Peter has been working on the software for the last forty-eight hours. Ed Napier is in for quite a show.
I pull out a chair for Napier, and he sits facing the screen. I say, “Your check for fifty thousand dollars has cleared and is now deposited in my brokerage account at Datek. As you suggested, we’ll use the money to buy stocks based on Pythia’s predictions. Peter, why don’t you explain what’s on the screen?”
Peter walks to the front of the room. He points to the projection screen. “Fine. It’s simple, actually. What we’ll do is scan the stock market for five stocks that Pythia can predict with a high confidence level. I have no idea which stocks she’ll choose; it depends on the market at the time we start. We’re only going long, to avoid restrictions on short sales. Nothing greedy. Just five stocks, ten thousand dollars apiece. We can use margin, so we’ll effectively buy $20,000 worth of each stock. Any questions?”
Napier shakes his head. “Go,” he says.
“Okay.” Peter returns to the keyboard, types something. On the projection screen, five stock charts cascade into view. The charts are composed of thin green lines—the random fluctuation of each stock’s price at one-minute intervals. On the right of each chart is a red circle—Pythia’s prediction for where the stock is heading.
Peter says, “The projection time frame is about thirty seconds. Pythia is placing the trades now.”
As if on cue, a dollar amount appears next to each stock chart: “$10,000/ 1101 shares long” and “$10,000 / 784 shares long” . . .
Peter says, “You can see that Pythia just bought eleven hundred shares of Apple Computer and seven hundred or so shares of US Steel.”
We watch as Pythia places three more stock trades. “Okay,” Peter says. “We’re now fully invested in the market and are using fifty thousand dollars to gamble. Fifty thousand of Mr. Napier’s dollars. Now let’s see if Pythia’s predictions pan out.”
“They better pan out,” Napier says, but from his friendly tone, he has no doubt.
Confidence levels appear next to each of the red target circles. 92% confident . . . 95% confident . . . 93% confident . . .
The seconds pass, and the confidence levels increase. Now they are 95% . . . 96% . . . 98% . . .
The five stocks rise toward the red target circles.
Another ten seconds pass.
In each of the five charts, the stock prices flutter, but inexorably rise. They approach their red targets.
“Here we go,” Peter says. In a rapid sequence, like dominoes dropping, the stock price lands inside each target, and—one after another—each red circle brightens and says, “Target reached.”
“Let’s see how we did,” Peter says. He types something into the keyboard. The stock charts disappear from the screen, and are replaced by five rows of numbers:
Entry price# shares$ GainP/LNet P/L
CELG $ 28.34 706 $ 0.22 $ 152.86 $ 151.81
X $ 25.50 784 $ 1.60 $1,254.90 $1,253.73
ATML $ 3.36 5,952 $ 0.09 $ 535.68 $ 526.75
RFMD $ 5.73 3,490 $ 0.05 $ 189.51 $ 184.27
AAPL $ 18.16 1,101 $ 0.80 $ 881.06 $ 879.41
$3,014.01 $2,995.96
Peter says, “It looks like we made about three thousand dollars. Actually, a little less, after commissions.”
Toby pipes up, “That’s it? Only three thousand?”
I say, “Not bad for thirty seconds’ worth of work. That’s a return of what?”
Jess says: “Nearly six percent.”
I say, “Right. Six percent in thirty seconds. Imagine if we did that again and again. It’s possible to reinvest our winnings, every half-minute. We could program the computer to do it automatically. If we kept doing it, over and over, our returns would be . . .” I let my voice trail off. “Quite large,” I say, finally.
“Astronomical,” Napier says. He’s still staring at the screen. He can’t tear his eyes off it.
The room is silent. We stare at Napier, who is still staring at the screen. Finally he turns to Peter.
“Can you do it? Today? Right now?”
“What?” Peter says.
“Make it repeat itself. Keep picking stocks over and over.”
“No,” Peter says. “Not today. It’ll take some work. Not much . . .”
“How about tomorrow?”
