girl, and I do not need you to run my love life.”

  “Please. Peter isn’t his parents.”

  “No. He isn’t. But he has a conscience. He’s smart. And I think he cares for me. Maybe not love—maybe it never will be love—but I’m going to find out. I go back to LA next week, and that leaves me a small window to reach some kind of understanding.”

  Ayers’ hands shook. He wished he could think clearly. Goddamn alcohol. What to say?

  “Hannah Neil and I were lovers,” he blurted out. “I considered leaving your mother for her.” Ayers wondered if the lie showed on his face. “Peter could have ended up as your step-brother.”

  The blood drained from Kate’s cheeks with the speed of sound. Her red-rimmed eyes burst with silent tears. “You’re making that up.” One tiny teardrop managed to escape and run down her cheek.

  With the damage already done, Ayers elected to push for an end to Kate and Peter’s relationship. “No. It’s true. Ask Peter. He knows. He’s known all along.”

  “She’s the one, then?”

  The question threw Ayers off. What did she mean, the one?

  Kate’s voice shook as she continued: “Mother and I knew there was someone.”

  “You knew I was unfaithful?”

  “How could you do this?”

  “I was weak. I cared for—”

  “I don’t mean the relationship with Hannah Neil. I mean, how could you call me into your office, and tell me these things in an effort to poison my feelings for Peter?”

  “This is extremely . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to mention the danger.

  “Peter practically gave his mother’s house to an indigent family—a man without a job, struggling with a wife and four kids. The man’s paying only a hundred a month for a place that’s worth a coupla thousand, but Peter said that, with his job, he didn’t need the money. Did you know that?”

  “I never said he wasn’t a good person. But beware, Kathryn. He’s making more money than he ever imagined possible. He’ll be able to obtain anything in this world money can buy—and that’s just about everything. Where will you be then? Little, sweet, Katie Ayers? Beware. He will change—everybody who gets rich does. He’ll hurt you.”

  “No. He won’t. If this doesn’t develop beyond friendship, that’s okay with me. But he will not hurt me.”

  “He’s already paid fifty thousand for a new, sporty car. BMW, isn’t it?”

  “So what? It’s only a car.”

  “Now he’s moving next door to his trading partner, Stuart Grimes— into a three thousand a month condominium above the racetrack. Whitewater views—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know many things, Kate.” Ayers, near the window now, stood with his back to Kate and continued. “Peter slept with a salesperson from Gordon, Ashe—she’s ten years older than him and married.”

  “I won’t listen to this.”

  “You must listen. He’s going to get a substantial bonus after the first of the year—that’s after the forgiveness of his loan. Then next year, as he assumes some real responsibility and buys into the program—”

  “What do you mean, ‘buys into the program’?”

  “He’ll be just like the rest. It’ll sneak up on him . . .” Shit, Ayers thought. Shut up, you drunken fool. You’ll get yourself killed.

  “You’re wrong. And all you’ve done is hurt me, not dissuade me.” Kate rubbed the dampness from her eyes as she shook her head. “If that is all, my date is waiting.”

  The reverberation of the closing door sealed Ayers into a familiar tomb of wood, alcohol, and regret.

  When he left the office, ten minutes later, Kate and Peter were gone— long gone.

  Peter sensed Kate’s sadness. He asked, but she said it was nothing. The evening’s events, he hoped, might turn around her mood. She seemed excited about meeting Peter’s best friend and his wife, Monica, for the first time. Peter had explained to Kate that he and Drew had gone to UCLA together, roomed on campus together the first two years, then shared an apartment off campus until they graduated. At school, they pushed each other academically and attended each other’s athletic events. They partied together at the end of each term and, five years later, remained as tight as they ever had been. Hannah had been like a second mother to Drew, even throwing a surprise party when he got into medical school. Since Drew’s own mother lived on the East Coast, Drew Franklin had spent vacations with the Neils. At his friend’s wedding, Peter had been best man.

  Once they got inside Drew and Monica’s warm one-bedroom apartment, Kate thawed some, especially with Drew’s white teeth smiling vividly against his black skin, his easy laughter deep and warm. When Drew told her about nicknaming Peter “White Bread” the first time they met, she laughed for the only time that night. She seemed happy for the couple’s good fortune and brought a pair of green knit booties for the baby-to-be. “Pink for girls, blue for boys, green for I-don’t-knows,” she had said. They applauded her good judgment.

  Monica served lasagna—Peter’s favorite—salad, and bread with olive oil to dip in. Kate said she loved the food, yet ate next to nothing. She smiled in all the right spots, but the electric joy she brought to other occasions was missing. At one point in the evening, she announced that by the end of next week, she would return to UCLA, a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned. Maybe this change in schedule bothered her, Peter thought. But why? LA was a relatively short drive away—two hours or so. Easy enough to arrange a visit.

  Peter worried in silence. He knew he cared for her. He felt part friend and part attraction, mixed with a healthy dose of respect for her heart and her intellect. When they said goodnight to the expectant couple and climbed inside his car, Peter decided to push for an explanation.

  “Kate. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.” The powerful European engine hummed under his voice, the transmission sat in neutral, the parking brake keeping them from rolling down the gentle hill. “You’re upset. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” She looked out the side window, away from Peter.

  “Look at me,” Peter urged.

  She didn’t move.

  He put a gentle hand behind her head and applied a guiding pressure. She allowed her head to rotate, but fixated on her hands resting on her lap. She still wore her work clothes—a dark blue jacket with matching skirt. In the way she d
ressed, she looked the part of bright young professional. With a quivering lip, swollen eyes, and shaking jaw, she exhibited a fragile ego that seemed ready for transition into monumental depression.

  “Katie. We’re friends. More than friends. Tell me.”

  “Are we, Peter? Are we more than friends?” she asked with more than just hope in her voice.

  Peter understood she had meant the expression differently than he had. “Yes, we are,” he said, praying he would not regret the white lie.

  “I had a meeting with Father this evening.”

  “I saw you leave his office. He told you something?” Peter dreaded what she would say next.

  “Yes. A few things . . .” She stopped. Her chest heaved.

  “You know about the affair between my mother and your father.”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  Peter turned off the engine. The vapid air had cooled and now bordered on cold. The light from a street lamp cast Kate’s silhouette against a row of trees sashaying in the moonlight. The couple remained parked at the curb, along a cul-de-sac.

  “Are you hurt by knowing? Are you upset I didn’t tell you?” he asked.

  “A little hurt, but not upset about you keeping it from me.” For a moment, the car held a pre-storm calm. Kate broke the silence: “Peter?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Do you feel betrayed by your mother?”

  “I’m not proud of what she did,” he said, carefully considering his words. “Mom was in deep grief when my father died. He had suffered for two years with stomach cancer. In his prime, Dad was over six feet tall, weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, and was the strongest man I ever knew. I mean, he was a man’s man. All-American wide receiver in college, a sprinter, and personally courageous. For me, Paul Bunyan and George Washington all rolled into one. Then, just before he died, he became so weak I had to carry him to the bathroom to use the toilet. He weighed nothing.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

  “My father dreamed big dreams. He moved from business to business and failure to failure. Despite that, Mom wanted him to live forever, even if he’d been only a shell of the man she married. She reached out to your father, and I don’t blame anyone for their weaknesses—I’ve got enough failings of my own... So no, I don’t feel betrayed.”