by Stephen Frey
A gentle tap on my shoulder surprises me. “Could I have a word with you?”
It’s Roger, the bearded guy who sat with me in the conference room last Monday while Seaver sold us on Bedford. Today is Roger’s first day, and Seaver has assigned him to the last vacant cubicle in our group. “Okay,” I agree hesitantly.
“Let’s take a walk,” he suggests in his soft voice, stroking his whiskers and glancing furtively past me.
I nod, wondering what this is about.
Roger leads me to an unoccupied conference room on the other side of the the trading floor. The conference room is at the corner of the building, and I take a seat at the table. From here I have a panoramic view of northern Virginia and downtown Washington in the distance.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask. Roger seems troubled, but then I’ve already noticed that’s his natural expression.
He sits silently for a moment before starting. “I thought maybe we should get to know each other,” he finally says. “We’re both new kids on the block here. We ought to stick together.”
I don’t know how to respond. I spent most of last week getting my bearings and so far have made only a few small investments, much less begun to day trade the way Daniel and Slammer do. I’m impatient to put the lion’s share of my Unicom proceeds to work, and I have to make a decision on whether to follow through on the Teletekk tip. The announcement about the satellite application could come at any moment, and if I miss out I’ll feel like a fool. Roger and I will have plenty of time to get to know each other later. “Look I—”
“I don’t understand much about investing, Augustus,” he admits quickly as I make a move to leave. “I’m nervous about this whole thing.”
Roger arrived at eight o’clock this morning, a half hour after I did, and I noticed that he simply stared at his Trader One introductory page for the better part of ninety minutes before the stock markets opened. By this time on my first day last week, I had completely personalized my software. “Then what the heck are you doing here?” I ask, easing back into my chair. I need to get to work, but I want to find out why this guy would throw himself headlong into something he has no training for. “Day trading is difficult enough for people who know what they’re doing.”
“I understand that now,” he admits, looking depressed.
“Roger, I’m kind of busy and—”
“I was at the Department of Energy for the last ten years, doing budget work.” Roger’s voice is so soft I can barely hear him. “It was terrible. In at nine, gone by five. It was a total grind. I always took orders from other people. I got a steady paycheck, but it was never enough. Four percent raises a year and no bonus.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I thought joining Bedford would make me seem more exciting, especially to my wife. She’s never said anything, but I don’t think she has much respect for me anymore.” He pauses and swallows hard. “I’m worried that she’ll, well, that she’ll …”
He doesn’t finish, but I understand what he’s trying to say and the words hit home.
“But now that I’m here, I’m petrified I’m going to lose everything I’ve ever saved,” he continues.
And he could too. An inexperienced day trader can get caught in a whirlpool and drown before he even realizes he’s wet. “You were able to save half a million dollars working for the federal government over the last ten years?” I ask, remembering the discussion we had with Seaver about our initial capital.
Roger grimaces. “I exaggerated a little. Well, actually a lot.”
“How much are you really starting with?”
“Less than fifty thousand. It’s everything my wife and I have.”
“And she’s okay with this? Risking your entire savings on day trading, even when you don’t know what you’re doing? Just for the sake of being exciting?”
Roger leans back and looks up at the ceiling. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” he admits quietly. “She thinks I’m still at the DOE.”
“Oh, man,” I groan.
Roger’s taking a drastic step to try to solve his midlife crisis, but he’ll only end up making matters worse for himself. Then who knows what will happen? A shooting spree at a fast-food joint or a school? A suicide attempt from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge? Roger could become that next headline we all see flash across our portal page when he finally loses every cent he has and dives into debt to support a habit that people say can be more addictive than crack. And Roger will lose everything if he doesn’t get very smart very fast. The capital markets are brutally efficient, constantly chewing up and spitting out the weak and the naive.
“I figured I’d make a bunch of money here and surprise my wife with the cash. Then she wouldn’t care when I told her I had quit the DOE and made the money day trading.”
“Day trading is tough, Roger,” I say firmly, as though I’m an expert. “What made you think you could be successful right away without any experience?”
“I’ve got this neighbor who’s spent the past two years bragging about how much money he’s made investing in all of these dot-coms. My wife lit up every time he started talking about how he’s into this stock or that one, and the guy has been buying new furniture and flashy cars. Even a boat. He’s no rocket scientist so I figured I could do the same thing.” Roger shakes his head. “But get this. Last night he and I were in the backyard watching our kids chase fireflies while it was getting dark, and he lets on that he hasn’t really made much money in the stock market after all. In fact, he’s lost a lot lately. He’s bought all of the new stuff on credit, and now the bill collectors are closing in on him. He actually asked me for a loan. He almost broke down in tears, and it shook me. When I came in here this morning I was paralyzed thinking about how he’s going to lose everything. I had a couple of stocks I wanted to buy, opportunities he told me about, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I was worried I’d end up like him. I mean, who is he to make recommendations anyway?” Roger stops stroking his beard. “Will you help me, Augustus?” he pleads. “It seems like you know what you’re doing. I could tell Seaver was impressed with you.” Roger hesitates. “I guess that Slammer guy knows what he’s doing too, but frankly, he’s a prick. I doubt he’d be very helpful.”
