The Widow of Wall Street

by Randy Susan Meyers

  You gotta keep it all straight and clean, Jake.

  Of course, Red. Believe me, I learned my lesson. I feel like a schmuck.

  He’d almost lost it when Red clapped him on the shoulder like a real father, as though Jake were someone the world could count on, not some loser like his dad.

  Hey, kid. You caught an ambition attack. Hustling is good. Being a hustler, though? Stay away from that, son.

  Jake wouldn’t ever ask his father-in-law for money again.

  Whatever it took, he’d make this right.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jake

  Jake held up two ties, placing one and then the other under his chin. “Solid or striped?”

  “Solid.” Phoebe nodded at her empty teacup. “One more? This cold has me knocked out.”

  “Knocked out and knocked up. Sad combo, baby.” He put a hand on her forehead. “You feel warm. I think this is more than a cold. You’re staying in bed. One tea coming up.”

  As Jake headed to the kitchen, he chewed his tongue to release any gathering irritation on having to do one more thing before leaving for work. Even the stupidest of husbands knew enough to brew a cup of tea for an eight-months-pregnant wife without complaining. Jake prided himself on taking care of Phoebe way beyond what he’d seen growing up. His parents had lived as though in bordering countries where treaties prevented all-out war but allowed repeated skirmishes. Early on in his marriage, Jake had vowed that his children would grow up surrounded by love, money, and opportunity.

  After relighting the flame under the still-warm teakettle, he grabbed a clean cup. Memories of his parents refilling the same sticky one all day turned his stomach. How could anyone drink out of a dirty mug?

  Evidence of last night’s meal filled the sink. Poor Phoebe could hardly lumber to the stove and back. Jake folded up his sleeves and tied on a red apron. While the water boiled, he washed the dishes, and then scrubbed the counters and put away the remains of breakfast: a carton of Wheaties, a bowl, and the yellow butter dish from Phoebe’s toast. Even scanning the morning papers had become difficult with her laid up in bed, but he saw the most important headline of the day: PEACE-TALK HOPES BOLSTER MARKET; Stock Prices Show Advance for Third Consecutive Day.

  God loved him.

  History worked for him.

  Heebie-jeebies shivered down his arms as he pulled a fresh tea bag from the Tetley box, releasing the dusty odor. Back home, wrinkled, dried-up tea bags wedged into stained tin cups littered his mother’s kitchen counter. She had rotated them, convinced that she could pull six more ounces from even the most desiccated. Even a whiff of tea had made him sick since childhood. Now he could hardly stand to leave the tea bag in long enough to make Phoebe a strong brew, but he forced himself to let it steep until the water darkened to the tongue-turning tannic mess that Phoebe preferred. Once the liquid appeared sufficiently murky, he added sugar. Lately she asked for two heaping teaspoons.

  His wife had craved sweets since the day the rabbit died—although, in truth, he didn’t know the exact date of her pregnancy test. Lola’s constant gifts of sugary shit didn’t help. Last week, his mother-in-law had brought a bakery bag stuffed with chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins, and then yesterday she gave them yet another Ebinger’s blackout cake. Both her daughters would be bigger than houses if Lola’s will prevailed. Deb still carried half her pregnancy weight around her gut despite having dropped the baby months ago. Her husband didn’t seem to care, though. Ben still stared at her as if she hung the moon and the sun to boot.

  Well, good for him. Ben could afford having a blimp for a wife, the happy-go-lucky schlemiel. How much elegance did a biology teacher at Stuyvesant High School need? The guy had yapped for hours at Sunday’s dinner about how life would change when Stuyvesant turned coed next year.

  Good luck, buddy.

  Married men with pregnant wives lived in horny hell these days. Hemlines rose every day—soon the fabric would barely graze a girl’s ass. Breasts of every size bounced free. Silky hair swung in all directions. Business took all his focus, and having a not-in-the-mood Phoebe sapped his concentration; sex kittens taunting him everywhere made life a bitch. Just to cover his nut, he needed to work harder every day—not having relief in the bedroom killed him.

