by Adam Mitzner
The lunchtime crowd is sparse, comprised mainly of men who Jonathan speculates must be businessmen by virtue of the fact that they’re wearing ties, even though none are in full suits. There are two tables of women in the back who appear to be well into their sixties, and Jonathan tries to imagine what event brings together a group of that age. A birthday party, maybe?
All thoughts leave his head when he sees Jackie, however. She’s seated next to the window, the sun streaming through, backlighting her to angelic effect. That she’s wearing a white silk top reinforces the point. It strains against her perfect breasts, exposing the outline of her bra. Twenty-five years later, and he’s still imagining whether Jacqueline Lawson’s bra is lace. Some dreams never die, apparently.
“Hey there,” she says, getting up. She kisses Jonathan lightly on the cheek, and he breathes in her scent.
When he met Natasha, Jonathan thought she might just be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but even then his hesitation was due to his recollection of the teenage Jacqueline Lawson. Sitting beside Jackie now, he knows that Natasha would turn more heads—after all, a fifteen-year age gap is too much for any fortysomething woman to overcome, no matter how beautiful. Still, Jonathan doubts that Natasha will look this damn good at forty-three.
“I haven’t been here since . . . wow, forever.” Jackie laughs.
“I gather the Château isn’t the in-spot anymore. Had I known, I would have picked someplace else.”
“Oh, it’s not that. I . . . I guess I just don’t go out much anymore.”
Jonathan hears some sadness in the disclosure, a trace of marital discord. Jackie Lawson must feel she’s being taken for granted by her husband, which Jonathan considers a very good thing for him.
The waitress asks whether there’s anything they want to drink, but they give her their full orders. For Jackie that’s a glass of white wine and a salad Niçoise, and Jonathan selects the old standby of a burger and a beer.
“I’m so glad that you reached out to me,” Jackie says when the waitress leaves. “To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of our little conversation the other night, and there was a part of me afterward that thought maybe I’d imagined it. So, when you texted, at least it confirmed that I’m not going completely insane.”
Jonathan can tell she’s nervous. Her eyes dart all around the restaurant and seem particularly attuned to the front door. He understands her concern, of course. If anyone saw her with a male stranger, word would get back to her husband.
He sees her paranoia as yet another hopeful sign. It means she hasn’t told Rick that she’s here, and that suggests she’s thinking that this may lead somewhere. Same as he is.
“Didn’t you tell me at the reunion that this was my fantasy?” he says with a laugh. “Why then would you imagine it? Is it every prom queen’s dream to have dinner with the king of the high school nerds after twenty-five years?”
“Now you’re just fishing, Johnny . . . I mean, Jonathan. I know you’ve done very well for yourself. International man of mystery, as it were. There was talk at the reunion that reminded me of that scene in The Great Gatsby. You know, when the party guests are speculating as to how Gatsby earned his fortune.”
“Did anyone think I was a bootlegger?”
She laughs. “No, but I did hear a lot of different theories. So, why don’t you tell me the truth?”
The truth. No, Jonathan’s not going there. That’s for damn sure.
“I’m an arbitrageur,” Jonathan says matter-of-factly, although he knows that will prompt her to request further clarification.
Which she does, right on cue. “And that means what, exactly?”
This gives Jonathan license to launch into the cocktail-party explanation he’s used a thousand times before. “It’s a fancy term for saying that I’m a money manager. My fund invests in different currencies. Rubles. Dollars. The euro. This is obviously an oversimplification, but remember the transitive property from third-grade math? If a dollar equals two euros, and two euros equals three rubles, then three rubles should equal one dollar, right? Well, in the financial markets, it’s usually off a bit, so two-point-nine rubles will equal one dollar. They have to come into alignment at some point, and so I invest heavily on that event happening. It doesn’t matter how the alignment occurs—if the dollar goes down or the ruble goes up; so long as the alignment happens—which it always will eventually—my fund makes money.”
“Sounds to me like you’re a professional romantic,” she says. “Investing in the belief that the world will return to the way it’s supposed to be.”
Jonathan is impressed. “I never thought of it that way. Huh. I may just have to change my business card now.”
She smiles, and Jonathan feels the full force of Jackie’s power. It’s as if he is basking in a warm, bright sun. He can’t believe that he’s actually sharing a table with Jacqueline Lawson. The It Girl of East Carlisle High School, class of 1991. The girl every boy wanted to have and every girl wanted to be.
“And how about you?” he asks. “Bring me up to speed with how the last couple of decades have treated Jacqueline Lawson Williams.”
She smiles again, but this time it’s as if it emanates from a different person altogether. It tells Jonathan more than words ever could that the past twenty-five years have not treated Jackie kindly.
“Well, my psychology degree turned out to be exactly the waste of forty thousand dollars that my father had predicted,” she begins. “I was accepted to a few master’s programs, and the plan was to become a child psychologist, but my dad died, which made grad school beyond my budget, and Rick wanted to get married and . . . I know, it’s the old story . . . but I have two beautiful children. They’re both students at good ol’ ECHS. Robert is a senior and the quarterback of the Bears, and Emma is my baby. She’s a freshman, although she prefers the term freshperson.”
