Jake ignored her question and asked his own. “Where’s the middle tracking to the top? The top with kids?” he asked.
“Greenwich. Connecticut,” she shot back. “A fast ride to Manhattan. A decent train. Plus, Greenwich is small, especially compared with Long Island. Saying you come from Long Island could mean anything: a millionaire on the Gold Coast, a total nobody from Levittown. Say you’re from Greenwich, money’s always in the conversation. Come on. I’ll show you.”
• • •
Jake slipped into Georgia’s white Chevy Camaro, a low rider as sleek as Georgia. They were a coordinated pair—down to the baby-blue interior matching her eyes, which he bet she ordered for the impact.
“Nice car,” he said.
She offered an enigmatic smile, stretched her magnificent legs, and let her skirt ride up her thighs. Damn, how was she so tan in the middle of May? Jake didn’t hesitate to feast his eyes as Georgia sped up toward the New England Thruway. Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” pumped from an eight-track car stereo sound system better than any Jake had ever heard. He imagined a life of fast cars, spring-tanned women, and a bulging wallet. All that and his perfect family.
Georgia pulled into the driveway of a small stone house. Oak trees filled the yard, making the house next door nearly invisible despite the homes being within yelling distance. Carpets of yellow tulips bloomed in a dense border.
“Not bad, right?” she asked. “The first time I saw this house, I pictured red shutters and a red porch. Barn red.”
Jake imagined wide red planks replacing the black painted ones and planters filled with a profusion of yellow flowers, white Adirondack chairs, and terra-cotta stepping-stones, looking like a spread from House Beautiful.
“Come on.” Georgia turned off the engine. “We’re on a move-fast schedule, cause I’m gonna show you every house in town near your price range.” Sex emanated from her half-smile. “Close enough, at any rate. I bet you’re a fast climber.”
Jake pegged her as near forty. Could even be forty-five, but hot. Old enough to want him simply for fun. He flexed his shoulders after rising from the low car.
“I’m not gonna play games with you, Mr. Pierce. Truth? I’m showing you the best first. Not the cheapest. Not the one I think you should buy. You look. You decide. This house will sell itself. The place only came on the market this week and won’t last long.” She waited a few beats. “Death in the family. Kids don’t want the house, only fast money.”
Jake spent his days selling, fast-talking, slow-talking—whatever the mark needed. He saw through Georgia’s “I don’t care what you do, because I know this is a winner” line. You don’t buy it—no problem. Someone’s waiting right behind you. Jake sold that way too. He recognized the approach, but despite his knowledge, the tactic almost succeeded.
Almost. He hid his interest like a pro.
“Let’s see what we got here. After, we’ll check out the rest. I’m in no rush.” He walked in front of her, keeping his shoulders wide.
• • •
After seeing a colonial, a split-level, and some modern monstrosity, they landed at a spread on the Long Island Sound that appeared to be way out of his price range.
The minute he saw the place, he craved waking to a water view.
“What’s up with this?” he asked. “Apparently you didn’t start with the highest priced after all.”
“True. This house is way above your ceiling.”
“Why bring me here?” They sat in deck chairs on the broad white terrace, feet up on the railing. Salty early-evening air settled over them. Georgia’s legs gleamed in the soft beach light. Sexy as hell.
“You wanted to see a house on the ocean. I figured you meant one for sale.”
“Good point.” The house toppled way over his ceiling price.
“By 1931, Greenwich’s per capita income topped every town in the area. Could be you’re not ready yet.”
“You sell via insult method?”
She swept her hand in front of them. Gold and sapphires flashed. Perfume wafted; the scent of expensive hovered in the breeze. “Don’t knock it. I don’t do badly. Not one bit.”
Jake started doing figures in his head, wishing his brother were here with his calculator of a brain, though nobody could figure the price of this place down to an affordable number. Then he thought about all the gains he made that day.
Not your money, boychik.
He estimated his take on the 20 percent.