  Jake had learned a few lessons since starting JPE.

  One: stocks that go up, come down.

  Two: you can’t rely on clients. They want their money. They want perfect records. They strut around when they win—with amnesia about who made the win—and throw fits when they lose.

  Three: you always need more clients.

  Four: stay loose.

  He needed sex for number four, but since being pregnant, instead of reaching for him, Phoebe begged for Vanilla Wafers, Tetley Tea, and lemon Italian ices from the place down the street—hell to get home before they melted. After she had passed the six-month mark, he maybe got a pity hand job once a week, and that only took the edge off. He took care of himself in the morning shower. When he’d married Phoebe, he’d sworn he wouldn’t be a cheater. A cheater was a lowlife. Totally without class.

  Tea sloshed as he carried the tray with the overfull mug and plate of dry toast into the bedroom.

  “Toast! I didn’t even have to ask.” She beamed as though presented with a platter of gold. Making Phoebe happy was so easy that he felt like shit for not doing it more often.

  “Least I can do while you’re cooking Popeye in there.”

  “Olive Oyl.”

  He set the tray on the bed and put an ear to her belly. “I hear a boy.”

  Phoebe stroked his head. “Do you honestly care?”

  “Not one bit.” He lay against the mound of his child again, thrilled with the oceanic sounds. His son or daughter formed in his wife, and he vowed to do anything to build them perfect lives. Make them proud.

  “What’s happening with the real estate agent?” Distress sounded under her casual words.

  “The guy said we’re reaching too broad. We need to concentrate on one area.”

  “How are we supposed to choose?” She placed a hand on her mound of a belly as though protecting the baby from evil house brokers skulking in the bedroom corner. “We’ve only ever lived in Brooklyn.”

  “Your cousin lives on Long Island. You know her neighborhood. You like where she lives.” Phoebe got so jumpy when they talked about moving, you’d think leaving Brooklyn would kill her. What had happened to the girl who adored City College?

  “At least in Brooklyn, my mother will be around to help. Your mother.” Phoebe blew on the tea before taking a sip.

  Jake snorted. “My mother? Forget it. Your mother and Red can drive out wherever we are. Or I’ll pay for a cab.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Big shot rolling in money. You’re too hard on your mother. She’s gonna be a grandma.”

  Jake held up his hand. “Logistics will be my department. My parents will come out plenty—don’t worry.”

  “How far will we have to go to afford what you want? I don’t want to be stuck in some New Jersey cow town.”

  “No money talk. That’s my problem—you need to rest between Popeye and that cold.”

  Phoebe struggled upright and swung her feet to the floor. “Rest? The place is a wreck.”

  Memories of her miscarriage kept him from agreeing; from tearing his hair out at the state of the apartment every time he came home. He spent nights scrubbing after she passed out from pregnancy exhaustion.

  “I promised Deb to help with her baby.” She tried to stand. “I need the practice. I’ll take a shower and then go over to my sister’s house with my mother.”

  “No. Take the breaks while you can.” He helped her to her feet. “I’m not letting you take a shower while you’re alone in the house. Not while you’re running a fever. I’m calling your mother to come over. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here.”

  “Jake—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Shush.” Looking around and seeing no robe of hers
—not surprising, as they were so behind in laundry; nor could she fit into those tiny silky things she wore before pregnancy—he grabbed his flannel robe and draped it over her shoulders.

  Their undersized bathroom steamed up in moments. Like so many Brooklyn apartment house bathrooms, theirs had small black and white tiles and white subway tiles with impossible to clean grout doomed to forever dinginess. Jake sat on the closed toilet, listening to Phoebe wash. He couldn’t resist peeking through the place where the shower curtain parted, watching her gleaming belly jut out from her tiny frame. Her breasts had grown; the once-rosy nipples were now brown. He’d thought that her gravid body would turn him away from her, but instead it brought forth strange combinations of lust and worshipful love. She carried their child. They were family.

