STORMS OF FORTUNE
by
David R. Addleman
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * *
PUBLISHED BY:
David R. Addleman on Smashwords
Cover Art by Laura Shinn
Fortune's Child
Copyright © 2011 by David R. Addleman
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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* * *
Diligence is the mother of good fortune.
Chapter One
Jason Mathews hesitated at the entrance of the M&P building, listening to the mingled street noises of racing taxi engines, screeching tires, and honking. Sounds of Manhattan. Footsteps and muted conversations of passersby provided a closer, softer counterpoint. Sunlight, what there was of it on such a wintry day, was mostly blocked by skyscrapers, creating long shadows across the sidewalk. Inhaling the acrid exhaust-filled air, Jason wrinkled his nose at the hint of garbage wafting in from downtown. He took a deep breath, coughing at the sudden burning in the back of his throat, and entered somber bronzed doors.
Inside the sepulchral lobby sat a uniformed guard behind a raised desk studying three TV monitors. Big and black, he looked more like a professional wrestler than a guard. Jason walked towards him, conscious of his leather-soled footsteps echoing off the marbled walls.
The guard turned to follow Jason's approach across the granite floor. "Yes?"
"Melrose and Pounder?"
"You're not a client." A deep-voiced statement.
"Nope. I'm nothing yet; soon to be a gopher."
The big face wrinkled into a questioning expression. "Gopher?"
"Yeah. I've been offered a job as an account executive, but first I'll have to endure the break-in period. 'Hey, Mathews, go for this.' 'Jason, go for that.' You know, a go-for."
The guard grinned. "Mathews, you aren't stuffy enough to work up there."
"That's what the break-in period if for."
The man stood up and came around from behind the desk. He held out a hand. Maybe the desk wasn't raised after all, since he stood at least six-six. "Johnny T. Brunner."
Jason shook the huge hand. "Not the Johnny T. Brunner? The linebacker for the Jets?"
His face split into a wide smile. "Ex. Old age and a couple of younger kids showed up to beat me out of my position. So, at thirty-four, I have a new career — ferocious security guard." He grimaced and growled an NFL-linebacker's greeting to an opposing quarterback, then relaxed and laughed pleasantly.
Jason shook his head. "You got me psyched. This skinny six-footer would lie down and protect the ball before trying to run past you."
Street noise blasted in as someone entered the lobby, and Johnny T. became all business as he pointed to the nearest elevator. "Take the express to the main offices on the nineteenth floor, Sir." Winking, he added, "Catch you later." He walked back behind the desk. "M&P main offices are on the top floor."
Jason nodded as he entered the elevator. Johnny T. lifted a palm.
On the 30th floor elevator doors opened directly into a wide hallway. Opposite were double mahogany doors with a small plaque stating "Melrose and Pounder" in discreet lettering.
A middle-aged secretary looked up from her desk and greeted Jason with a warm smile. Surprised by her display of friendliness, he grinned back. The name on her desk plaque was "Helen Overstreet," and she looked like a well-groomed schoolteacher.
"I'm Jason Mathews, here to see Mr. Hutcheson."
Her eyes twinkled. "Since you're the first new hire we've had in years, I was fairly sure who you were." Standing up, she motioned him to follow her to a door with the name "Paul Hutcheson" in shiny brass letters. Underneath the name was the title: "Vice President, Personnel." She knocked twice and opened the door.
"Mr. Mathews to see you, Sir."
"Thank you, Miss Overstreet," came the gruff reply.
"Ah, thanks, Miss Overstreet," Jason whispered.
She winked and closed the door.
Hutcheson was a broad man in his fifties who seemed engrossed in whatever he was reading. He looked up finally with a scowl that left vertical wrinkles above his nose. No smile for this new hire, Jason thought.
He waved Jason to a chair. "Sit down," he said crisply. Picking up a thin folder, he read for a long minute. Looking up suddenly as if trying to catch Jason's inattention, he added, "You are a fortunate young man. We haven't hired an account executive in five years."
Jason hoped he looked impressed. "I hadn't realized that, Sir."