Peter says, “I suppose . . .”
He turns to me. “What do you say, Franklin?”
I shrug.
Napier says, “Let’s say I wired you two hundred grand. Right now. This morning. You’d have it in your account by tomorrow. Could we try this again?”
“Yes,” I say.
He turns to Peter. “Tomorrow, okay? We’ll do it enough times to double our money. As an experiment. All right?”
Peter hesitates. He looks to me. I nod. Finally Peter says, “Yeah, okay.”
Napier stands. He straightens his tie. He nods to the others. “Very good.” He crooks his finger at me. “Franklin, come with me.”
I follow him from the conference room and close the door behind me. He says, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Who?”
“Peter.”
I shrug. “He thinks we’re doing something illegal.”
Napier drills his eyes into me. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Then he has nothing to worry about.”
I nod.
“Give me your wiring information. I’ll deposit two hundred grand in your account. Tomorrow we’ll see if Pythia can double it.”
After Napier leaves, I return to the conference room. Instead of smiles and cheers, I am met by quiet. The four of us watch through the window as Napier pulls his Mercedes out of the parking lot.
Finally, when he is gone, Jess says, “Well that was easy.”
“Yes,” I say.
But I feel little triumph. I know that we are about to reach the point of no return. Edward Napier will test us one final time, by wiring nearly a quarter of a million dollars into our bank account.
Most small-time con men would quit here. They’d divide the two hundred grand, split it four ways, and skip town.
But for us, this is only the beginning. Soon we’ll put Napier on the send, and a quarter-million dollars—rather than seeming large—will become small and insignificant, a rounding error.
That’s the difference between small-time crooks and people like me. Ambition. A can-do attitude. The desire to change the world. My feeling is: If you’re going to gamble, you might as well do it big. If you’re going to risk prison or death or dismemberment, score as huge as you can. You may not have another chance.
But I get a strange feeling as I sit at the conference table, staring out the window at the cars speeding down Bayfront. I remember the afternoon I recently spent at the blackjack table, how I insisted on hitting when I should have stood pat. And how that—inevitably, predictably—led me to bust, and, finally, to lose everything I had.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking.
But not everything turns out the way you think. Sometimes, in real life, a premonition turns out to be empty, extraneous, a loose end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’m driving home with Toby, who sits in the back seat of my Honda and stretches his leg cast into the front, using the gearbox like an ottoman.
“So Dad,” he says, “tell me the plan.”
I look at him in the rearview. “You know the plan,” I say.
“Only the broad strokes,” he says. “So tell me if I’m right. Tomorrow Napier gives us money. And we let him win. Then we put him on the send, for one more big bet. Is that right?”
I’m speeding along the Bay, past the salt ponds. Cargill owns twenty-five thousand acres of estuaries on the shore. Since the Gold Rush over a century ago, they’ve been harvesting salt here, by pumping bay water through dikes and levees and letting it evaporate in the sun. In the dry autumn, they harvest the white cake left behind. It’s a disgusting process that leaves the shoreline—now pockma
rked with stalagmites—poorer, but which, I suppose, leaves the American Potato Chip Industry infinitely richer.
“Something like that,” I say.
“How does it end?”
“How do you think it ends?”
“I don’t know. You blow him off, right? Make him think we’ve all lost—that we’re ruined—so he doesn’t come after us.”
I am surprised at Toby’s sudden interest in my line of work. “Why so curious?” I ask.
“Because I want to learn.”
“Plan on following me into the business?”
“No,” he says. He’s staring at my cross-sectioned eyes in the rectangle of the rearview mirror. He’s searching them, trying to determine if I am making fun. “Just curious,” he says, but he looks away and drops it.
I want to apologize, but I don’t have the chance. I notice something strange in the mirror. A black Lincoln Town Car. The windshield is tinted, so that I can barely discern the outline of two men behind the glass. The car is tailing me.
“Don’t look,” I say to Toby. “But we’re being followed.”