  The water stopped running. He handed Phoebe a towel through the shower curtain. She’d become modest as she grew larger. When she pushed back the metal rings on the rod, he helped her climb over the lip of the tub and then placed a second towel over her shoulders and a third one on her head. He pressed down on the towel, feeling the vulnerability of her hair flat against her scalp and the bumps of her head under his fingers.

  If he knew phrenology, would he learn anything new about his wife? Secret pockets of history and futures could be available through the ancient science.

  And if she ran her fingers over his head, maybe she’d love him less.

  She leaned against him as he dried her back. The thin cloth drank up the moisture too fast. He’d buy thick, absorbent towels for the infant, for her. Next time he went to Madison Avenue, he’d make a side trip to Bloomingdale’s and visit its linen department. Find out who made the very best.

  • • •

  Jake pulled out his ledgers: thousands of dollars separated the pivotal figures—how much he owed and how much was due.

  Acid ate holes in his gut. Milk, his drink of choice these days, hardly touched the flames. He’d borrowed from loan sharks to cover what Eli and his asshole cousins had forced him to pay out. Their gonif interest rate was killing him. They were all thieves.

  Jake hustled. He and Phoebe went to winter-fucking-wonderland weekends in the Catskills, dined with school connections, and attended fraternity reunion events. Warding off the stink of desperation, which killed any deal, took subtlety. Every function required planning. He coached Phoebe to drop hints about his success and demurred when approached directly about his investment fund. Groucho Marx became his mentor, as Jake took on the comedian’s tag line: Who wanted to join a club that would accept them as a member?

  As Gus’s contacts dried up, Ronnie Gallagher tapped into his network: a vast sea of Irish families with full bank accounts. Jake paid him per client, and they both made out. Money in, money out. He couldn’t ingest enough Rolaids or milk as he raced to keep the in above the out. The Club stopped being fun. His days morphed into a cruel cycle of chasing profit. Expending new client funds to oil the machine—paying staff, saving for his house, buying supplies—meant putting off more and more trades until a mountain of chits piled up.

  But, hey, who cared if he bought the stock this week or next, or the following month, as long as everything added up in the end? Money was money. Gita-Rae didn’t give a shit, thank God. The woman demonstrated genius in creating perfect statements, taking Jake’s information—the date he had purportedly purchased the stock—entering it as though the sale had gone through, and using some Byzantine coding system to track it.

  Menus of investments weren’t offered at the Club. He didn’t have time for bullshit. Go somewhere else if you want to pick stock. Meanwhile, the brokerage arm of JPE built up a reputation as the place where you made a trade for a few pennies less.

  Soon he’d stencil “Jake Pierce Equity” on a door in Manhattan. Like Goldman Sachs, he’d make a family kingdom. The giant investment firm made its bones with promissory notes. Jake would find an equal for JPE. Something spectacular. Something new. His brother swore that the next wave of wealth and information would roll in on a surge of computers. Theo, five years younger than Jake, had inherited whatever brains traveled through their family, getting his doctorate in math and computer science, baffling his parents, who couldn’t understand what computer science meant or why Theo studied in Indiana, of all places.

  Idiots. Neither his mother nor father could pull together an ounce of insight between them. Indiana State University attracted the best in the new field. Meanwhile, Theo, deep in college debt, had only Jake as his safety net. On top of buying all Theo’s books and supplies, he sent him a weekly allowance.

  “Hey, buddy, wake up over there. Check your messages.” Gus gestured with his chin at the small shelves labeled “Jake,” “Gus,” “Ronnie,” and “Gita-Rae.” Gus held the folded New York Times—every section, from the look of it—as he came out of the can. Jake bought his own newspaper every day to avoid touching the shared copy. A private bathroom topped the list of his future office must-haves.

  “Gallagher’s been acting like your secretary all morning.” Gus grabbed the yellow notes that filled the overflowing mail slot and threw them on Jake’s desk.

  “Call Billy.” “Call Billy, ASAP.” “Call Billy minute you get in!”

  “You take these?” Jake yelled across the room. Ronnie glanced up, pencil in hand, as he entered figures on his green analysis pad.

  “Yeah. Billy called.”

  “I can read, jerk. Is something wrong?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Dunno. He sounded happy to me.”