"No. Not only that, you're the first ever from UCLA." This pronouncement seemed of special significance. "If not for Dean Brownell's recommendation, you wouldn't be here. The main branch of the Brownells, you know, live here in the city and have been our clients for over a hundred years. A Brownell's word carries a lot of weight."
Jason wasn't sure whether to shake or nod at this. He tried an earnest smile, while looking impressed.
"What do you know about our firm?"
"Only what I read on the web after googling for Melrose and Pounder."
"Did you learn that we've been in business since 1843 and that we've served mayors, governors, and presidents?"
"Ah—"
"Or that we serve exactly 400 clients?"
"I did read—"
Hutcheson's scowl deepened. "The only reason we ever lose a client is—"
"Death," Jason said. "I did read that."
The older man seemed less than pleased by the interruption.
"Sorry, sir," Jason said lamely.
Hutcheson's expression tightened into one of mourning over having hired a west-coast upstart who couldn't keep his mouth shut. He cleared his throat noisily. "In any case, you start today. Mr. Lewis, our office manager, will process you into our firm." Hutcheson stopped talking and looked back down at the folder he'd been reading.
After a few minutes of silence, Jason realized he had been dismissed and scrambled to his feet. "Uh, thank you, Sir."
Closing the door, he leaned against it and wondered if he'd missed something? Miss Overstreet regarded him with a hint of amusement in her expression.
"You'll be wanting Mr. Lewis."
"The office manager?"
She nodded, then added, "Don't worry, Mr. Mathews. You'll do just fine."
* * *
Walter Lewis was a short, overweight man with thinning blonde hair who wore a fixed smile that approached facial paralysis. Jason detected little warmth behind that smile. "You'll like it here, Mathews. M&P has a great bunch of guys, all working together. Yes sir, we're one big team." When the shorter man spoke his eyes seemed to focus on Jason's chin, refusing to look up-hill.
Short-man syndrome, Jason thought.
Lewis's eyes lighted up with sudden inspiration. "Did you know that M&P has been in continual existence since 1843?"
Nodding, Jason said, "Mr. Hutcheson told me."
"Oh." Clearly defeated, Lewis' smile twitched before resuming its rictus.
Jason looked around. The carpeted room was full of men at their desks. He heard occasional beeps of computers, the muted rustling of paper, and soft men's voices spoken into mikes connected to headsets. The men were partially hidden behind large computer screens, in a bullpen arrangement of three rows comprising six desks each row. The desks faced a wall of windows. Seventeen occupied desks, with one vacancy. Was that one his?
Private offices lined two sides of the room, four across the back and three along the right wall. Where a left wall would have been, there was a long marble counter that effectively barricaded the room against any public that got past Johnny T.
The smiling Lewis led him between rows of desks. He pointed at or touched each man in passing while reeling off their names. "Wheeler," ..."Johnson," ..."Murphy," ..."Clements," and so forth. Each man wore a lightweight headset and microphone and seemed intent on his computer screen, talking earnestly and quietly or listening. Some nodded as Lewis called out their names; others ignored him completely. "Did you ever see a more dedicated team?"
From all appearances the team hadn't accepted Lewis as a member. If Lewis, an East Coaster, wasn't a member, how was he, the odd West Coaster, going to fare? Lewis stopped at the vacant desk and its iMac computer. Jason noted the keyboard, headset and mike. A small handset rested in its base. "This is yours."
"No wires anywhere," Jason said.
The smile grew broader. "Blue-tooth."
* * *
During the next few weeks, Jason became a research gopher. The practice was for senior brokers to scribble out research requests and leave them in an "out" tray. His job was to pick up these slips of paper and look up the information requested. Not that he minded the actual research. Between Google and the dedicated financial sites, searching was quick and easy. Besides, he'd much rather research a firm's financial rating, figure its price-to-earnings ratio, or check a regulation, than fetch and carry coffee.
In the process he became familiar with regulations published by the New York Stock Exchange and the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as M&P rules, market trends, and forecasts prepared by M&P's research department. He learned what was and wasn't legal, strategies and tactics for both bullish and bearish markets, the art of selling a client on a transaction, and how to play the odds. It was fast becoming clear that he'd joined a high-stakes gambling casino and, as a broker, would be enjoying house odds.
