“How’s your mom?” he asked.
Nanci’s sigh held her mother’s pain. Lung cancer was a bitch. Jake took her pudgy hand. “You’re being strong for her. We’re all proud of you.”
Nanci shrugged. “I’m all she has.”
“What about your brother?”
“Oh, God. You’d think he was still a kid. He hit forty-five last week, and you know how he celebrated?” She picked up a picture of her family in a red heart frame and drooped a bit more. “He went to Atlantic City and got drunk for three days. Meanwhile, I go straight to my mother’s every night to make supper.”
Jake pulled out his wallet and took out six twenties. “You get dinner delivered tonight. Something special. Make sure to buy flowers, from Phoebe and me.”
Nanci made a gesture, as though pushing away the money. “Oh, Jake. You already do too much. Mom and I would never have made it this far without you.”
“It’s you who makes the difference to me. You and everyone here—you’re the rocks of JPE.”
Nanci stood and hugged him. “We love you. You’re our hero!”
Hugging her back felt like squeezing a pillow, but God bless Nanci and all the rest of them. This dusty warren of offices acted like a tonic. After one last squeeze to her shoulder, Jake made his way to Charlie. After a perfunctory knock on the open door, he walked in.
“Read the paper?” Jake asked.
Charlie picked up a copy of the New York Post from the table behind him and rattled the paper. The words “Wall St. Bloodbath” spread in death-like letters across the front page. “I read it.” He grinned wide, showing the full length of his Chiclet-huge teeth. “You won’t be able to sign them up fast enough now.”
“Solomon already got a call from the bozos at Cook and Baylor,” Jake said. “I swear they fancy themselves British lords. Meanwhile, they’re begging for more. No more having to sweeten the deal for them.”
Jake couldn’t stand those horsey-set assholes, acting as though they were doing him a big favor by throwing business his way. They were feeder funds same as Gallagher & Graham, fattening on his kickbacks like lice, while presenting themselves as Einsteins of Wall Street.
“Blood’s in the streets,” Charlie said.
“Fuck the blood. Marrow is showing.” Jake took the leather guest chair. The guy’s office appeared neat as his own, with stacks of periodicals on the side table lined up in perfect order. For someone who had barely finished high school, Charlie worked his ass off to keep up. He subscribed to every magazine and paper with a connection to finance, inhaling the words as fast as they arrived. “We have our work cut out for us. Get your pen.”
Charlie kept notes in a small black leather binder. Jake thought of asking him the eventual landing for those small sheets of three-hole punched papers, but he filed the thought for future follow-up.
“The first thing we gotta do is put out the statements,” Jake said. “Timing couldn’t be better—we were set to mail them out tomorrow anyway.”
“How do you want them to look?” Charlie asked.
Jake leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He crossed his ankles and ran over scenarios. A fast infusion of cash was important, but the endgame meant keeping to his script. “Smart, dexterous, edging on miraculous without going over the line. Conservative enough to appear almost bank safe, agile enough to move every second. And showing how we take full advantage of every computer assist out there without being ruled by machines.”
These lines were nothing particularly new, but Charlie hung on to his words as though hearing them for the first time. He pointed to the three phones on his desk. “I turned off the ringers. Let them sweat a bit.”
One phone was a direct line for big fish such as Louis Klein. Jake had already talked to him this morning—one of the few clients with whom he spoke directly about business. The second was for their feeders and corporate accounts. The last, Charlie used for nonprofits and foundations, such as the Jewish Guardian of the Heart Fund.
Jake tapped the paper. “Talk to Solomon, and he’ll work on the numbers. All set?”
“Almost.” Charlie picked up his Marlboros, worrying the box like a good luck charm, opening and closing the top, letting the sour odor of unsmoked tobacco escape. Only a disaster of tidal wave proportion would ever have Charlie smoking in front of him.
“I got to ask you something,” Charlie said. “It’s probably nothing, but I got a strange call this morning. A reporter.”
