The shrill ring of the mobile assaulted him.
“Ready,” he said.
“Good morning to you.” Gita’s sibilant release of smoke brought her essence through the static-ridden connection, as though her particular mix of acrid tobacco, coffee, and Opium perfume ran through the air.
“Let’s do this fast.” Jake held up his thin-tipped pen, ready as always to fit as much as possible on each page. “I need to charge this damned phone already.”
“First, the good news. Louie Klein’s secretary called. He’s putting in another 125K. Apparently some guru is looking at a downturn—in the middle of everything skyrocketing, this wizard’s playing Chicken Little—and Louie’s shoving more into the Club for safety.”
“We have great affection for wizards, and we love Louis to death.” Klein, his largest Club member, treated Jake like family. His vast fortune came from Guance Rosee, his exclusive line of skin care and makeup. Women shelled out for the overpriced products, unaware the popular lipsticks—Ciliegie, Peonia, and Viola—carried nothing from Italy but the name. Klein chased every dime. When Uncle Gus, his childhood friend, introduced Klein to Jake, he said, “Ask Louis to show you his first nickel.”
“Here’s the bad news. Three of G&G’s biggest fish decided to invest in some start-up company. They took out everything.”
A familiar cold swept through him. “How much?” He girded himself. Tomorrow he’d start on a game plan. Write an outline to put everything in order. No more bullshit. After he paid his clients the amounts shown on their statements, he’d shut down the Club. Concentrate on the brokerage. Fuck it. This arrangement had gone way past the sell-by date.
“A blip compared with everything else.”
“How much of a blip?”
“Five hundred K.”
Jake covered the phone’s mouthpiece. Fuck, fuck, fuck! “Thanks, Gita-Rae. No big deal, but glad you’re tracking it, darling.” He knocked the tips of his fingers against his upper chest, right in the center, where Phoebe said anxiety rested.
“Always earning my keep, boss.”
Everyone in the ghetto up on the thirty-seventh floor believed that he sat atop alps of cash, which, of course, was Jake’s intention. On the downside, Gita-Rae assumed a withdrawal of $500K meant no more than an accounting entry.
What did she think of the daily tally he insisted upon? Did she gossip about the numbers with Charlie? Not with Nanci—Gita-Rae prized keeping her distinction of boss lady. She considered Charlie a peer, notwithstanding his raise in stature since Jake named him the company’s chief financial officer.
Despite the swanky new offices that JPE had occupied for a year now, the Club staff still rolled around in a dusty pigsty, believing they had one up on the straitlaced brokers and management above them on floor thirty-eight. They played by different rules, locked away in their clubhouse, thinking that Jake allowed this because they knew the real deal. They thought he exploited some ultimate irony of investment. While feeder fund managers talked about his secret strategies of buying in and selling out with a razor-sharp timing particular to Jake’s spectacular system (believing him a virtual savant of investing), the Club staff understood that the seeming investments he made—the ones listed on statements—were made possible by wedding a brilliant computer program to his staff’s slog work. The statements represented nothing more than numbers on paper. They assumed his transactions were made outside the realm of acceptable—thus needing padding between reality and public information.
Some of their guesses about where the money rested traveled to his ears: Swiss bank accounts that allowed singular interest rates available only to a chosen few; treasure chests of illegal doubloons growing in value at an unprecedented degree; or maybe secreted stores of oil, ready to be uncovered when a depleted world would pay quintuple the rate.
While they crowed at the piracy they imagined him pulling off, they never doubted that the provenance of growth existed—that a pile of cash, wherever it might be hidden, grew each day. This he knew, because to a man, they invested with the Club themselves, devoting a portion of their princely salaries and bonuses to their own Club accounts, convinced of the safety, if not the legality, of their bottom lines.
Jake vowed he’d catch up and make it whole. He just didn’t know how or when.
“Okay. Got it,” he said to Gita-Rae. “Call Ronnie at G&G and also Cook and Baylor’s girl.”
“Cynthia?”