Unfortunately, he also learned which prima donnas required the most fetching and carrying. Unwritten rules prevailed which tacitly stated that the brokers in private offices rated gopher services. Oliver Smithfield and Terrance Conner were his constant customers.
Smithfield, sixtyish, overweight, and fussy, smelled of lavender scent and spoke precisely. He'd step to the door of his small office and stand motionless until Jason looked up. Then, as imperious as an English schoolmaster, he'd raise a chubby hand and beckon. His most frequent requests were for the small pastries (accompanied by Starbucks coffee) from a Swiss bakery three blocks away.
Conner was different. A Rutgers University graduate, the short, thin man with the ruddy complexion and grating voice would bellow, "Mathews!" so loudly that other brokers would freeze in mid-sentence. Mostly he seemed to want others noticing his exercise of privileges. His communication skill was equally obnoxious, and Jason assumed he bullied his clients into parting with their money.
Jason would have dismissed the entire staff as snobs and dilettantes if it hadn't been for Grossvelt. If location meant anything, then by virtue of his corner office, Jeremiah Grossvelt was senior to them all. Completely at odds with the others, he didn't exercise any gopher prerogatives and seldom socialized. It seemed, in fact, that the others diligently pretended Grossvelt into nonexistence. From which one might suppose, Jason thought, that Jeremiah Grossvelt was the one person in the place worth watching.
Seeing Grossvelt that first time had startled Jason. The thin, stooped body with its oversized head and frizzled Einsteinian hair, struck him as incongruous. The cold, blue eyes had flicked across the room to settle electrically on Jason an instant before passing on. As quickly as that glance had been, Jason felt like he'd been disassembled, examined, and put back together.
Murphy at the adjoining desk was watching the man's progress across the room. Smiling Jack, Jason had dubbed him after noticing how his freeze-dried customer-smile turned on only when he was speaking to a customer. Perhaps Murphy was a distant relative of Lewis's.
Jason had asked, "Is that Grossvelt?"
"In the flesh. HMCO." Seeing Jason's puzzled expression, he added, "His Majesty of the Corner Office." The customer-only smile had evaporated. "Acts like he's God's gift to Wall Street."
"Is he?"
"No. He's got a few connections, is all." Murphy returned to work, his unhappy face awash in the pale glow from his computer screen. Subject closed.
Jason stifled a grin. Struck a nerve there, he thought.
Curious about Grossvelt, Jason stayed late that night, calling up the weekly summaries on his computer. Wondering if his findings were a fluke, Jason tried the monthlies, then the annuals. He checked back five years. Every week of each month for the last five years, J. Grossvelt had led the pack in securities sold and size of accounts handled. If that weren't enough, he also peaked out on the in-house ratio of hits versus misses. This last statistic tracked stock purchases and sell recommendations, coupled with the results. In most cases when Grossvelt said "buy," the stock price rose, and when he said "sell," the stock lost value.
"No wonder the boys on the team don't like you," he said aloud. Glancing down the totals for the last month he saw that no one else was even close. "The bastards are jealous."
The next day, Jason waited until Hutcheson was out before approaching Helen Overstreet. "I need some help." He noticed how nice she smelled, but couldn't place the perfume.
"Lewis is the office manager."
"Lewis couldn't help me out of a chair." That brought a fleeting smile. "Besides, this requires finesse."
Helen gave him an encouraging smile. "Go on. You've got me interested."
Jason looked around conspiratorially, "It's about Jeremiah Grossvelt."
Her smile vanished and her expression tightened. "I don't want to hear any complaints about Grossvelt." The tone in her voice was menacing.
"No complaint. It's just that I've discovered he's the only broker on the floor worth knowing. Can you think of a way I can do that."
She exhaled and gave him a soft smile. "So. You haven't been wasting your time."
"I don't think so. Last night I pored over brokers' track records. You can guess what I found."
Nodding, she asked, "What made you suspect?"
"The intelligence in his eyes."