Nowhere near the down payment. But with today’s hits, the Club account sat fat, happy, and at his disposal.
Not his to take, but surely his to borrow.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m sorry for bringing you here. My mistake. This isn’t an entry-level place.”
He maintained an impassive expression while inwardly cringing at her humiliating words. Treating him like a dumb Brooklyn kid—sure, he knew what game she was playing, but screw her. Screw her for thinking she could bullshit him.
Jake rose and leaned on the railing, his back to the ocean. He circled her brown ankle with his large hand, able to fit it all in. He ran his fingers up the line of her calf, the inside of her thigh, stopped, and went back down again. Then he traced his steps back up.
Georgia put her head back. Opened her legs a little. Then a bit more, as his hand traveled. Her hands clenched as she shifted lower in the chaise lounge.
“You cheated before?” Her words came out breathy.
“Who said I’m cheating now?” he asked.
“You’re gonna.”
“Nah. We’re not going all the way.”
Georgia laughed. “All the way? Are you sixteen?”
His hand went higher. “Nope.”
Fuck her.
Blowing him wouldn’t be wrong. Fellatio wasn’t infidelity.
Only a blow job. That’s all he’d take from Georgia. Just to make sure he could concentrate for the rest of the week.
Part 2
* * *
Building an Empire
CHAPTER 10
Jake
May 1970
People swarmed over Wall Street that Friday. Students covered the Federal Hall National Memorial steps. Yesterday the National Guard had killed four students at Kent State University during a Vietnam War protest in Ohio. Today, throughout the nation, protesters aimed their signs at President Richard Nixon.
A crying shame, those killings. Nobody but college kids and a few grandmothers trying to stop the war. They actually expected to make a difference with their marches? Ah, what the hell. Who else did the world have now? Such a ragged piece of history America inhabited. Vietnam had thrown the economy in the tank. Thank God things were quiet on Theo’s campus, but, Jesus, tragedy was as possible in Indiana as Ohio.
Nixon didn’t help matters, the bastard, calling these kids “bums,” while he sent their classmates to be killed in Vietnam. Nixon. His shifty eyes told the whole story of his character. Meanwhile, business was going to shit all over the country.
“Okay, buddy, here we go again. Although my hope is shrinking, the way you’re rejecting everything.” Georgia’s breathy delivery took the sting off her dismissive words. “Only two more before we reach foraging level. You’ve crossed off every property within a mile of your desires.”
“Ah, I believe in you.” He let his eyes travel her body. “Do your magic and pull a rabbit from a silk hat. My faith in you is limitless.”
“Can the sweet talk.” Georgia lifted her hair off her neck and twisted it into an approximation of a ponytail. Perspiration dotted her hairline. Her clothes clung to her back even though the temperature hadn’t topped sixty degrees. Tramping all over Wall Street clearly took a toll. She wore heels, which must have made walking even harder, plus her dress seemed like a long sweater. Sexy as hell—and he appreciated the effort—but not meant for hiking. A whiff of pure Georgia spun with her perfume wafted his way. His suit wasn’t exactly air-conditioned, but he’d taken off the
jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“That last place could have met all your criteria.” She wrapped her hair with a rubber band pulled from her huge leather bag.
“Could have? Have you ever known me to do ‘almost’?”
“What’s wrong with subdividing? Or operating open space for a while? Two private offices should be plenty, right? One for you and one for your brother when he joins you.”
“You running an office-consulting business on the side?” Jake asked. “Stick to finding me the floor plans I want. I’ll decide what works. Don’t worry. Your commission will come.”
“Don’t get testy, sugar.” Georgia reached out for his arm, but he pulled back before she made contact. New York sometimes became Main Street USA. You never knew who watched.
He tuned her out as she babbled on. Duplicating his imagined future offices might not be possible yet, but Jake would be damned if he’d start out far from the ideal. Dough pumped in from both sides of JPE. Greenwich generated so many connections that he’d hired three brokers and rented space from the medical supply business next door to Uncle Gus. A waterfront address helped, despite the monthly payments killing him. Location defined you.