“Reporters will be climbing up our ass with the news.”
“Her questions were different.”
“Different how?”
“She wasn’t asking what or how we lost, but why we didn’t.”
“Charlie, everyone asks for the soup recipe.”
“Sure, but she talked about running numbers to see how we do it—not like we were cheating; more like she wanted to analyze how we can have miracles in the midst of disasters.”
“Give her the same line as always: it’s not a public business, et cetera, et cetera. All true. We’re just guides for these people. We’re not even on the radar of government alphabet agencies.”
“Something about her made me wonder.”
Now Jake sat forward, leaning on his thighs. “What’s up, Charlie?”
“Hey, you know me. I’m a believer. My cash is here same as everyone else in this office. I just wondered—”
“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t think about your own wallet. Your family.”
“Solomon, Vic—we talk sometimes.”
He gave Charlie credit. The guy showed balls, coming to him like this. Staff had to wonder what the fuck he did with their cash, their paychecks, which they gave him like every other mark, using the Club and their Club profits like a checking account. They knew the statements were fiction but believed in the cash. They figured his scheme made them more money than stocks ever would, though God knows what plan they imagined.
“And?” He had to get out of there. Tension took over when he stayed in one place too long. He had to walk it off, buy a new shirt, a pair of cuff links, or a happy-ending massage.
“Where is it?”
Fuck him if he thought Jake would make this easy. “Where’s what?”
Now Charlie went far enough to drag a cigarette from the pack and tap it against the ashtray. “The money. Where do you keep it?”
Jake stood. “You already know too much, right? Deniability is an important factor. It’s my gift to you. Not that anything is illegal.” He shook his head slowly and calmly. “Far from it. Your future’s as safe as my grandmother’s grave. It’s just one of those simple plans nobody thinks of.”
He walked to the door, turning before he left for a parting shot. “And that, my friend, is the last time we speak about this. Either you trust me, or you don’t. Look around. Where the fuck do you think it all comes from? It’s me. All me. This takes everything from me. I count on you to make the small shit happen. I’ll make sure you and everyone else up here have the future of kings and queens.”
Charlie pushed back his chair and also stood. “Forget I said anything. Jesus, we know. We all know the world is resting on you.”
“And I know you all appreciate it. So go shtup everyone’s accounts, including yours.”
CHAPTER 20
Phoebe
Phoebe pounced on Jake the moment he walked in on Tuesday evening, barely letting him put down his briefcase and take off his jacket. She followed him to the kitchen. Her anxiety about Eva, Linh, and Zoya had eaten at her since the previous day. Jake hadn’t come home Monday night until long after she fell asleep, and then left before five this morning. He’d been in no mood to talk.
Now, by the time Jake finally walked in, all she cared about was getting his reassurance. Moments after flinging a plate of crackers and cheese in front of him, she began relaying the conversation she’d had with the women at the Cupcake Project and the promises she’d made.
He dropped a cracker, uneaten, on the table. �
�You said what?” Jake ran his hands through his hair. “Are you nuts?”
“They were almost hysterical. They can’t afford to lose anything!”
“You don’t do that!” Jake paced the floor, slamming his fist into his palm. “You never tell people you will cover their losses. Are you fucking nuts?”
“I can do whatever I please with my money. What better way to use it than helping people like Zoya and Linh? Eva?”
“Your money? Do you honestly think your cupcakes make a dime? Who do you think is underwriting this project of yours? Every penny of your business belongs to JPE in one form or another.”
“These are my friends. Who need everything they have.”
“People shouldn’t invest what they can’t afford to lose. Bottom line, if you need every cent, you stuff it under your damned mattress.”
“Fuck you, Jake. Just because you can be a heartless bastard doesn’t mean I have to follow you to hell.” She wanted to strike him. For the first time, she understood how couples ended up attacking each other. Why weapons should never be at hand.
Jake bent with his hands on his knees, took a deep breath, and then straightened up and walked away.