"None of them ever noticed," she inclined her head towards the bullpen. "All they see is an old man who somehow 'cheats' them out of clients."
"They're too jealous to see the man," he said.
"All but you," she said. A much more relaxed Helen Overstreet regarded him warmly. "What is it you want to know?"
"The best way to get acquainted with him."
"That may not be easy," she warned.
"I'm willing to be patient."
From that day on, they were co-conspirators.
Jason began by intercepting all of Grossvelt's research slips, then staying as late as necessary to find the information requested. He'd slip the answer into Grossvelt's IN basket before leaving.
After a few weeks he added research of his own devising. Small things at first: An analysis of investor trends he noticed in the Wall Street Journal; a list of companies too small for notice by major brokerage houses, whose assets seemed unusually high for their earnings; and the reports of several congressional committees about bills-in-progress that he thought would affect the market. He knew Grossvelt was an expert, and that he apparently had many lines of information. It would be foolish and counterproductive to try impressing the senior broker in his own areas of knowledge. Jason's plan was to fill in the cracks, ferreting out data that might be overlooked by the guru in the corner office.
No small loss of sleep was involved in Jason's campaign. He stayed late at the office at first, then decided that if he wanted to retain anonymity he'd better find another place to work. The NYC Library was the answer. He used the computer at work for his daily chores, such as researching stock prices, sales volumes, etc., then retired to the library for the in-depth analysis into company balance sheets, officer holdings, annual reports. He had no clients of his own as yet, and so wasn't involved in the actual buying and selling transactions. Otherwise, the only change in his routine was to arrive early and deposit his results in Grossvelt's basket before anyone else arrived.
Six weeks passed before Grossvelt called him into his office.
"You're Mathews." The man's breath smelled of mint.
Unsure of what to expect, Jason nodded. "Yes, sir."
Grossvelt watched him without expression. "Are you a pixie or something?"
Jason swallowed. "Sir?"
"You know, those little creatures that work all night and leave presents."
"I think you mean Brownies. One legend has them making shoes..."
Grossvelt cleared his throat ominously. "I know the story. He squinted as though peering through smoke. "Tell me about the brownies who analyze securities and companies ready for takeover."
He'd guessed. Jason had expected it would take a few months more. "I don't know about those."
"Oh, you don't?" Reaching into his top-right drawer and pulling out a sheaf of papers, he asked, "Then what are these papers you keep leaving in my basket?"
Taking a deep breath, Jason offered: "Research?"
"No, not research. I request the research I want. Instead you give me three times what I ask for. How am I supposed to get any sleep if I have to read all this stuff?" He waved the papers, then dropped them on the desk.
"Sorry, sir. Hoped you might be interested." The full weight of how his presumption might appear hit him suddenly. Was Grossvelt insulted? Perhaps he'd forever ruined his chances of learning anything from the man.
Grossvelt spoke, his crisp voice pitched low. "Because of your extracurricular effort, I tried an approach that was new." His eyes bore into Jason. "You know what happened?" The mint-flavored question hung in the air.
"Money was lost?" It was worse than he'd imagined.
"Yes. But not mine or my clients'. The lost money belonged to a few arrogant fund managers selling short. On the strength of your reports I went long."
"But I didn't advise anyone..."
"Yes, you did. When you convinced me that certain securities were undervalued, I was sure we couldn't lose."
Jason was stunned. This man had taken a hypothetical research report and turned it to profit.
"So, young man. What is all this about? What do you want from me?" Small crinkles appeared at the outsides of Grossvelt's eyes. While awaiting Jason's answer, the man popped a small white mint into his mouth.
Jason, counting the hundreds of hours he'd spent to arrive at this point, felt mildly dizzy. He remembered how Helen Overstreet had gently encouraged him. What the hell, he thought. "I want to be your apprentice."
Chapter Two
Lauren Wheaton arrived in Los Angeles the Monday after graduating from Stanford with a Bachelor's degree in economics. She had long ago tired of the snob-set at school and determined to distance herself from the social circle she'd been trapped in since birth. She wanted to accomplish something on her own; something real.