Toby immediately turns around in his seat and cranes his neck to see. Ever since he was five, he has been a poor listener.
“Who are they?” he says.
“I don’t know. You ever see that car before?”
“No.”
I step on the gas and watch the speedometer bump up against seventy. I lurch into the left lane, rocketing past a slow Volvo driven by a nun wearing a habit. As I pass, she shakes her head at me and gives me a dirty look. Ashamed, I look away.
Toby says, “Hey, Dad, I think that nun’s giving you the finger.”
I do a double take. Sure enough, in my rearview, I see the nun flipping me the bird through her windshield.
“You don’t see that very often,” Toby remarks.
True enough. I glance back to see the Lincoln still following me, a steady four car lengths behind. I note the license plate number: C5K-885.
“Write this down,” I say to Toby. “C5K-885.”
“Okay,” Toby says. There’s a pause. “Uh . . . You have a pen?”
I shake my head. The kid has always been a disappointment to me. I lean across the center console, my elbow knocking into his cast.
“Ouch,” he says.
“Maybe you should put your foot down.”
“Ouch, I can’t.”
I pop the glove compartment. I find a Bic, toss it over my shoulder to him.
I say, “C5K-885.”
He says, “Okay, hold on, hold on . . .”
“C5K-885,” I repeat.
“What is it?”
“C5K-885.”
“Slower.”
“C . . . 5 . . . K—”
“Dad, look out!”
I slam on the brakes. Ahead of me: an unfortunately placed traffic light, now a surprising shade of red. Between me and the traffic light: four civilian automobiles, all stopped obediently at the light.
My Honda shudders and screeches, and is sent into a skid. We start to fishtail, and I lose control. I try turning left, into the skid, just like they tell you to do.
Who came up with the idea that you should turn into the skid? I must find him to discuss this further. The sudden jerk sends the front of the car careering into the concrete divider between the highway’s east and west lanes. We slam into the wall, and I feel the seat belt go taut, as my chest snaps against it.
Even as it’s happening, I’m thinking about Toby. I hear myself say it, which is impossible, since the whole crash takes less than a second. I say: O please God, let him be wearing his seat belt. Please, for once, Toby, do the right thing.
There’s a sound like a gunshot, as my airbag pops open. The canvas slaps me across the face like a woman’s hand. Then it deflates and drapes over the steering wheel like an embarrassing reminder of spent passion.
We’ve stopped in the middle of the highway, facing the wrong direction. I see the Lincoln flash its blinker, pull into the right lane, and continue past us.
Next I see the Volvo hurtling directly toward us. The nun slams her brakes. Her tires start smoking and there’s another screech. Her arms grip the steering wheel, locked ramrod straight, and her teeth are clenched in rigor mortis.
Her Volvo slows just enough that the impact with my Honda is a gentle thud. I’m knocked backward an inch. I hear her headlights shatter. I see her through the windshield: She’s okay—must be, since she’s cursing at me, though her words are muted through the two layers of glass.
I turn slowly in my seat to look at Toby. I dread what I am about to see: that he is dead, his neck snapped, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth; or that he is missing completely—shot out of the car so fast that I missed him—splattered fifty feet away on the asphalt.
But when I turn around, he is looking at me, smiling, holding the Bic pen near his ear, as if—the moment things settle down—he will finish recording the license plate I have repeated to him three times.
“Jesus, Dad,” he says, “are you trying to kill me?”
I laugh. “I’m trying to save you,” I say, although, I must admit, all evidence points to the contrary.
A Menlo Park cop comes and takes our statements, snapping enough Polaroids of the accident scene to fill a scrapbook.
I don’t mention the Lincoln that was following us, and I don’t make excuses. I tell the officer the truth—that I was looking in my glove compartment instead of at the road. I leave out the part about how it was really all my son’s fault, even though this is what I secretly believe.