“Whoever. Give them a message: April is now our bonus month. A four percent incentive kicker for all new accounts over 200K. Solomon can put in the proper bullshit language to make it kosher.”
Jake hung up, secure in Solomon’s way with words and Gita-Rae’s dogged follow-through. He scribbled down the numbers Gita-Rae had given him and then dialed his father. His mother answered with her usual whine of a greeting.
“Ma, I need to talk to Dad.”
“No time for even hello?”
“I’m on the mobile phone, with maybe five minutes left.”
“Fancy-pants family on the move. How are the kids? Are you enjoying the trip? I don’t care, but your father should occasionally see a piece of the world out of Brooklyn.”
“Ma, I bought you a car.”
“How far do you think I’ll drive with your father and his shaky hands?”
“Put Dad on. Phoebe’s waiting for me.”
When nothing else worked, citing Phoebe made the difference in shutting down his mother. His wife induced subservience, likely the worship of beauty dressed by money.
“Jakie?” His father sounded tired. “You need something?”
“Gita-Rae has a new list of senior centers. She’s gonna set up some presentations for you to give. Put on your good suit. Bring us new clients.”
He heard his father growing taller. The old man loved doing the act and believed every word he said.
Jake returned to the table with thoughts of needing to make up 500K thrumming like a curse. He barely heard the kids and Phoebe’s words as he tried to process the number. When Phoebe’s hand came to rest on top of the New York Times, pulling down the page to see him just as Jake began reading the second paragraph of the story, his heart was racing. He pressed his lips together and flicked her hand away.
“Are you going to read throughout the entire brunch?” she asked. “First you’re out there on the phone and now the paper? This trip’s about Katie. What went on out there? Your mood was fine before you talked to the office.”
“I’m here! Should I gaze into Kate’s eyes every second?” He turned to his daughter. “No offense, honey.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Noah said. “Nobody cares if Dad reads the paper.”
Jake wasn’t blind. He frightened Noah—sure, he knew that—but the boy needed toughening. He wanted his kids resilient, not babied into a life spent as a rich man’s children. Especially Noah. Kate’s moxie never failed her. Jake didn’t alarm her—which annoyed him or amused him, depending on his mood.
Jake shook the Times back into crispness. “I gotta stay on the ball. Remember what happened to Steve Jobs last year. They threw him out of Apple, his own company. That’s why you don’t go public. The poor schmendrick poured his life into his company and they booted his ass out. Remember this when I’m gone.”
“He brought Apple public to get megabucks for expansion. That’s how he went from rich to insanely wealthy.” Kate tapped the tabletop. “But he still wanted control, which you lose once a board is in place, right? He lost the fight. That’s business, Dad.”
Ah, the assurance of youth. One year at Harvard and she could analyze Apple and Steve Jobs.
“Correct, my Harvard genius. This is what I’m paying the bills for. But nothing is more important than control. You go public, you give it up.”
“We know your strategy: One, keep the money in the family.” Kate made an invisible checkmark.
“Two, keep the power in the family.” Noah made a second and more dramatic checkmark.
&nb
sp; People groveling at the office meant nothing. This, his family, was everything.
“Three, keep the most power for yourself,” Phoebe said. “You never fail there.”
“Complaining?” Jake held up her hand and rattled the collection of bracelets. “You want diamonds and power?”
Kate lifted his wrist, turning his hand to see the time displayed on his Patek Philippe. “You have both. Why shouldn’t Mom?”
“We all do fine in this family.” There were worse things than his drawer of watches. Opening the dresser to his velvet tray of neatly lined gold and leather soothed him no end. Matching a timepiece to his suit, strapping it on, and shooting his cuffs marked the beginning of his day.
He lifted the ugly brown mug to drink the last of his coffee. How had they ended up at this place? Pewter Pot. The big teapot hanging outside and the dark wood and waitresses in frilly aprons were meant to make them feel as though they were visiting Ye Olde London instead of Harvard Square. Fat chance with street kids hustling for change everywhere and others begging you to support everything from AIDS research to homeless veterans.
