“That prick. It was Binks. The son. He introduced me. Binks partied a lot when he first started out. He and I had some times together. He’s into other stuff these days, what I hear. Anyway, when I got laid up on the beach I talked to him about some ideas I had of trying to work from home. Desperate stuff. It was never going to work. Binks put me together with the old man.”
“Helping you out?”
“I was fifty-six and getting four grand a month from disability. The wife was still teaching, but she had her thirty in and wanted to retire. The old man said we could make twelve percent and still have some upside of principal. I jumped at it. We emptied all our accounts. Seven hundred and fifty thou. He said we would earn ninety grand a year—minimum. It wasn’t Wall Street money, but we were okay.”
“You didn’t think it was too good?”
“No. Remember, this was ten years ago. Stocks were still going up and he had a good line, how he used covered calls and hedged leverage and I don’t know what else. What do I know about stocks, anyway? It sounded good. And then, after a while, you get used to those checks coming every month. You get those statements every quarter and you see the principal edging up. Not by a lot, but still, you feel good about it. Then the market started falling apart and you look at the statement and you think, this guy’s really a genius—he’s still making me money. You get comfortable and you’ll believe anything.”
“What do the lawyers say?”
“Oh, we’re fucked. No doubt. Our account said we had a million two. Of course, that was just a piece of paper. But over the years we got paid out more than that. The Feds count back ten years. Whatever you put in minus whatever you took out. We’ll get nothing. Zip. I don’t think they’ll come after us, though. I hear some people are being told they’re going to have to pony up.”
“There was a piece in the Journal a week or two ago about that.”
“Yeah? I don’t read the papers anymore.” He laughed. “I never read the Journal. None of that shit. I look at Newsday once in a while. The wife gets it.”
“You manage to stay well informed.”
Mickey laughed. “My sources didn’t tell me what you’re supposed to be doing for the family. But I can guess. The middle kid, whose name escapes me right now, he’s trying to hold the firm together. How am I doing?”
“Who’s your source? Binks?”
“That junkie prick. I plan on being around to piss on his grave.”
“Junkie?” I said. This was news.
“Last I heard. He went from coke to crank to heroin. China White. He thinks he’s a fucking connoisseur.”
The too-laid-back attitude of Virgil’s older brother now made sense—he was stoned.
“A guy I met in prison said it one time. ‘Notice how you never meet an old junkie?’ I think you’ll get your chance.”
“Yeah, I knew you went away for a while,” he said, almost apologetically. “You take one for the team?”
There had been a conspiracy. I just wasn’t part of it. I had been both the patsy and the crook. “If I’d known the words, I would have sung them an aria or two. I had nothing to give. I did two of the five and now I report to my parole officer once a month for the next couple of years. I’m on my third in eight months. They pass me around. I’m like a tofu salad at Luger’s. Nobody knows what to do with me.”
“They better learn. It seems the Feds are finally going after people. I haven’t seen them this tough since the early nineties. Another few years and there’ll be lots of white-collar guys sitting where you are.”
“Mid-level execs. The big guys will just have their firms pay a fine.”
“It’s the American way,” he said.
“The great wheel grinds slowly,” I said in my best Confucian impersonation.
“When it grinds at all,” he said. “So, what do you want from me? Tell me a story.”
“Well, I can’t say what I’m working on. I’m taking the man’s money; I probably owe him that at least. But I need to find out where to start. There’s more than a thousand individual investors, almost three hundred institutions—central banks, hedge funds, pension funds, charities. Who had the inside on Von Becker? I need to understand his whole operation. I need to know it cold.”
“Besides Binks?”
“I thought he was just a trader—and happy that way.”
“He should’ve been indicted. Only he never signed a thing. No paper trail. But I’m sure he knew.”
“Well, I doubt he will talk to me. He’ll know it’s going right back to Virgil.”
“Virgil! That’s his name. I must be getting old. They’re all named for the Earps, you know. James, Virgil, Wyatt, and Morgan. The old man had a thing about the Earps. The O.K. Corral. All that crap. Guy had memorabilia all over his office.”
“The great lawmen of the Old West on Von Becker’s wall? That’s funny.”
“Read your history. The Earps were gamblers, land speculators. They were only lawmen when they couldn’t make money doing anything else. Doc Holliday was probably a psychopath.”
“So give me a name. Where do I start? I can’t interview them all.”
“Only if you’re willing to trade.”
I knew what he wanted. “I’m not going to tell you why I was hired.”
“Then I’ll guess and you tell me if I’m wrong.”
“I’m promising nothing,” I said.
“There’s big money missing,” he began, pausing briefly to see if I wanted to deny it. “The Feds know and they can’t find it. Virgil thinks you can find it. Right so far?”
I let it sit there untouched for a minute. “I will not confirm that.”
“But you would tell me if I was wrong.”
I thought for a long time.
“I would.”
“And?”
I didn’t say anything.
“So, I got my answer.”
I still said nothing.
“You were always buddy-buddy with Paddy Gallagher, weren’t you?”