Gita-Rae’s new assistant, a tough-nut kid, kept the flow going between the brokerage and the Club. Charlie Marshal had barely scraped his way out of high school—similar to Gita-Rae—but his instinct and brains beat every college boy Jake hired.
Dragging Phoebe all over New York and Connecticut resulted in boatloads of Club members—but he paid a price. After going with him to every dinner-dance and fund-raiser in town, Phoebe nagged for quiet dinners, just the two of them and two-year-old Katie. When the hell was he supposed to have time to work? Gita-Rae might be smart, but she needed guidance. Only Jake could decide when and if to make a buy, versus making the illusion of having purchased stock for the Club. Not that he wouldn’t make good on all those buys; eventually he’d make the whole enchilada right. But right now he simply had a cash flow balancing act.
A hundred tasks needed his attention every day between running JPE and pressing the flesh. Nobody but he could play the role of Jake. Thank God Theo would be working for him come July. Jake planned to plop all the brokerage details on Theo’s plate.
Attracting money required burnished bait. JPE’s public face required luster and the brokerage provided that and respectability. Every day, the brokerage attracted more corporate clients, especially when Theo popped in to take the helm during his time off from school. His brother had perfect pitch for knowing the company’s coming technical needs when it came to anything computerized—both with managing their stock offerings and making improvements in how they managed the business end of JPE.
Theo needed an office. Solomon Azouley, the second broker hired, deserved one. Not only did he bring smarts, sophistication—something Charlie lacked—and education, but also Solomon measured a man in five seconds.
Plus, Sol—the nickname Solomon preferred—was black. Jake’s secret weapon, Sol. Clients, whether from the brokerage or the Club, heard the name Sol and figured him for Jewish. In fact, Sol’s father was Jewish, which explained how Sol slung Yiddish with the best of them, but to his ignorant clients, Sol appeared only as a massive black man who intimidated the hell out of them. Jake loved watching them react. He swore that some clients signed on just to show how open-minded they were.
He knew Sol from high school, but they’d lost touch until an Erasmus reunion, where Jake discovered Sol not only had brains and a brokerage license, but also he was money hungry as hell and not squeamish about the occasional shortcuts. The JPE team was shaping up nicely, especially with Charlie and Sol providing the perfect duo for managing the handshakes needed between the brokerage and the Club.
He needed to house the Club’s inner workings somewhere private for two reasons: to keep them separate from the straight-laced types he planned to attract for the brokerage and to give them privacy for machinations that the Club’s patina burnished.
Sometimes he wished he’d never started the damned club, but he was in too deep to stop now. If Jake could write checks and buy out every client, he would. He’d concentrate on building the best brokerage in New York City.
He shook away the thoughts. The funds he’d need to first straighten out the Club and then close it down meant earning a mountain of money. Soon. In due time, he planned to be aboveboard. Meanwhile, he’d keep the balls in the air.
“Let’s move,” Jake said to Georgia. “It’s almost noon, and I want to see every office available in the area.”
• • •
“What do you think?” Despite this being the fourth office suite they’d visited in just two hours, Georgia managed to sound as excited as though she’d never turned a key before. They stood just inside the main area of the third office space to which she’d brought him. Light poured in through wall-length windows, wavy glass showing the age of the building, along with the scuffed floors. No problem. Wood could be buffed and shined. He paced the large room, figuring that fifteen desks would fit, making a trading floor possible.
Jake liked the look of the place immediately. “I think this.” He pulled Georgia in for a long kiss. “You did good.”
He crossed his arms and took a walk around. For the Club office, he pegged a room well away from what would be the brokerage. Halls separated the space from the other areas. An arched window with multiple diamond-shaped panes dominated the rectangle; he pictured Gita-Rae holding court.