Jake folded the paper and handed it to Phoebe, who stuffed it in her straw bag. “You’ll find out what working for your money means this summer. See what you think about me and Steve Jobs after sweating your way through the jobs I have planned for you on the brokerage floor.”
“I keep telling you, I’m going to Southampton,” Kate declared. “Uncle Theo said I’d be doing him a favor, keeping an eye on the kids.”
“Babysitting while you bake on the beach? With the partying going on there? No way. Between the drugs, the alcohol, and the rich boys looking to get laid, anything could happen. Sleep with someone these days, and you’re taking your life in your hands.”
“God, Daddy. I want to help Uncle Theo and Aunt Ellen watch the kids, and you have me dead of AIDS. Don’t you trust my judgment at all?”
“You I have faith in. In the Hamptons, I believe nobody. You’ll work at the brokerage and drive in with me.”
Kate slapped the table. “I don’t want a job with you. I don’t even want to go to the Hamptons. You know what I want? To be at Mira House. I just knew you’d flip out. Ira said I could work at the summer camp.”
“After I said no, you called Ira?” he asked Phoebe.
“Having options is never a bad thing.” She stabbed a piece of pancake. “We never decided anything for certain.”
“Mom said I could be a junior counselor,” Noah added. “Kate and I could take the train in together.”
“Or they can go in with me,” Phoebe said. “I’ve been thinking I need to spend more time there.”
Jake bet that Ira would love that. “Why don’t you just devote every minute you have to the halt and lame? Oh, wait. You do.”
They had set him up. Put forth the Hamptons and then he’d say okay to the Lower East Side? He didn’t slave so that his kids and wife could grime away down there while he came home to an empty house. He’d be damned if the three of them went off to save the world with cupcakes and basketballs, while he looked like Scrooge counting money in the back room.
“Of course they’re going to hire the kids. You practically support Mira House,” Jake said.
“That’s not the point.” Phoebe did her angry-finger thing, tapping on her thighs, probably pretending she was drumming against his head. “They should learn life outside Greenwich and the Hamptons; outside the entire money world.”
“Forget it, Mother Teresa. They don’t need to learn poverty—what’s required for the future is that you understand my business. You want to help more, then why don’t you really help? Of course you should give. Jesus, bring my checkbook, I’ll write any number you want. But the kids stay with me.” He turned to Kate. “You’re not going to Uncle Theo’s. He never should have asked you without checking in first. You’re coming to work with me. And you?” He looked at his son. “I’ll get you a job at the marina. That’s that.”
CHAPTER 16
Jake
October 1987
“Zip, please.”
Phoebe turned her back to him, peering over her shoulder. The gaping zipper revealed velvety skin curtained by black satin. Ownership, love, and admiration smacked into a collision of desire as he ran his finger from the hollow of her spine up to the fine hairs escaping her stern bun. In the hotel mirror, he saw the abstract painting, a slash of red and black, juxtaposed against his delicate wife.
The doc should have prescribed sex instead of pushing Prozac, although right now he could use both. His jaw was tight as the Tin Man’s before the oiling. Tonight he’d throw his Hail Mary pass, a chance at salvation in a world gone mad with new technology. Hooking potential Club members on the notion of guaranteed steady returns became difficult when men believed any computer-connected stock was bound for Microsoft glory.
Jake hated thinking how much he’d have if he’d actually bought shares during Microsoft’s initial public offering. Twenty-fucking-eight dollars per share on offering. Now, after splitting and rising ad nauseam, a share was worth $143. He’d be up fifteen million if he’d made the trades he purported.
Fuck it. His ass could be in the gutter just as easy. Might as well gamble in Vegas as play the market. Life would smooth out with his new legitimacy plan.
Staying positive meant concentrating on the future. Look at the brokerage, running like silk over glass. Theo kept a tight lid on the staff at JPE. Solomon added the gravitas. Where other firms let their guys go wild, Jake screwed the lid tight: no flash, no fucking in the stairwell, no snorting coke in the men’s room. No goddamned dwarf tossing. Some of the stories he’d heard—Jesus, his sins were the least of the Street’s crimes.
