Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  “I’m texting you the address now.”

  * * *

  —

  I knew people who refused to visit the outer boroughs, even to go to the airports, and when my cab dropped me on the Union Turnpike, half a dozen blocks west of Cunningham Park, I could see their point of view. Rooney Home Security’s office was in the center of a strip mall that was set back far enough from the street to allow a single line of cars to park, as long as they stopped at an angle, like a row of fish bones. The neighboring units were identical except for signs that identified them as a church of some obscure denomination I’d not heard of before, a cellphone store, a massage parlor, and a pawnshop. Vertical blinds filled the office’s window, which was otherwise blank except for a sign announcing its business hours—8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., Monday to Friday—and a little clock illustration in case the numbers weren’t clear enough.

  Inside, there was a modest wooden desk set near the center of the rear wall. A receptionist was sitting behind it, looking stern with her metal-rimmed glasses and her gray hair up in a bun, but she was so transfixed by her computer monitor that she showed no sign of having noticed I was there. The carpet was brown with a coarse weave, like it was from a cheap hotel. The walls had wood veneer panels to waist height and were painted white above. Framed charts and graphs on one side warned of soaring crime rates across the city, and adverts on the other suggested that the only possible safeguard would be a shiny new alarm system. A washed-out reproduction of The Hay Wain hung by the entrance in a fading gilded frame. Three Barcelona chairs were lined up under the window, or at least cheap knockoffs covered with white vinyl that was yellowing with age and imitation chrome peeling off their plastic legs. There were two more next to the side wall and a low table with a glass top, which was covered with unruly piles of brochures.

  “Is Mr. Rooney available?” I stopped in front of the desk. “I need his help. It’s very urgent.”

  The woman peered up at me and her expression made clear that she preferred whatever she’d been looking at on her screen. “Take a seat.” She spoke with the raspy whisper of a long-term smoker. “I’ll see.” I stayed where I was. She snatched up her desk phone with long bony fingers, wedged the handset under her chin, and jabbed angrily at its buttons. “Got a walk-in. Want to see him?” She listened for a second, then looked at me again. “What do you want, exactly?”

  “A security system. For a house. A large house. In Manhattan. I want something with all the bells and whistles.”

  She relayed the information, listened for another second, dropped the receiver back into its cradle, and jerked her thumb toward a door in the rear corner. “Through there. Go ahead. Mr. Rooney’ll see you now.”

  Rooney’s office was roughly half the size of the reception area. The floor was covered with pale laminate and the walls were plain white. There was a gray metal desk facing away from a barred window. Two visitor’s chairs with bent chrome frames and blue canvas seats. And four olive green file cabinets along the far wall, with a bunch of trophies lined up on top. Half were for bowling. Half, for shooting.

  Rooney hauled himself out of his black mesh executive chair, which had a frame like a chrome exoskeleton, leaned forward, and held out his hand. He was just shy of six feet tall, with white hair cropped close to his skull; a loose, fleshy face; black suit pants; and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his meaty forearms. He had no wedding ring, and I could tell without looking at the certificates on the wall that he’d been a cop.

  “You were a detective, Mr. Rooney?” I softened my voice and added some of the mid-Atlantic overtones that were common to most of the expats I’d ever met. “I’m ex-army, myself. Paul McGinn.”

  We shook hands, he gestured for me to sit, and then sank back down into his own chair.

  “McGinn, with two n’s?” Rooney took a pad of forms from his desk drawer and sat with his pen poised.

  “That’s right.” I nodded. It was really just a superstition to always assume another Irish surname, but it had worked for a long time so I wasn’t about to change.

  “Brian Rooney.” He continued to scribble on his pad. “Twenty years on the job. Now at your service. How can I help?”

  “That’s an easy question to answer, I hope. I need a security system for my house, and I heard you guys are good.”

  “Thank you.” Rooney nodded. “You’ve got to love word of mouth. It’s the best marketing there is. I’m happy that people are talking about us, but do you know the real difference with Rooney Security? We’re not just talk. We back our words with actions. Our motto is simple: Protected. Because if you buy a system from us, that’s what you’ll be.”

  “Straightforward. To the point. I like that in a motto.”

  “I do, too. I came up with it myself. Now, why not tell me a little about your situation, and make sure not to skip any problems or concerns that you may have. I’ll take some notes, we’ll line up an in-home survey, and I guarantee to come up with a solution that meets your needs. Sound good?”

  “Sure, if you think that’s the best way to do it. OK. So here’s the deal. My father passed away recently and I inherited a house he owned in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve only just moved in. Now, you may have heard that the neighborhood’s all right these days. Let me tell you, that’s just not true. Not even close. Twice in the last twelve months, one of my neighbors has been burglarized while he was at work. Another was the victim of a home invasion, last summer. No one was hurt that time, but it doesn’t pay to take chances. I want something done fast to keep me and my property safe. Hopefully I’m not at too much risk right now because I’m still getting set up—I don’t even have much furniture yet—but this security question is a weight on my mind. I’ll feel better when I’ve taken some action.”