Four private offices would be sufficient for now. Furniture left behind by former tenants helped—the pieces were good enough to use, at least in other people’s areas. He’d take the largest office, an oversized square with built-in bookcases—he liked that classy touch. A good paint job would cover the apartment-house beige on the walls. He stood at the bank of windows and gazed out.
This might actually work.
Georgia wandered in. “Impressive, right?” She sat on the massive oak desktop, resembling a teacher’s desk in a school for giants.
“Not bad.”
“You’re gonna take it, right?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m gonna take it.” Jake crossed the room as he spoke.
She leaned back, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
He unbuttoned her dress, pulling down the soft fabric until her arms were trapped in the sleeves. Then he pushed her back on the sun-warmed wood.
Yes. This would work.
He pulled up her silk slip. Thank God for the private bathroom off his office-to-be. Phoebe’s nose worked like a hound dog. Soon after meeting Georgia, Jake had bought Pheebs the largest bottle of Joy perfume made and told her to set aside the Muguet des Bois. Having your women wear the same scent made life easier.
• • •
Weeks after moving, unpacked cartons were driving Jake nuts, though Gita-Rae prevented the place from resembling a gypsy bazaar by hiding them in the Club zone, where nobody but the authorized went.
Only Charlie could carry out boxes without question, though he sometimes brought Vic, another Gita-Rae guy from the neighborhood, to help him. Vic had made his way, like Sol and Jake, through college and became a broker—but where Sol had traded a Brooklyn state of mind for Manhattan, Vic still conveyed a cocky hood aura. Vic and Charlie would always be Brooklyn guys. Neither minded hauling a few boxes.
Charlie was shrewd, but Vic had real brains along with street smarts. When Gita-Rae had difficulty figuring out the price for backdating a sales figure—making it look as though the buy had been made at a certain value, or even that it had been made at all—Charlie approached Vic, and he never asked shit about the why. Everyone understood cash flow, especially someone like Vic.
The four of them were his pipeline from one end of JPE to the other: Sol to Vic to Charlie to Gita-Rae and back again. And Jake paid them well, handing out fat checks weekly along with the occasional thick envelope holding a few hundred-dollar bills.
Now Jake entered the Club offices in search of p
articular books for his built-in bookcases. Gita-Rae crouched, pushing boxes to one side or the other, instructing Charlie how to rearrange the remaining ones.
Gita-Rae, his office queen; he’d genuflect before her if she asked.
Phoebe, in short, wasn’t as thrilled with her.
“She wasn’t exactly a star in school,” she had reminded him when they first moved to Greenwich—when post-baby lack of sleep and leaving Brooklyn conspired to make her a real bitch. Finding things to pick at became her new hobby during those months. She’d been rocking Katie when she’d taken the swipe at Gita-Rae. The disparity of Phoebe’s Madonna-like appearance and her hard-edged observation repelled him. Jake didn’t expect or want a shrinking violet—he appreciated Phoebe’s sharp wit—but bitchiness reminded him of Lola.
“Gita-Rae grew up where I did. I need a reminder to keep me in check,” he’d said. “And bottom line: she might seem a bit crude, but she’s in the back room. The important thing is she’s a hell of a smart gal.”
Real bottom line? Gita-Rae might be clever and cunning, but those qualities rolled around Wall Street like cigarette butts. Knowing how to keep her mouth shut made her number one. Sure, she’d been a fuckup at school, stuck not even in the commercial track but in what they called “general”—the New York City Public School system’s way of labeling you a loser. Idiots. Gita-Rae was as shrewd as they came, but books didn’t float her boat the way they did Phoebe’s.
It was money that made Gita-Rae smile.
The New York schools had also labeled Charlie an underachiever. Perhaps his square edges couldn’t be filed down to fit into the system’s circles, but he knew how to obey upward when it suited him—and how to snap the necks of those who needed a reminder that Jake ruled this place.
“Ready for a break from decorating?” Jake asked, looking down at Gita-Rae.
She put out her hand. Jake pulled her up in one swift motion. “Funny guy,” she said.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 9