Hell, last year Asset Magazine had declared JPE the best-kept secret on Wall Street, the broker’s brokerage—the high-tech king straitlaced enough for your grandmother. His secretary had blown up the article, framed it in brushed steel, and placed the image front and center in the lobby where people entered.
If he’d written it himself, the piece couldn’t have been better. Plus, they had only whispered a mention of the Club: “Pierce’s powerful under-the-radar investment arm is almost impossible to join—rumor has it that entry requires being vetted by a hush-hush cadre of those in the know, whom nobody can identify. One source called it ‘Jake’s toy,’ where he gets to mix his ingredients for investments only available to preferred clients.”
After the article hit the newsstands, potential clients begged for Club membership, but he remained distant, ensuring that they believed only pushing the proper buttons opened the gate to Jake’s magic castle. Now every asshole with a computer wanted to play day trader, forgetting that what went up also came down. Meanwhile, the Club’s daily cash in and cash out drifted further apart, and he needed an infusion.
He slid Phoebe’s zipper up and then teased the tab back down. The scent of Poison rose as he massaged the tight muscles. Poison brought Bianca to mind, but perfume was the only connection between his wife and his current plaything. Blond wasn’t simply the color of Bianca’s hair; her aura, her personality, every word she spoke matched the buttercup shade of her curls. Bianca’s giggles, her chatter about everything and nothing drove him insane, so the little time they spent out of bed, the television usually blared in the background.
When Bianca pouted about the sex, followed by Chinese food delivery, followed by a movie popped into the VCR, the routine he’d established, he reminded her of the rewards with which his habits came. She’d mope for a moment or two, but then snuggle beside him and gaze at the newest trinket he’d picked up at some hole-in-the-wall jewelry store.
Jake didn’t fool himself. He’d gone from swearing that he’d never cheat, to Georgia, to a variety of one-night stands, to regular “dates” with Bianca, but at least it never meant anything but sex. Emotionally, he and Bianca shared nothing. Hell, look at the two women side by side: Phoebe’s strictly classy appearance, taut, toned, and sleek, outshone Bianca by miles, bu
t sometimes you wanted a Twinkie instead of uncovering the layers of Baked Alaska. Bianca’s bubble breasts would be hanging down long after Pheebs’s still stood at attention, but playing with them now provided a heck of a treat. His poor Phoebe. No matter how many hours she spent exercising, she’d passed forty. Bianca’s pliability, her satin finish, her expanse of unmarked flesh: it was her moment in time, and one he relished touching. No army of cosmetics and skin-care products lined her bathroom shelves.
“How about an early celebration, Pheebs?”
“I’m all dressed and ready.” Even as she spoke those practical words, an aura of pliancy rippled toward him.
“So you are.” He tugged her tight dress up and bent her over the bed. She arched up to meet him, and he pulled her closer, holding her hips, feeling the silk fabric slither over her skin, watching golden chains slip up and down her arm. Poison’s heady aroma collided with the scent of roses on her dresser, and he drove into his wife with the force of screwing two women at once.
• • •
A large placard with his name and picture made the Waldorf Astoria Hotel ballroom entrance seem to rise and greet Jake in acclaim. His portrait took up half the real estate on the poster. Underneath his image, the words read “The Jewish Guardian of the Heart Fund Honors Jake Pierce, Advocate & Sustainer.”
After his father’s fatal heart attack two years ago, he’d donated a million dollars to begin the Kenneth Pierce Fund, under the umbrella of the Jewish Guardian of the Heart Fund. Jake’s mother had died a month later, and he donated another two hundred grand but asked them to keep the name the same.
“I still can’t believe you donated so much,” Phoebe whispered as they entered the Grand Ballroom. “Are we really that rich?”
“We are, baby. This is our life.” He swept his hand to take in the entire scene.
She squeezed his hand. “But you gave over a million? How in the world—”
“Don’t worry. I put a pile of contributors together, that’s all. Donating’s an investment.” If they thought you could drop a million, they’d throw ten million at you. If he’d given twenty million, they’d fall down on their knees, begging him to take their money.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 15
