by Chris Knopf
“I was just remembering those games at the Silver Spoon. Whithers and Charlie Garmin, Edgar Rose, the producer, ah, what’s-his-name, Balducci, Enrico Balducci, developer, vintner—that’s another word for winemaker. Has a place on the North Fork. I don’t remember who else.”
“Good recall.”
“I remember a lot of stuff, Sam. But only stupid stuff. It’s a curse. Can’t remember where I put my checkbook or whether it’s Dotty’s birthday or the day my wife died. But this wasn’t that hard. Big topic of conversation during the late late shift. It’s tough when you’re a waiter or a bartender—where do you go when you’re done work? The guys from the Spoon would come into the Pequot after knocking off, knowing we’d serve them as long as they wanted. I used to consider closing hours sort of an academic concept.”
“A. legal theory.”
“Exactly.”
With breakfast finished I helped Hodges clean up and get the cockpit of the boat shipshape. I was about to start jogging back to Oak Point when he suggested sailing me back, since he was planning to cruise up to Sag Harbor to relieve Dotty, who’d opened the joint and would be working through lunch. After almost breaking his neck, and succeeding with a stack of ribs, Hodges was having trouble working the eight-, ten-hour days he’d worked for forty years. He’d been lucky enough to find a kid to manage the kitchen, and the rest Dotty could handle on her own, more or less. The medical people had wanted to keep him in physical therapy, but he felt that’s what sailboats were for, and since he already owned one, a cruise up across the Little Peconic, atop Noyac Bay and under Shelter Island to Sag Harbor every once in a while was therapy enough.
We cast off the dock lines and Hodges motored out of the slip and eased along the dock-lined channel and out into Hawk Pond. The light delivered by the Canadian air was hard and brittle, but would deepen as the sun burned up and swept away the morning haze. The tall grasses that filled the marshland bordering the pond swayed in the wind, and cormorants were lining up along the booms of the boats moored in the pond to dry out their wings and crap white graffiti all over the blue-and-tan sail covers. The wind was on our nose through most of the course. Then the channel made a right turn and it hit the port side hard enough to heel us over, an accomplishment given the heavy displacement of Hodges’s stolid old Gulf Star. I checked the wind gauge, which showed around thirteen knots, which was high for the protected reaches of Hawk Pond. Ten minutes later we were through the cut and out into the Little Peconic, beating upwind under power through a succession of buoys that led to the deep water. The boat started to meet a stiff chop shoved up by the northwesterly, but was unperturbed. The gauge showed about fifteen knots of actual wind, which wasn’t much of a challenge for the heavy sea-worn cruiser now that we were underway. Hodges stood behind the wheel and squinted into the light spray that bounced off the dodger, one hand to keep us on course, the other to finish his cup of coffee. I lit a cigarette and followed suit, savoring the bitter concoction like a crystal snifter of vintage brandy. The Shih Tzus were happily stowed below, but Eddie was still out on the bow, face to the wind, fur combed back, legs spread to compensate for the motion of the boat, watchful but otherwise composed.
Once clear of the buoys and into open water, Hodges came up into the wind and I helped him hoist the mainsail. The main halyard winch was in sore need of lubrication, and the halyard itself was bristling with frayed cords, but we got the big sail up and tight behind the mast, so Hodges could fall off toward Sag Harbor and kill the engine. This was my favorite moment, when the sounds of the tightening sails and the gentle slap of water on the hull, the creak and rattle of the rigging replace the chug and rumble of the little diesel, and the vertiginous slant of the boat as she finds her balance and accelerates up into the wind tells you the hand of nature is now engaged in your propulsion, and all pretense of human supremacy is rendered inconsequential.
Without waiting for Hodges to ask, I unfurled the jib and set it a crank or two shy of the lifelines, flattening the chaotic telltales and pulling the boat up close to her hull speed. I knew from a lifetime of plying the waters of the Little Peconic that we needed to be tight to the wind to make decent headway toward a place where he could drop me off and still have a reasonable sail up through the messy race above Jessup’s Neck and on to Sag Harbor. After tightening and tailing off the jib sheets I looked back at Hodges manning the helm and he grinned, as all seaman do under a set of wind-filled sails and a sunny day. I saw him then as a young man, rough and ugly but receptive to the resonance of sun and salted air, and the cruel unpredictability of the water, the way it seduced you into numb devotion, blind to its terrors until it was too late.
“You know, in about four hours we could have this thing clear of Montauk and be on our way to France. Or the coast of Africa,” he yelled over the wind.
“We could see the lions playing on the beach.”
“Or stroll down the Champs Élysées.”
“Fine if you’re into Pernod.”
“All talk and no action. Tighten down that boomvang, will you?”
Eddie worked his way back toward the cockpit down the windward side of the boat on cautious legs, casting occasional glances over the gunwale at the foam churning out from the hull. For a rejected lubber of a mutt he had great instincts for the random kick and pull of sea movement, demonstrated on both Hodges’s old cruiser and Burton’s elegant thoroughbred. I was poised for a leap across the deck if he got into trouble, but as always, he slalomed through the rigging and bounded nimbly into the cockpit.