The cop gives me a Breathalyzer and I pass. We’re on our way, in a taxi, in less than thirty minutes. As we go, I watch my Honda, its hood crumpled like an accordion, departing on a tow truck in the other direction, to Hank’s Service Station on Willow. Goodbye, Honda.
The taxi takes us to Palo Alto, and drops me and Toby at my apartment. My octogenarian landlord, Mr. Santullo, waits for us in the driveway. He wears his undershirt, with tufts of white chest hair poking through, and the blue terry-cloth robe. I wonder: How does he know when I will come home? Does he stand in the driveway for hours, waiting, until I appear? Is that what old age is destined to bring me—lonely days, hours of standing in the driveway waiting for someone to return? Will there even be anyone in my life who returns to me?
“Kip,” he says, “I need your help.”
“Okay, Mr. Santullo,” I say. I gesture to Toby. “Have you met my son, Toby?”
“My grandson isn’t here,” he says, answering a different question.
I say, “Okay, Mr. Santullo.” To Toby: “I’ll be right there.” I toss him my keys. They jingle as they fly. He plucks them from the air and heads to my apartment.
I follow Mr. Santullo upstairs to the second floor. We pause at the door to his apartment while he searches for the right key. He finds it, finally.
Inside, his apartment is a museum of 1950s decor, with an olive broadcloth sofa, brown carpet the color of old shoes, and a Kitchen of the Future, as envisioned when the Future surely included coffee percolators and electric stovetops.
Mr. Santullo waves at the couch. “Sit down. You want a highball?”
I have been inside Mr. Santullo’s apartment exactly five times, and each time he has offered me a highball. I look around the room. On the bookshelves, above the television, and on the kitchen counter—on every available space—I see old photographs of his wife—now long dead—and of Mr. Santullo as a young man—wealthy, happy, full of strength, flushed with cash and success—ready to take on the world. I picture him and his wife in this apartment, forty years ago, entertaining friends, passing out highballs sloshing in beaded glasses to guests milling in the dining room and on the balcony. I imagine boisterous laughter, ribald jokes, women cackling. There were probably children, too, scampering through the apartment, banging into the knees of adults, being corraled for photos and kisses.
Now I look at Mr. Santullo. He is a shrunken man, in every sens
e of the word—his frame collapsed into a bell-shaped hump, his hair white, his face thin, his teeth mere yellow and black stumps. His wife died twenty years ago. His daughter died recently. He is alone. His world has shrunk to the mere space in this apartment, and to the five yards of concrete leading up to the sidewalk outside.
At what age does it happen? At what age does the world—which you are so accustomed to commanding—collapse to a keyhole? Does it happen suddenly? Do you wake one morning and realize that it is, practically speaking, over—that your connections to the living have vanished? Or is it more gradual—a slow descent into darkness? Until this moment, I have felt sorry for Mr. Santullo, saddened about his growing dementia. Now I wonder: Is it, in fact, a mercy?
And how different am I? I am a fifty-four-year-old ex-con. My wife left me. Until three weeks ago, I barely spoke to my son. I have nothing: no family, no job, no lover. I wake up alone. I sleep alone. I will, I am certain, die alone. So maybe this is how it happens. While you try to fix all your mistakes, while you wait for your life to get better, it simply runs out.
“Yeah,” I say to Mr. Santullo. “I think I’ll have that highball.”
A highball is: whiskey, ice, and ginger ale, served in a tall glass. Although I fancy myself a talented drinker, one facile with all aspects of the hobby, I must shamefully admit: I had no idea what a highball was. Nor that it was so delicious. But then again, how could I know? I am drinking the first highball to appear in North America since 1962.
Mr. Santullo sits down on the couch beside me, leaving the bottle of Wild Turkey and the can of ginger ale open, on the bar, like a tantalizing promise.
“Kip,” he says, “I need help.”
I sip the highball. “What can I do for you, Mr. Santullo?”
“My bills,” he says. He points to the buffet at the side of the room. On it I see a stack of papers, two fingers deep, and a checkbook. “You pay them for me, all right?”
Con Ed Page 16