I rose to the bait. “I haven’t seen Paddy since before I went away—more than three years now.”
“This would be a good time to reacquaint yourself,” Mickey said.
“The paper said they were best friends. I didn’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” he replied.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Keep me posted.” He was telling me that I still owed him. I wasn’t so sure, but it paid to keep him in my camp.
“I will.”
“Good enough.” He let it go. “How’s family? You’ve got a kid, right? Living down South somewhere with his mother. Right?”
“My son lives with me now. Since I got out.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And here I thought you knew everything,” I said with a grin.
“Yeah, well, now I do.”
| 6 |
A late-May heat wave had the temperature on the Columbia quad up in the mid-eighties, and the graduate schools’ commencement exercises dragged on. A soft breeze briefly cooled the sweat pooling inside my collar. Skeli had insisted upon a suit, button-down collar, and tie to honor her achievement. I had requested that she wear nothing but her skimpiest underwear under her robe. It kept my attention from wandering.
The various departments moved forward and back, sidestepping when necessary like eighteenth-century military formations, until finally called forth to descend the steps in front of Low Library, where they were handed facsimiles of their diplomas—the actual document to be mailed at a later date, when the bursar’s office determined that all fees, including overdue library fines, had been paid. It was an assembly line that Henry Ford would have admired. It was the last quick stamp of approval on the products of an elite factory system.
Then it was over. An amplified voice droned out the
names, but no one slowed the pace with handshakes and quick words of praise. “. . . Phyllicia Samms . . . Robert Semple . . . Wanda Tyler . . .” Skeli, known to the rest of the world as Wanda Tyler, walked across the short stage, took the proffered piece of cardboard, and became the university’s latest Doctor of Physical Therapy. She flashed a smile in my direction, which I managed to catch on camera, just before she reached the exit ramp. I threaded my way out of the crowd and hustled off to meet her behind the library.
“Cover me in diamonds and I couldn’t be happier,” Skeli said, tossing me her cap and shaking out her long brown hair. “Where do we eat?”
“How can you be hungry in this heat? It’s got to be pushing ninety.”
“I’ve been too nervous to eat anything since breakfast, and now I’m starving. Where are you taking me?”
“I thought you might want to go back to your place and get rid of the robe before we go anywhere.”
“I can take it off right here.”
It was a humorous challenge with no basis in reality—therefore, it deserved a counter-challenge.
“Luckily, I have a camera,” I said, pulling it from my pocket.
She twirled quickly, and with her back to me, undid the snaps on the front of her gown. Then with the grace of a veteran dancer, she turned again and let her academic robes fall to the ground—revealing a short black silk dress with spaghetti straps.
“Ta-da!”
It wasn’t her skimpiest underwear, but I took the picture anyway.
“Disappointed?” she said.
“No. The illusion was there when I needed it.”
She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and handed me her robe. “Now, feed me!”
• • •
THE TOWN CAR wound up the hill and circled the drive surrounding the Cloisters, the medieval art museum at the northern end of Manhattan.
Skeli gave me a questioning look. “Would you believe I have never visited the Cloisters before? It’s lovely here.”
“Yup. A little bit of magic hidden away uptown.” And built by a man who had spent the better part of his life atoning for the sins of his own inherited wealth. “But we’re not stopping here. I’ll bring you back someday.”
The driver continued down the one-way drive and stopped when we reached Fort Tryon Park.
“Ready for a short walk?” I said.
“In these heels?”
They looked fairly normal to my eyes, but the sum total of what I knew about women’s shoes had been learned from my ex and could have been most easily expressed by a positively sloped sine curve charting height versus price. Still, I could tell Skeli wasn’t wearing hiking shoes.
“A very short walk. I am trying to surprise you with something wildly romantic.”
She took my arm. “Wildly romantic is good. And if you find a way to combine it with good food, you’ll be well rewarded.”
I told the driver where to wait for us after dinner and led Skeli down the short hill.
The wooded park and its environs, situated on the tallest hill on Manhattan, with a breathtaking view of the raw, undeveloped Palisade cliffs across the Hudson, may be one of the most romantic places in the city for an early-evening stroll through the winding pathways and heather gardens. In late May, the range of flowers, shrubs, and trees in bloom was at its peak, with occasional explosions of brilliant yellows, reds, and purples against a subtle background of misty lavenders, muted pinks, creamy whites, and wisplike honey gold. And though I once correctly identified a calla lily, to the amazement of both Angie and her mother, I am normally hard-pressed to name any flower other than a rose or a tulip. I vowed that if I ever proposed to a woman again in this life, I would do it here. But not yet.
“I know you said no flowers, but I thought this might be okay.”
We strolled slowly along the pathway, Skeli’s head on my shoulder, her arm wrapped around mine.
“Thank you, Jason. I love it. How can I have lived in New York for this long and never come here before?” She stopped and kissed me. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want you to blow it.” She kissed me again. It was a very good kiss.
I kissed back.
“Mmmm. Take me home,” she said. “Now.”
“Without feeding you first?”