Jackie forces one last smile. It’s the saddest Jonathan’s ever seen on Jacqueline Lawson. “So tell me about your wife,” she says.
“Her name is Natasha. She’s Russian by birth, but has been living in the States since she was around five. Grew up in Texas, of all places, but went to college and grad school on the East Coast. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed.” He shrugs.
“I hate her already.” Jackie laughs.
“And I’m slightly embarrassed to say I’m nothing if not a cliché.” He gives her a sheepish grin. “She’s young, too. Twenty-eight.”
“Now I really hate her.”
Jackie says this with her old smile back in place. It tells Jonathan that despite her words, she doesn’t perceive Natasha as a threat.
The food arrives, and the waitress asks whether they’d like another round of drinks. Jackie says, “I’m game if you are,” and Jonathan quickly agrees. The wine has seemingly relaxed Jackie. She’s no longer looking toward the door each time a new diner arrives.
Their banter is easy, and more than a little flirtatious. Jackie’s certainly making all the right body movements—the flip of her hair, the soft laughter at his jokes, the light touches of his arm when she speaks. Jonathan wonders how far she’s going to let this go, and he’s come to the conclusion that the sky’s the limit.
When the check comes, Jonathan grabs it.
“We should split it,” Jackie says.
“No. I asked, so I pay. If you ask the next time, then you can pay.”
Jackie doesn’t hesitate. “How about Wednesday night? Rick plays poker and he’s usually out late.”
“Perfect,” Jonathan says.
He waits a beat, then decides to throw caution to the wind. “Hey . . . crazy thought here. Would you mind terribly . . . if I cooked for you? The only reason I bring that up is that you seem a little nervous about being out in public.”
Jackie’s slow to answer, and Jonathan is tempted to withdraw the offer, or reiterate that his intentions are strictly honorable. But he tells himself to wait, to trust his judgment. How many times on the trading floor ha
d others been yelling for them to sell or they’d lose their shirts, and he had held it together knowing that the position would hit? It was the same thing here. He had read Jackie correctly. He knew it. She wasn’t concerned about his intentions; she welcomed them.
“Honestly, that would be . . . really wonderful,” she says. “Thank you.”
And then she gives him a smile to die for.
* * *
After they say good-bye with another exchange of cheek kisses, Jonathan heads to Lakeview for his daily visit with his father. He greets Yorlene by name and asks how she’s been before segueing to inquiring about his father’s condition.
“He was very talkative this morning,” Yorlene says. “I really think your presence has been therapeutic for him. He seems . . . happier, I think.”
“How can you tell?” Jonathan says. “I mean, the happier part?”
“Because he’s smiling, which he didn’t do much when he first got here.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t do it much my whole life,” Jonathan remarks.
Yorlene’s smile vanishes, her way of telling Jonathan that she doesn’t approve of his disrespecting his father. “Well . . . he’s smiling now. Go see for yourself.”
William Caine is sleeping when Jonathan enters his room. He looks more disheveled than in prior days, something akin to a homeless man; Jonathan realizes that’s because Dad’s sporting a few days of gray beard stubble. It prompts Jonathan to consider other personal hygiene issues, so he checks his father’s fingernails and satisfies himself that he’s being reasonably groomed.
“Can I ask how often is he bathed and shaved?” Jonathan asks Yorlene when he comes back into the hallway.
“Every three days,” Yorlene says. “It should have been done today, but . . . perhaps they were running late or something. I’ll make sure it happens tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks. And does he get any exercise? So far, I’ve just seen him in bed.”
“No, not really. It’s hard for him to stand. But maybe when he wakes up, you can take him outside to the patio. It would do him good to get some fresh air.”
Jonathan returns to his father’s room and settles into the vinyl recliner beside the bed. He turns on the television and flicks past the business channels that once so consumed him. He couldn’t care less about the market’s fluctuations these days. Instead he selects an old movie, the name of which he doesn’t know, and the cable service at Lakeview unfortunately doesn’t come with an on-screen guide. It stars Steve McQueen as a race-car driver.
About an hour later, William Caine awakes and declares himself hungry.
“Why don’t we have a snack outside?” Jonathan says.
His father doesn’t look the least bit surprised that he had been alone when he fell asleep and is now in his son’s company. What seems to throw him, however, is the concept that anything exists beyond this room.
“Outside . . . ?”
“Yeah. The nurse, you know, Yorlene, she said it was okay if we went outside for a little bit. Get some fresh air.”
Jonathan thinks he sees assent in his father’s eyes, but words don’t follow. That’s good enough for Jonathan, however, and he attempts to resurrect his father from his hospital bed. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that the maneuver requires professional assistance. He calls for Yorlene’s help and, a few minutes later, a large man in blue scrubs enters the room and engineers the lifting of William Caine’s fragile body from bed to wheelchair.
“Do you want to stop for something to eat?” Jonathan asks as he rolls his father down the corridor.
“Something to eat?” his father asks, apparently failing to remember his request from several minutes earlier.
“You said you were hungry.”
“Oh. Okay. What do they have?”
“I don’t know. We’ll ask the nurse.”