She heard him at the liquor cabinet in the next room. Glass clinked. A bottle opened. He poured. A moment passed, and then he poured again.
He came back carrying what looked like undiluted Scotch.
“Here. Drink this.” He handed her a glass. “Calm down.”
“You had some?” she asked.
“A sip.” He nodded as she drank. “Listen closely. One, we will be fine. We will get even more clients from this. Two, you never—do you hear me—never interfere with the business. Half of our friends and family are in the Club, and I do not want any one of them to think they can go to you. Not your mother or father, not your sister, and not your golden Mira House buddies. Capisce? This is mine. Only mine.”
Jake’s now-soft voice carried menace. Her heart raced as she wondered how she could keep her promise to her friends and keep her husband.
“Your girls will lose nothing. Not because they are different from any other client but because they have their money with me, damn it. Do you hear me?”
Jake being the only one in America able to deliver good news made no sense. She’d read the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Daily News, and the Post while waiting for him to come home. Blood ran in the streets.
What magic did Jake possess? Could he be brilliant?
“When people question you, this is what you say: ‘I shouldn’t say this, but if it were me, I’d double down with Jake. He won’t say a word, but he knows exactly how to play a down market. Whatever you do, don’t sell. These are the times when people become wealthy.’ Say nothing if you can’t say that, but say what I told you, and you’ll speak the truth.”
For the first time, it seemed, Phoebe felt the weight of what people said about Jake: that he truly was a money magician. He could end up in history books, mentioned along with Peter Lynch and Warren Buffett. Being with him since she was fifteen limited her understanding. To her, he remained Jake from the neighborhood. But he was more. Perhaps even a genius.
“You truly are this smart, aren’t you?” Phoebe whispered.
CHAPTER 21
Phoebe
“Aunt Deb’s crying. She sounds hysterical.” Noah held out the phone toward Phoebe.
She grabbed the receiver, apprehension hammering. Ben’s checkup last week had revealed blood pressure problems, high cholesterol, and weight gain—each one an ingredient for a heart attack.
“Is Ben okay? The kids?”
“Mom. And Daddy . . .” Thick sobs choked away her words.
“Deb! What happened?”
Ben’s voice came from the background with the sound of the phone being transferred. “Phoebe, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” Brittle cold invaded her chest.
“Are you alone?”
“Noah’s here. Just say it. Tell me, Ben!”
“Your parents. They were in a car accident.” He paused. His labored breathing and Deb’s sobs panicked her. “Your father didn’t make it. Your mother’s in Bellevue.”
Blinding pain pierced Phoebe’s head. She sank to her knees, sucker punched by Ben’s words.
“Mom! Mom, what’s wrong?” Noah knelt beside her and took the phone from her hand. “Uncle Ben, what happened?”
The drive to the hospital took seven hours or seven minutes—Phoebe wasn’t sure which. She’d locked her eyes on Noah’s hands gripping the steering wheel, as she entered suspended animation: muscles contracted, balled fists, her heels pressed to the rubber mat as though moving the car with her inaction.
Bellevue Hospital’s ancient systems and signs defied Noah’s teenage parking skills. After the second time circling from the FDR service road to First Avenue and back again, Phoebe pointed out the window.
“Park there.”
“That’s a delivery entrance, Mom.”
Park.
He pulled into the spot. “They’ll tow the car.”
“I don’t care.” This was the real power Jake bestowed. Having enough money to not give a shit. The car could explode moments after they walked away, and she wouldn’t turn around.
Phoebe and Noah trekked through dingy hallway mazes to reach her mother’s room. Not dirty, but unpleasant, and unbroken by reminders that life might be better than the grim interior of this hulking building.
Noah took her hand as they entered her mother’s room. Ben stood in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the radiator.
Lola lay in the bed closest to the window, forcing them to walk past her roommate, an ancient wraith of a moaning woman. Deb sat in a chair pulled close as possible to their mother.