The last thing I need right now is a pupil. I’ve gotten off to a good start with Unicom, but I don’t know how I’ll react when things go against me the first time—which they inevitably will. Everybody hits a slump sooner or later.
“I’m losing my wife, Augustus. I can feel it.”
I lean forward and rub my eyes. This is no good.
“I’ll pay you,” he offers desperately. “I’ll give you a share of my profits.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Roger looks up. He’s heard a friendly tone. “I don’t?”
I don’t need a second shadow, but I feel Roger’s pain, and down deep I like to help people. I don’t want to see him lose everything, nor do I want him coming into the office one day brandishing a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun like some deranged postal worker who’s finally realized he can’t ever get ahead because the mail will never stop coming. “I can’t work with you right now, but if you stick around after the markets close today, I’ll help you personalize your Trader One and we’ll go over a couple of basics.” He breaks into a wide grin. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, and that makes me feel good. “But promise me this,” I say gravely, pointing at him. “Don’t execute a single trade until we talk.”
“I won’t. Thanks, thanks a lot,” he says graciously. “I’ll let you get back to work. I won’t take any more of your—”
I hold up my hand to indicate that our conversation is over, and suddenly I feel like Don Corleone. Roger nods obediently and slips out the doorway into the trading room. I know I’ve just committed a cardinal sin in the day trading game. Never take on another person’s problems because ultimately you’ll have enough of your own. But what the hell, he seems nice enough, and I understand where he’s coming from.
>
Anna comes into the conference room after Roger leaves. She isn’t the blue-eyed blond type I’m typically attracted to, but her sexy body, provocative wardrobe, and Spanish accent make her incredibly seductive.
“Good morning, Augustus.”
“Hi.”
“This came for you a few minutes ago.” She hands me a Federal Express package that’s already been opened.
“Thanks.”
“Talk to you later,” she says with a quick smile.
Inside the FedEx package is a letter-size envelope, and the return address is that of the Great Western Insurance Company. The letter inside makes my mouth run dry. It explains that Great Western has received my claim and that “once a routine investigation is completed without exception, the payee, Augustus McKnight, shall receive $1,000,000.” The amount is typed in bold.
The letter shakes as I hold it up and stare at the bold type. A million dollars. I often paid bills months late—only when I thought creditors were about to cut off a utility or send a collector to our door to repossess something—because Melanie and I literally had no money in our account. Now, a few weeks after bouncing a four-hundred-dollar check, I’m about to bank over a million. If Melanie and I could have had this kind of money, our lives would have been so much better, I think to myself, choking up as I flash on the image of her body lying on that silver gurney.
“Augustus.” It’s Anna again.
I quickly push the tips of my thumb and forefinger to the corners of my eyes to conceal my emotion. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”
“It’s okay. What’s up?”
“There’s a man in the lobby to see you.”
I glance up into her huge brown eyes. “Who is it?”
“He says he’s a detective with the Washington, D.C., police department.”
I follow Anna’s catwalk stride back through the trading floor and out into the lobby, wondering what Reggie wants. Perhaps there’s been a break in the case, but how in the hell did he find me here? The buzz of voices fades as the doors swing shut behind me and I see Reggie Dorsey relaxing on the couch.
“Hello, Augustus,” he says pleasantly, rising to meet me in front of Anna’s desk.
I can tell she’s listening closely to what we’re saying even as she pretends to focus on sorting mail. “Good morning, Reggie. Let’s go in there,” I suggest, taking him by the elbow and guiding him away from her prying ears toward the conference room off the lobby where Seaver, Roger, and I met last week.
“How have you been?” he asks, sitting down in the chair at the head of the table.
“All right. Still hurting.”
“Started a new job, I see.”
“Yes.” I haven’t spoken to Reggie since he stopped by the house more than a week and a half ago. “How did you know I was here? I don’t remember telling you I was coming to Bedford.”
“We’ll get to that,” he replies, brushing aside my question. “I need to ask you a few things first.”
I’m suddenly aware that the Great Western envelope is sticking out of my shirt pocket. I can’t remember how I slid it in there—with the return address visible or not. His eyes flicker down to my chest, but I can’t read anything in his glance. I want to look down, want to hide the envelope because he might get the wrong idea, but, of course, I can’t do that now.
Reggie crosses his arms and his sports jacket rides up, exposing thick forearms. “How were you and Melanie getting along in the months before her death?”
He’s never started a conversation like this before, and I’m on the defensive immediately. “I don’t understand.” I clasp my hands together tightly beneath the table and feel cool perspiration between my fingers.
“Any arguments or fights?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. “What’s going on here, Reggie?”