  Jesus. The guy did fine in his arena: keeping records, keeping his mouth shut. Ask him to step two feet outside his home court, and he flattened. Ronnie sure as shit didn’t know that Jake used day-old copies of the Pink Sheet that Billy, his old Brooklyn College buddy, pinched from Bach Investments. Just as important, Billy kept his ears open—listening in on Bach’s top brokers for the best trades and passing on the information.

  He dialed fast.

  “Bill Mazur, Bach Investments.”

  “Jake.”

  “Jake! Gonna make you a happy, happy man. Remember when I told you to buy into Cinema Right Films’ limited offering?”

  “CRF? The television station offshoot?”

  “Yeah.” Billy took a loud drag on his cigarette. “Did you do it?”

  “I did.” Jake doodled dark lines on the corner of a message sheet.

  “Did you buy big?”

  Jake turned the pages of his books, searching for the number. “I went my limit.” And actually bought it.

  “Good man. CRF is breaking out big today. Now I got another one for you. A technical business. Capisce?”

  “I understand technical.” Jake would call his brother for anything he found confusing.

  “Write this down. Omdex. The company’s gonna go public and it’s gonna be big. I gotta go. Buy now. You’ll owe me.”

  Visions of houses danced in front of Jake. Out of their stinking apartment and into a place with a damned lawn. His in-laws, his parents—they’d all see their grandson take his first steps on green grass owned by Jake. “How big?”

  “Fucking huge.”

  Success pooled deep in his groin.

  By the end of the day, all signs pointed to a home run. Thank you, Billy. At the market’s closing bell, a boatload of profit that he intended to turn to cash was pulling into port.

  “I gotta do some celebrating!” he yelled to Gus. “Champagne style.”

  “Unless you invested some hidden fortune of your own, it’s the clients who’ll be lifting the champagne glasses. How much did you make on your cut?”

  Classic Gus, just like Phoebe’s whole family: always cautious, always putting a little bump in your road. Watch out! Don’t get so excited! Jake gave his father credit—he’d lost a ton, but at least he’d been willing to play the game.

  “There’s enough for everyone,” Jake said.

  “Go easy on the celebrating, kid,” Gus said. “One day doesn’t a millionaire make.”

  �
��Millionaire? I’m aiming for billions.” Jake winked, as though he were kidding, gave his crooked grin, and tipped an imaginary hat. “I’m off to buy a dozen roses for Phoebe. Careful enough for you?”

  Jake steered his boring beige Chevy Caprice, Phoebe’s choice, toward FDR Drive, heading to the real estate agent with the glossiest New York Times ad. Screw the White Plains broker who’d hauled him all over Westchester and Long Island and came up with nothing worth showing Phoebe.

  Jake made the first visits and saved the cream for her—not that any had risen up yet. He couldn’t give her first looks. Without him narrowing down the choices, they’d get stuck in some oversized ranch house like her sister and Ben. Phoebe lived under the curse of growing up beautiful and middle class. Life came too easy for her. People who never needed to stretch rarely reached for the stars. Jake pushed for both of them.

  Rothschild Realty’s office appeared polished with sunshine and honey. The knockout owner who stood for a handshake may as well have modeled Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream & Other Delights album cover: all tall and tan and lovely. Though not so young.

  “Georgia Rothschild,” she said.

  “Any relation?” he asked.

  “I like to keep my clients guessing. Welcome. I’m picking out prime properties for you.”

  They exchanged a few flirtatious comments and then she turned back to flipping through her listings, stopping at one and nodding, marking the page before moving on, leaving him to check out this real estate broker with the tumble of bronze hair falling over broad shoulders until she looked up.

  “So. They’ve been taking you to Long Island?” She leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You know the Island’s for beginners, right?”

  “What kind of beginners?” He stretched his legs out full.

  “Beginners to nowhere. Why not jump right into the middle, eh?” She slammed the property book shut. “Not all of Long Island is a snooze, but the ones you can afford are. And getting to Manhattan from the Island is hell on earth. You work in Manhattan, right?”