  “First of all, let me say I’m very sorry for your loss.” Rooney paused and looked down at his desktop for a moment. “I’m also sorry to hear about your neighbors’ terrible experiences, but I’m sure we can make certain you can avoid anything like that happening to you. I totally get where you’re coming from with this. For a first impression, I’m going to say I think you need a fully monitored, multimode system with fixed and mobile emergency triggers. I can tailor it to your exact requirements once I’ve been out and seen your property. Sound good?”

  “I guess. As long as we can move quickly. A home visit is the next step?”

  “That’s right.” Rooney nodded.

  “OK. Sounds like a plan. How about tomorrow, 10:00 A.M.?”

  “Hmm. Tomorrow’s Saturday. This kind of work we usually do on weekdays. I could switch a couple of things around and do Monday? I could be there by 8:00 A.M. Or earlier? Or in the evening, if that fits better around your work schedule.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I want to get the wheels in motion. No delays. The home visit needs to be tomorrow.”

  “OK.” Rooney held his hands up. “Tomorrow it is—10:00 A.M. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’ll write down the address. The place is easy to find, but parking can be brutal.”

  “Thanks. I’ll manage. Any other questions while you’re here?”

  “Just one. How many times has your office been broken into, here?”

  Rooney looked like I’d thrown ice water in his face. “That’s kind of personal, Mr. McGinn.”

  “Not really. How can I trust you to stop burglars getting into my house if you can’t keep them out of your own office?”

  Rooney paused. “OK. That’s fair. I’m happy to say we’ve never had a break-in here.”

  “That’s good. Do you use the same kind of systems that you sell?”

  “Basically.” Rooney nodded. “I have confidence in my products, if that’s what you mean. We use a commercial version, obviously. Less aesthetically pleasing, but just as effective.”

  “The same on the inside as the residenti
al ones?”

  “The technology’s the same. I’m in the trade, so I buy at cost, and I’ve added a few extra features.”

  “I like extra features. I may need a few of them myself. What did you add?”

  “Nothing crazy. Just a few prudent enhancements. Pressure pads, for example.”

  “Hence the carpet in the waiting area. I’m not sure I’d want that. My house still has its original hardwood. What else do you have?”

  “Pressure pads aren’t essential. Another option you could consider isn’t a physical thing at all. It’s a software patch. It adds very little cost, and what it does is, it gives you a six-digit PIN. That’s instead of the standard four digits. It’s actually genius. In theory it adds millions more permutations. But in practice it makes your PIN unbreakable. If an intruder doesn’t know to try six digits, he never will.”

  “Now, that idea I love. I’ll definitely want six digits, too. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind. I mean, I didn’t even see your keypad.”

  “Keypads should always be concealed. That’s standard practice.”

  I paused, as if I was thinking. “I know. Behind the Constable!”

  “What?” Rooney’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened a fraction.

  “The painting. I thought you must have an ironic decorator—a picture of the English countryside, in Queens. Using it to hide the keypad is much better.”

  Rooney didn’t respond.

  “I might do the same when mine’s installed. I’ll have to think about which painting to choose. Unless you have any advice?”

  “It has no bearing on the system. It’s entirely up to the homeowner to pick something out. Now, is there anything else I can help you with before you go?”

  “No, thanks.” I smiled at him. “I’ve got everything I came for.”

  Ro had moved offices since the last time we met. She was in the same building. She had a suite with the same footprint. Only it was seven floors higher. I suspected she’d made the change because she liked to walk up the stairs and wanted more of them. But I was reluctant to ask in case I was right. It was the kind of thing my father would have done, and I didn’t want the images of the two of them merging in my mind. That’s the kind of thing nightmares are made of.

  An assistant showed me in and I saw right away that Ro had streamlined her furniture in the course of her move. That was quite a feat, as she had only two items to start with. A treadmill and a standing desk. Now she just had a treadmill desk. It was over by the window, where she was plodding resolutely away, wearing a sky blue velour tracksuit and keeping one eye on a FaceTime video chat with a roomful of Asian women and the other on her view over Bryant Park. The people below looked even tinier than they had from her old office, but they were still tinged with blue by the coating on the glass. When Ro saw me she clicked off her call, waved a greeting, ran her fingers through her spiky white hair, and increased her pace.

  “You couldn’t even get a chair?” I stood in the center of the room and stretched my arms out wide. “Not even one? You could keep it in the closet and bring it out for special guests. This place is worse than my house.”

  “Nope.” Ro grabbed a water bottle from a holder at the side of the desk and took a swig. “Get a chair, people sit. They sit, they get comfy. They get comfy, they stay longer. Things that should take five minutes end up lasting an hour. You never get anything done that way.”

  “At least let me perch on the windowsill.” I walked over to an empty bay and balanced on the edge. The one nearer her desk was taken up with a neat line of shoes, a purse, and a suit carrier. Ro always did like to be prepared.

  “What’s up with your house, anyway?” Ro reached over to put the bottle back in its place. “Marie Kondo been over?”

  I shook my head. “Turns out I have a problem with furniture. I’ve never bought any before. It’s more complicated than I thought.”

  “What about your other house? In Westchester. Take some from it.”