She laughed. “Ah, you know me too well. Then please tell me there is some divine eatery just minutes from here.”
There was—the New Leaf Restaurant, a stone-walled, lead-windowpaned anachronism, resembling an Old World country inn as envisioned by a WPA team from the 1930s. And it was just another few steps down the path.
We drank two rounds of Bellinis and shared a dozen raw bluepoints while watching the first pink rays of sunset spread across the western sky. Skeli insisted on dousing her oysters in the sweet red cocktail sauce, thereby killing any chance of actually tasting the stony, cold, fresh salt of the ocean. Otherwise, she was perfect.
“May I propose a toast to the world’s sexiest new DPT?” I said, raising my glass.
We drank.
“You know, this is the first time in my life that I was actually on hand for the big ceremony. I skipped high school graduation to come to New York to audition. It would have been nice to have had at least one speech today. Okay, not Bill Clinton or Denzel Washington, but maybe Kathy Bates or—”
“Margo Martindale?”
“Okay. I was going to say Meryl Streep, but Margo Martindale would have been okay, too.”
“Allow me to give a speech?”
“Hmm. You’re no Meryl Streep.”
“Thank you,” I said. “May I?”
She bowed her head. “You may.”
I waved for the waiter and indicated another round of Bellinis.
“Stalling?” she said.
“No. Refueling.”
A moment later the fresh drinks arrived. I held mine up and began.
“You are the world to me. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, you, and a grilled cheese sandwich for the Kid, and I am in heaven. Every morning I wake with your name upon my lips.”
“Every morning?”
“Most mornings. Well, some mornings. This morning, at any rate. Because this morning marked the beginning of your special day. After three years of study at one of the most prestigious—and rigorous—educational institutions in the world, today you get the recognition you so much deserve. Today, you held in your hands a document that testifies to your soaring intelligence, your diligence, and the massive outlays of cash by your ex-husband.”
“It was the least he could do, the bum.”
“We will not drink to him.”
“I should hope not. Are you finished?”
I shook my head. “Just getting started.”
A busboy appeared, removed the ravaged oyster shells and offered more bread. Skeli took another piece and gave him a smile that would have melted the last glacier. I wasn’t jealous. Sometimes she smiled at me that way.
“There,” I said as he left. “A perfect example of your bottomless well of kindness. Though you seek approval from no man—or woman—you are attentive to busboys, coat-check girls, taxi drivers, even the cashier at D’Agostino’s, a woman who could have provoked Mother Teresa herself into using the F-word. You are a true democrat—small d. And yet you never let them forget that you are a queen. No, a goddess.”
“You’re doing pretty good, for not being Meryl Streep. Continue.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Running out of subject matter?”
“The contrary. Too many positive aspects to choose from.”
“Aaahh. Flattery is cheating. But it just may get you laid tonight.”
The waiter returned with my duck and Skeli’s rack of lamb, and for a few minutes we all smiled and fussed over the cutlery and fresh pepper and a choice of red wine. We each opted for a sin
gle glass of pinot noir rather than a full bottle—there was an incentive for remaining relatively sober.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I spoke first. “I’m not stalling. I’m enjoying my dinner.”
“And I am eating a perfectly cooked New Zealand rack of lamb and basking in adulation. I could get used to it.”
I took a long sip of water. “To return to that very subject. You. I love you for yourself—who you are. I love you for what you mean to me. And I love you because you love my child, which I have reason to believe is not always easy. What have I missed? Of course. Have I mentioned your legs? Your perfect legs?”
“Are you going to eat your carrots?”
“I never eat my carrots.”
“Pass ’em over.” She sipped the pinot noir. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “This is excellent. What is it?”
“I didn’t pay attention. Pinot. From Oregon.”
“Find out. I want this to be our house wine.”
“Ah. Does this mean you will finally agree to move in with me?”
“No. I would have to give up my apartment, which is more than twice the size of yours.”
There was another issue that neither of us wanted to address. Skeli had recently accepted an offer to be the staff physical therapist for the national tour of a Broadway show. A show that had already racked up more injuries per performer than Spider-Man. Except for the fact that she would be out of town for the next four months, the job was perfect for her. Whether it was perfect for us remained to be seen. She was due to leave in two weeks.
“Maybe it could be your house wine, and I’d come over and drink it.” She gave a brave smile. We were having the same thoughts.
“Fair enough. Can I go back to talking about your legs now? I can be eloquent—or try, at least.”
She smiled, mollified for the moment. “You may continue.”
I froze. There was no other word for it. Handed the opening with which to salvage a beautiful night and a most agreeable ending, I stood at the helm and drove our ship directly onto the rocks. All hands lost.
I took a bite of duck. I couldn’t taste it.
“Well,” I began, and with no clear plan in mind, forged ahead. “You have a mercurial emotional spirit. Ever-changing. Unpredictable. Laughter, tears, passion—all at once. It can be terrifying, mesmerizing, and majestic.” It sounded nothing like Skeli.
Mortal Bonds Page 6