“What was ordinary?”
He pays no attention to my request for an explanation. “We argued once in a while.”
“About what?”
“Fall fashions, usually.”
“Come on, Augustus.”
“Oh, I see. I answer you, but you ignore me.”
“Augustus.”
“We didn’t have much money, which was difficult.” I shouldn’t have to endure this kind of questioning. “Our financial situation was frustrating for both of us. We couldn’t buy things we wanted or take nice vacations. We saw lots of people our age enjoying the good life, and we felt we were missing out. That caused problems. I told you all this the last time you stopped by the house. I’ve been very honest with you.”
“Do you have any reason not to be honest with me?”
“Of course not.” I think back to the speech Reggie delivered in his car after giving me a ride home from the morgue. The one about asking me questions that might upset me. About how he would just be doing his job. This is what he was talking about. He’s given me a few days to recover, and now he’s treating me like a suspect. There won’t be any sympathy for me from now on because, as he warned me, he doesn’t care about my feelings. He only cares about finding Melanie’s killer.
Reggie leans forward, elbows on the table. “So you fought over money.” He opens his hands, palms up like a minister, and his voice takes on a compassionate quality. “Most couples do. I bet Melanie was the one who wanted to spend all the money, and you wouldn’t let her. Weren’t you the one who managed the finances?” He shakes his head. “That’s a tough job. I know. I manage the money in my household.”
I’ve been to this movie before. The cop whose manner is typically brusque turns sympathetic when he wants something. Russell Lake and Reggie Dorsey are alike in this way. “I was the one who paid the bills,” I confirm calmly. “I knew how little money we had. Melanie didn’t want to know.”
“She wanted all those nice clothes and jewelry, like any woman does. She probably went to that Body Beautiful shop in the strip mall near your house for a manicure once a week. Damn, there’s thirty bucks up in smoke.” He chuckles without a hint of a smile. “My wife does the same thing. But those things are important to women and we men have to realize that.”
“True.” Reggie’s right. Melanie had to have her nails done every Wednesday or she was miserable. Like some people have to have coffee first thing in the morning or they turn into the creature from the black lagoon. And it was thirty-five dollars for each visit to Body Beautiful, not thirty. I wonder what else Reggie knows about our life together.
“Money is a problem for almost every couple. Ever argue about anything else?” he asks.
I feel like I ought to tell Reggie I need a lawyer present, but I don’t want to take the conversation to that level. He probably knows that. He’s got experience in these matters and I’m naive. “Little stuff. Everyday things. Nothing important.”
Reggie’s eyes narrow as they pan down again, then flicker back to mine. “Did the arguments ever become violent?”
I take a deep breath, thinking through my answer. I want to be very careful here. “Melanie had a temper. Her friends will tell you that.”
“They already have, Augustus.”
I can feel his eyes boring into me, and after a few moments of silence I feel compelled to say something. “She would …” I hesitate, uncertain of how much I should reveal.
“What, Augustus? She would what?”
“She would become physical once in a while when we argued. You know, throw a lamp or something. Nothing really bad, though. And I never did anything to her,” I add quickly.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Never pushed her down or restrained her to protect yourself?”
I press my lips tightly together. “I might have pushed her away once or twice, when she’d get in my face and start yelling. But, as you said, it was simply to protect myself. I’m a big man but she could have hurt me if she wanted to. Some people might not understand that, but it’s true.”
“She was tall and
in excellent physical condition according to the coroner’s report. I’m sure she could get your attention,” Reggie agrees. “I’ve seen tiny women beat the hell out of men bigger than you.”
We’re back at the movie. Second scene.
Reggie removes a pack of smokes from his jacket and puts one in his mouth, then takes out a lighter and holds the flame several inches from the end of the cigarette. Finally he extinguishes the flame without lighting the cigarette and stows the lighter back in his jacket with a groan. “It’s a real pain in the ass trying to quit,” he mutters.
“I can imagine.”
“But I want to watch my grandchildren grow up, you know? I want to be around to see them graduate from college.”
I nod, hoping we’re done with the interrogation. “How many do you have?”
“Four.”
“How old are they?”
“Seven, five, three, and two,” he says proudly with a wide smile. I’ve noticed that he doesn’t smile a whole lot.
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, it is.” He takes a long whiff of the unlit tobacco, then looks up at me. “Did you and your wife have a normal sex life?”
The interrogation isn’t over. “What kind of question is that? Jesus!” Right away I wish I could take back my outburst, but I’m being cooperative. I don’t think my sex life is any business of the Washington police.
“You’ve been so helpful up until now, Augustus,” Reggie says regretfully, as if I’ve let him down. Then he just looks at me, waiting.
“We had sex a few times a month,” I say after a long pause. God, I hate dead air. “Maybe once a week. We were married for eleven years. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t new and different after all that time.”
“Of course it wasn’t. You both probably needed to use your imaginations to get things going. Who usually initiated it during the last year?”