Her mother’s stillness frightened Phoebe. Traces of eyeliner on her closed lids were the only remnants of the face Lola showed the world.
Ben put a finger to his lips and gestured with his chin toward the corridor. The two of them walked out and leaned against the wall.
“How is she? Should we call a nurse for the woman in the other bed?”
“Deb already asked twice. This place is a zoo.”
“Why’d they bring them . . .” Phoebe stopped. “Why did they bring her here?” Thick beige paint seemed designed to dull all senses, drown the urge to complain, muffle screams.
“Bellevue’s the best for trauma,” Ben said.
“What does she have?”
“A fractured pelvis.”
Phoebe winced, imagining the bowl protecting her mother’s innards shattered. “Are they operating?”
“We don’t know yet. They’re stabilizing her. She has an acetabulum fracture: a fracture of the socket of the hip. They manipulated it in the emergency room to get it back in place. Hopefully the procedure worked.” Ben nodded at a passing nurse. “Meanwhile, she needs to be carefully watched.”
“Should we transfer her?” Phoebe pressed her hand against her chest.
“Moving her in any way is dangerous. Right now they’re stabilizing her enough to evaluate whether to operate. She’s swollen. Contusions, you saw, cover her body. She lost three teeth. Her knees are three times their size.”
“Has she spoken? Did anyone tell her about Daddy?”
“She was in shock when she came into the trauma center,” Ben said. “So, no.”
Deb came out of the room, her eyes red, wearing a wrinkled green cotton sweater and jeans. An orange elastic band held her thick waves in a messy bun. “Noah’s watching Mom.”
“What happened to Daddy?” Phoebe asked.
“He was already gone when they got here. A heart attack. He lost control of the car.” Deb’s words sounded dredged in a layer of Valium. A profusion of jewelry pressed against her skin when she took her sister’s hand—her mother’s engagement and wedding rings along with the oversized emerald ring Lola wore for special occasions. On her middle finger, Deb wore their father’s gold wedding band.
>
“They were on the FDR. Your mother got tickets for a play,” Ben said. “For his birthday. The Phantom of the Opera.”
Numbness left. Phoebe’s chest ripped open. Visions of her parents—dressing for a night out, slipping into the Buick Regal that her father kept spotless, probably eating dinner out before the show—piled like photographs. She held on to the vision of her father alive.
Phoebe hugged her sister. “I’ll sit with her. You and Ben get coffee. Or get outside for a few minutes.” Bellevue’s air surrounded them like a soup of infection and bleach.
• • •
Deep purple and black bruises covered her mother’s face. Her hair, pushed away from the shiny unguents slicked over cuts and scrapes, frizzed in a brown halo. Grey roots that her mother would have covered with brown mascara peeked out.
Terror and grief fought for primacy as Phoebe sat watching her mother for the signs of danger the nurse had listed. Labored breathing. Hot skin. Swelling—though how could she see swelling through already swollen limbs? Noah fidgeted beside her, his healthy youthfulness no match for the claustrophobic atmosphere, the profusion of wires and tubes. He jumped on any request Phoebe concocted: a sandwich she’d never eat, magazines never to be read.
Jake appeared, late, apologetic, but lacking a clear reason for why he’d been out of touch. He wore a fresh shirt and smelled of a recent shampoo. Phoebe didn’t care if he’d been at the gym or sleeping with every woman in Manhattan. He held her and murmured all the right things, but within thirty minutes of his pacing in and out of the room, repeatedly asking if he should arrange to transport her mother to Mount Sinai Hospital, she asked him to check on the likely towed car and take Noah home. Jake’s already oversized energy had reached epic proportions since Black Monday six weeks ago. Being around him was unbearable now.
Phoebe turned her parents’ rings round and round on her own thinner fingers until she asked for medical tape and wound it around the metal until the bands hugged her flesh. Deb had transferred the rings to Phoebe when she left, both of them eager to slip them back on their mother.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 18