It’s not Yorlene, but a different woman, one whom Jonathan hasn’t encountered before, who is now manning the nurses’ station. She tells them that they’re in between meal service, and dinner won’t be available for another hour or so.
“You can get something in the vending machines, though,” she adds.
“Is that okay for him?” Jonathan asks.
“Yes, of course. Potato chips are good for the soul. But if you plan on going outside, I would recommend taking a blanket or something.” Her head disappears behind the desk, and she emerges holding a blue swath of cloth, which must be what accounts for a blanket at Lakeview.
Jonathan thanks her and tucks the corners around his father’s legs and arms. He pushes the wheelchair down the corridor, passing the open doors of the other residents’ rooms. As he peeks in, he sees that most are bedridden and alone. Jonathan feels a sense of satisfaction in the conviction that he stepped up and did the right thing by his father, and then that pride runs away as he recognizes that his reason for being here is far from pure.
In the visitor room, he asks his father what kind of chips he’d like, fully expecting his inquiry to be met with a childlike response. What are chips? Or Rainbow flavor.
Instead his father says, “Do they have salt and vinegar?”
To Jonathan’s surprise, they do. “Yeah.”
“Sometimes they’re out,” his father says. “And, Johnny, could you get me a Coke, too?”
Snacks and beverage in hand, Jonathan follows the signs for the patio while pushing his father along. Although Jonathan had been expecting little more than a small slab on cement, the space is landscaped with large trees on either end, and at last he sees the elusive lake that gives the hospital its name.
They come to a stop in the center, to take full advantage of the sunshine. Jonathan opens the bag of chips for his father, and then screws off the soda bottle’s top. Even though it’s cold outside, the sun is strong, and Jonathan finds the experience far more pleasant than being cooped up in a hospital room.
“Are you cold, Dad?” he asks.
“No,” his father says, reaching in for a chip. “You want one?”
“Sure,” Jonathan says, and reaches into the bag.
It’s an actual father-son moment, Jonathan thinks to himself. He certainly can’t remember the last one they shared.
9
July
The first two-hundred-and-fifty-million redemption occurred without a hitch. As Jonathan had predicted, there wasn’t a peep out of Compliance. The money that came in from Goldenberg and Solomon undoubtedly assuaged whatever concerns registered from the watchdogs at Harper Sawyer, none the wiser that the fund was teetering on the brink.
Jonathan wrote the agreement with Goldenberg himself, and no one else at the firm had even reviewed it. The shit wouldn’t hit the fan on that one for another year, when Goldenberg demanded his two hundred million, and by that time, Jonathan hoped he’d have the profits from which to pay. And Solomon’s hundred-million investment came in without raising any eyebrows at all. Just another longtime investor trying to get more.
As luck would have it, a late-week rally in the Indian markets had even smoothed over Jonathan’s mismarking of the position. As a result, paying Ross the first two hundred and fifty million had hardly even decreased the fund’s net asset value.
It was the next quarter-billion tranche that would test Jonathan’s mettle—and Harper Sawyer’s oversight functions. Raising new money wasn’t an option any longer, as Jonathan had tapped his only ready sources. He now had no other choice but to sell off the part of the position that hedged the ruble against further decline. Each day a little more, careful not to liquidate so much as to raise flags with Compliance (or even the other traders on the desk) that the fund was now exposed to market risk.
At the beginning of the second week of this strategy, Haresh unexpectedly follows Jonathan into the men’s room—their safe house, as it were. This time, it’s Haresh who checks the stalls and turns on the faucets.
“This is your plan?” Haresh says.
“It’s working, right?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, so long as the ruble keeps rising. But what happens if it goes the other way?”
“It’s a calculated risk, Haresh. The ruble is down way below its fifty-two-week low, and the MICEX is up. The odds must be seventy-five percent or better that the position is going to align with the ruble rising. When that happens, we’ll have more than enough to put the hedge back on, and pay off Ross in full.”
Haresh’s response is a tight grimace. Clearly he wishes that there was another way. Then, again, Jonathan does, too.
Without the hedge, Jonathan was just another gambler. He was betting everything that the currencies would align because the ruble rose, but now he was doing so without making the contra-investments that hedged the position. In other words, he was all in, without a net to save him. As long as the ruble ascended, he was golden, but if it dropped much further, the entire fund would be wiped out.
“And if you’re wrong?” Haresh asks, even though he undoubtedly knows the answer.
“Then I’m barely more fucked than I am now,” Jonathan says.
* * *
Two weeks before Ross submitted his redemption demand, Jonathan made the $450,000 up-front payment on an oceanfront rental in East Hampton, “from MD to LD,” meaning from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Jonathan sometimes wonders whether he would have been so quick to plunk the money down if he’d known how precarious his world was going to turn. But he always concludes that of course he would have. It’s the motto he lives by—you ride her until she throws you, or you don’t ride her at all. That and I want what I want. In this case, the two credos merged perfectly.
The house is a five-bedroom, six-bath traditional with a wraparound porch. Of course, that was four bedrooms and five baths more than the two of them needed, but every house with a panoramic view of the ocean was similarly proportioned.