“Where’s the catch? I was expecting a mouthful of bass.”
Instead he gave me the privilege of scratching under his chin for a few seconds before scooting down the companion-way to join the Shih Tzus.
Our point of sail exposed us to the full brunt of the rising sun as it crested the top of the short ridge that ran like a leafy spine down the center of the South Fork. Along the coast were little bay-front cottages like mine, slowly but inevitably succumbing to demolition and rebirth. I’d been watching the process from the dirt side as I jogged along the coastal sand roads, but you could see it better out here on the bay. Some of the new houses were very beautiful, architectural jewels crafted by gentle, thoughtful people in cool, sophisticated studios in East Hampton, or Amagansett, or high above the tangle of city streets. Others were clumsy or idiotic derivations, prideful, foolish assertions of self-importance or blind ignorance.
As it always was, as it always will be.
“What say we haul over to Jessup’s Neck, then come back around to drop you off,” said Hodges. “We’re doing over six knots. Gives us plenty of time.”
“No argument here. All I have to do today is help stick a Giant Finger Up the Ass of Authority.”
“I thought you were on a reform kick.”
“Technical assistance only.”
I told him what I knew about Butch Ellington’s project; Amanda had left me a note that the Council Rock was in session later that afternoon. Hodges made some trenchant comment about the dynamic tension between the forces of abstract and representational art, though not quite in those words, but otherwise kept his concentration on steering the boat toward Jessup’s Neck, the sandy wooded peninsula and bird refuge that defined the line between the Little Peconic and Noyac Bays. He took us just shy of the shallow water along the beach before cranking the wheel hard and bringing us about, interrupting the breezy peace with the clamor and commotion of flapping sails as we stuck the bow through the wind and retrimmed for the trip back.
“I never had what you’d call a cuddly relationship with authority myself over the years,” said Hodges. “But I’m not sure I’d want to be sticking them with any fingers, assuming you could find the point of entry.”
“Always the danger they’ll stick you back.”
“That’s my thinking.”
In what felt like a few minutes we were off the pebble beach at the tip of Oak Point. I furled the jib and Hodges dropped the mainsail into a l
oose pile between the lazy jacks, and Eddie bounded up from below to watch me drop the anchor off a roller on the bow. He knew all this activity preceded a trip to shore in the dinghy, another chance to set a bold figure at the bow of the inflatable as it shot across the water. I cinched a piece of dock line around his collar just to be safe, while Hodges manned the smelly antique outboard that drove the dinghy into shore. I’d seen my cottage, and what was once Reginas, from the water side a million times, though the sight never quite lost its novelty. The houses from a distance looked like miniatures, scale models dwarfed by the surrounding oak trees and the wooded hills beyond.
As we closed in on the beach I could see Amanda in her recliner settled in with book and bikini. Next door was another figure, sitting in one of my Adirondack chairs. Also a woman, with a flare of kinky strawberry-blond hair and a white eye patch. She looked agitated, even from several hundred yards, waving what looked like a big beige-colored envelope.
“Yeah, she’s better all right,” I yelled to Hodges over the snarl of the old two-cycle outboard. “God help me.”
NINETEEN
EDDIE AND I waded in the last few feet so Hodges could spin the dinghy around without grounding the propeller and head back to his boat, affording Jackie the special joy of being greeted by a wet, sandy dog.
“Love you, too, Eddie, get the hell off of me. That heap of yours was in the drive, so I thought you were jogging.”
She looked a lot better than the last time I’d seen her. Someone had evolved my bandage redesign into something even more elegantly discreet. And her color was back. Kind of a fleshy spotted pink.
“You were half right. Want some coffee?”
She held up the envelope, which turned out to be a manila file folder.
“Yes. And a conversation.”
I really didn’t need any more coffee, I just wanted to get the taste of Hodges’s hand-picked beans out of my mouth. When I got back she had the folder open on her lap, with a binder clip securing the short stack of papers against the breeze coming off the water. She had a pen stuck in her mouth and a pencil behind her ear, probably forgotten there.
“The first thing to decide,” she said, “is whether to burn these right away or wait until tonight when we might need the heat.”
“Okay I’m listening.”
“Most of the stuff is blacked out. Understandably, given the risk he was already taking.”
“Who?”
“Web.”
“You did it.”
“Kind of. Took a protracted game of twenty questions. More like twenty thousand. And things like, if I’m getting warm, hum a few bars of La Marseillaise.’”
“Takes persistence.”
“And a little tit, per your suggestion. Though I’d have done that anyway.”
“And?”
She pulled a piece of yellow legal paper out of the middle of the stack and clipped it on the top. It was covered with her handwriting. She put it up to her chest and cleared her throat.
“Where do you think Jonathan ranked in his class at the Harvard Business School?”
“Is this another twenty questions?”
“Come on. You’d do it to me.”
“I don’t know. First.”
“Sure should’ve, given his performance. Though it’s hard to graduate at the top of your class when you never graduate.”
“Really.”
“Or even matriculate. Not according to Harvard. And they’re sticklers on things like admission and tuition.”