  “I could, I guess.” I glanced out of the window. “But Mrs. Vincent’s there. It would feel wrong to strip the house around her.”

  “How long were you in Eastern Europe, Paul? Did you catch socialism while you were over there? Should I get you tested?” She winked. “Seriously, the stuff is yours. Use it if you want to. I’m not saying you should empty the place, but look at it this way: Re-using is good for the environment. It’s certainly better than making a whole bunch of new chairs and beds and couches.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it. But I’m not here to talk about home makeovers. I need some information.”

  Ro reduced speed, reached down for a Peninsula Spa towel from the floor, wiped her face, and nodded. “Now we’re talking. What do you need to know?”

  “I need you to explain a stock market thing. Shorting.”

  “Short-selling?” Ro sucked in a breath. “I can easily bring you up to speed. But it’s a dangerous game to play. You should think twice. What shares do you have in mind?”

  “None. I’ve never bought or sold a share in my life, and that’s not about to change. This is just for research. I need to know what this thing is, how it works, and why people do it.”

  “OK. Well, to understand short-selling, you need to take a step back and start with regular investing. That’s where you buy shares and hope that their value increases so that if you sell them again, you make a profit.”

  “Buy low, sell high. Everyone knows that. Even me.”

  “Good. Because shorting works the opposite way around. You sell high, and then you buy low.”

  “That makes no sense. How can you sell before you buy?”

  “It does make sense if you start out by borrowing the shares instead of owning them.”

  “You borrow them?”

  “Right. What happens is that you borrow a certain number. You sell them at what you hope is a high price. Then later you buy the same number of shares at what you hope will be a lower price, and return them to the owner. If the price did fall, you keep the difference and that’s your profit.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Try thinking it through with numbers. Imagine Slimeball Inc.’s shares are selling for a hundred dollars each, and you think they’re overpriced. You might have done some analysis. It might be a gut feel. Maybe you read the tea leaves. But whatever the reason, you borrow a thousand of them. You sell them immediately, and make $100,000. A week later the price falls to seventy-five dollars. So you buy a thousand, which costs you $75,000. You return the shares, and pocket $25,000.”

  “That’s fine. I get the math. But why would someone lend out their shares in the first place? Especially to a person who just wants to sell them? Doesn’t selling drive down the price? Wouldn’t that hurt the owner’s investment? The whole thing sounds like financial suicide. And if selling’s such a good idea, why not just sell the shares yourself? Why let someone else benefit?”

  “Wow, slow down, Paul! There are lots of things to pick apart here. First of all, if you want to borrow shares so you can short them, you don’t go directly to the shareholder and ask them. You go to a broker. You’ll have to pay a loan fee, so straightaway there’s an incentive for the broker to facilitate a deal. Next up, the shareholder might not even know his shares are being loaned to someone else. And even if he finds out, he might have no choice in the matter.”

  “I’m sorry, Ro, but this is getting more ridiculous by the minute. You’re saying I could buy shares only for my broker to lend them out behind my back?”

  “He wouldn’t be going behind your back, exactly. It would depend on the type of brokerage account you have. The ones with the lowest fees generally give the brokers the right to do things like that. It’s in the small print. No one’s breaking any rules.”

  “It still seems underhanded.”

  “If you say so. But that’s not t
he only scenario. Here’s one you might like better. Say an investor thinks some shares he owns are likely to take a short-term hit, but has faith they’ll eventually bounce back. In the long run, he’d gain by holding on to them. Plus he’d be picking up whatever dividends the company might pay in the interim. So, he allows them to be loaned out. He takes a fee. Maybe he charges interest. Then he gets the shares back in due course, and he cashes in when their price rises again. It’s a way for him to have his cake and eat it. And avoid undue risk.”

  “What do you mean, risk?”

  “A degree of risk always comes with an investment. Say you buy shares in the regular way, hoping they’ll rise. What if you’re wrong? Worst-case scenario, the company goes broke and your shares become worthless. Your whole stake is wiped out. You take a one hundred percent loss. That’s bad. But it can’t get any worse. You know going into the deal the extent of the risk you’re taking. If you’re smart, you don’t invest any money you can’t afford to lose. But with shorting, the danger is much, much greater. You sell a bunch of shares you don’t own, so you’re legally obliged to replace them within a certain timescale. You bet the price goes down. Now, if you’re wrong, and it actually goes up, it’ll cost you more than you made to buy the shares back. And here’s the sting. The price might double. It might triple. There’s no limit to how high it could rise. Your losses are potentially infinite. The promised land of quick profit can easily turn out to be the graveyard of bankruptcy. Which is why it’s not a game for amateurs. It’s best left to people with the experience to spot the warning signs, and pockets deep enough to take the odd hit.”

  “So you mean there’s a chance people might lose some money? Maybe have to sell a yacht? I guess I have a different concept of risk.”

  “You seem very prickly about all this, Paul. What’s eating you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. This whole thing just rubs me wrong. Look, I’ve got nothing against people getting rich. My father made boatloads of money. But he brought me up to believe you have to earn it. You have to make something useful. Provide a worthwhile service of some kind. What you’re describing sounds fake. Like alchemy. Dishonest, even. No offense.”