“He didn’t go?”
“Not officially. He somehow managed to sneak into some courses and even submitted papers that impressed his professors, until they discovered he wasn’t actually enrolled in the school.”
“Gosh.”
“All I have is the copy of a memo from one of his professors to the Dean of Admissions. Alternately apologetic, or defensive, about getting snookered, and full of admiration for the quality of Jonathan’s work. It ends with something like, if Mr. Eldridge ever decides to engage with the university in an appropriate fashion, assuming the absence of legal encumbrances, I fully recommend we consider his candidacy very seriously, yadda, yadda.’ I think Web let me see this as a good summary of the situation. Took me about three stanzas into the French national anthem, but I got the gist.”
I struggled to remember the drab little office in Riverhead. One of the few adornments was a wall partially covered with framed documents, the kind with Old English script inked in with the name Jonathan Eldridge. I thought I could visualize a diploma from Harvard, but it might have been a manufactured memory, born of another file I got from Joe Sullivan that held Jonathan’s resume.
Jackie had the look of canary-fed cat.
“Okay I bet there’s more,” I said to her.
“Nobody said you had to be a graduate of Harvard to be a stockbroker, or even a financial adviser. So what’s the big deal, you might ask.”
“Rhetorically, like they do at Harvard.”
“I mean, even Alena has an NASD Series 7 broker’s license, which is the basic, national thing. Jonathan would have to have at least that, and probably a Series 63, which you get from New York State. And in order to legally perform the duties of a licensed financial consultant, he’d naturally have a Series 65. Beyond that, he’d need to be registered in all the states his clients live in, not just New York, and registered with the New York Stock Exchange, since he put through trades.”
The framed documents came back into my mind’s eye. I tried to remember if there were any other wall decorations, but I didn’t think so. They were behind his desk, which faced Alenas, so she probably had the specifics branded into her consciousness. Clients and prospects would call, she’d always be first to pick up the phone. Answer any questions, provide an overview of the firm’s capabilities and credentials. Confident and reassuring, convincingly supportive of her boss’s attainments and proficiency, because she was convinced herself.
“You’re kidding.”
“None of em. And I looked, trust me. Checked with the NASD, the stock exchange, state agencies, nothing. Never took the tests, much less secured the licenses.”
For the first time since seeing him throw the tennis ball for his French poodle, I wanted to have a conversation with Jonathan Eldridge. Suddenly I desperately wanted to get a close look at his face, listen to his speech, test his body language. He’d always just been the guy some other guy blew up, interesting more for the lack of interest he inspired. More than a caricature, but easily categorized—the tight-assed financial wonk, the circumspect researcher, settled comfortably within his narrow forte, calibrating his own serenity as carefully as his investment recommendations. A man engaged in one of the most stressful occupations you could choose in a way that precisely established the optimum level of stress. Jonathan Eldridge, once almost two-dimensional, was now fractured into an infinity of possibilities, like the splinters of a broken window. Or rather, everything I’d thought about him up to then simply winked out of existence, and in its place a blank unknown appeared, all questions and no answers.
Like a cheap theatrical device, my brain replayed the whole thing in reverse, searching for another start point. As I once did in the face of unexpected and catastrophic systems failure, I needed a way to reset the operating assumptions.
I stood up.
“I need another cup of coffee.”
Jackie held up her manila folder.
“You don’t want to hear the rest?”
“Okay,” I said, sitting back down.
“Alena was dead right on her hostiles list, at least for two of them, and yes I’m sorry I was mean to Alena, just don’t make me apologize every time I mention her name.”
“Which two?”
“Back up. Once you get past the fact that Jonathan had zero academic or regulatory sanction, he was very good at picking stocks and managing portfolios. The logistics were actually quite easy. Jonathan Eldridge Consultants had an account with Eagle Exchange, t
he brokerage firm. This account was divided into a string of discrete sub-accounts, all legally the same, but stand-alone in terms of what went in and out and how statements were issued. This, on the face of it, is not an uncommon practice with small securities shops, boutiques, one-man bands who don’t have the infrastructure to handle all the administrative detail involved in trading, which is quite onerous and potentially devastating for the broker if he happens to mess up a transaction. Perfectly legal. They make their money, as Jonathan did, by taking a percentage of the assets under management; the brokerage house still gets its commission as it would if it was all Jonathan’s personal money.
“Alena kept track of it all with her own accounting system, tied directly to the sub-accounts at the brokerage house, which were identified only by number. So, Alena had an account called Joyce Whithers that corresponded to a numbered sub-account at Eagle. Alena handled all the transactions at Jonathan’s direction, and managed the working relationship with a guy at the other end of the phone. She got the statements each month from Eagle, and issued statements of her own to the individual clients. This system was already set up by Jonathan when she started working for him, though she improved on it considerably. I could start in on how it’s another example of an underappreciated female assistant doing all the work and the boss getting all the credit, but he credited her just fine when you hear what she was making.”
“Ig told you that?”
“I start throwing out numbers to you, and you either point up or down.”
“Got it.”