Clara had been scathing. "You weren't sent to Stanford to become a common employee." Mrs. Clara Wheaton reclined on her Italian sofa smelling of Chanel 5, her distinguishing scent. With black hair, a year-round tan, and wearing the latest in tennis wear, she looked more a sister than mother to Lauren.
"I wasn't sent, Mother. I chose Stanford myself, because I wanted an education. And I got a good one." Lauren was glad she'd worn jeans and a striped tee. Casual clothing was her armor against her mother's oh-so-correct social arguments.
Clara chose to end that discussion and instead was studying her daughter with that speculative expression that Lauren knew only too well.
"What is it, Mother?"
"Your hair. Blonde is better worn long. Why don't you let it grow?"
Lauren waited, recognizing the hair comment as the opening sortie.
"Stand up, Dear. I think you've lost weight, too."
Sighing, Lauren stood. "Wrong. I haven't gained or lost a pound in over a year."
"Mmm. Your breasts are sagging."
"I'm wearing a sports bra, not one of your uplift specials."
Her mother walked close, peering up into Lauren's face. "You're taller."
"Maybe…a bit. I'm still closer to five-nine than five-ten."
Backing away, Clara made a moue with her mouth. "With those cheek bones you could be strikingly beautiful, if you tried."
"You mean if I spent all my time in a spa, and let beauticians and make-up artists transform me."
"Don't be so dismissive. Look what it has done for me."
Lauren sighed. "Yes, you're beautiful. A few more years and I'll probably look like your older sister."
Clara preened. "My point exactly. You could keep your youthful look and continue to be my younger one." She giggled at her cleverness.
The couch cushions hissed as Lauren dropped back onto them. "Can we stop dissecting me, now?"
Mrs. Wheaton made a face and sighed theatrically. "Darling. Why can't you move back here to Riverside. Move into your old room until you decide where you might want to buy permanently. Visit the club. Swim. Play golf and tennis. Fill your nights with bridge, dancing, and social contacts. Or, better yet, fly to Europe with us this year. Three weeks in Cannes or Monte Carlo would sweep away those academic cobwebs and get the kinks out."
Knowing her mother meant well, Lauren made a show of considering the offer. "Not this year, Mother. I'd feel my degree was wasted if I didn't use it."
Her mother sniffed. "Your trust fund earns you more in a year than you'll ever make from a salary." The way she pronounced salary and wrinkled her nose it might have been synonymous with garbage.
"Yes, Mother. That's why I'm not using my trust fund."
Lauren smiled, remembering her mother's startled expression. She must have thought her daughter had gone insane. But Lauren didn't think so. If she didn't cut herself off from an easy source of funds, she'd never be motivated to try. She didn't see herself quitting the first time it got rough, but she wasn't sure. Everything — money, grades in school, social opportunities — all came so easily. How did she know what she could do, or not do?
Los Angeles was hot, suffering from the perennial smog-trapping temperature inversion that made breathing difficult at ground level. She pulled the Cutlass over to the curb and left the motor running while she bought a paper. Back in the car she searched until she found a listing of employment offices and tore out the section.
She drove to a restaurant called Tiny's, and ordered a tuna salad and lemonade for lunch. She called two agencies before her food arrived. She set up appointments for 2 and 4 o'clock, figuring that would give her plenty of time.
She made the appointments in the name of Lauren Charles, since she'd decided to use her father's first name professionally. Now, she thought, she was cut off from money and influence. The $1,000 check she'd allowed herself was all she had.
* * *
She arrived five minutes early for the 2 o'clock appointment and was ushered into a small conference room. The impersonal receptionist said, "Sit down."
Lauren sat. Forty minutes later a tired looking middle-aged woman stuck her head in and said, "Lauren Charles? I'm Jo Preston. I can see you now."
They entered a small office. Two file cabinets, a side table, and the desk were stacked with files. Jo sat in a squeaky swivel chair and motioned Lauren to a straight-back chair beside the desk. "You want a job."
"Yes." Lauren handed the woman her resume. She tried not to stare at the eyebrows painted over shaved stubble. Hadn't that gone out in the 40's? Still, the woman was treating her with pleasant respect. The least she could do was suspend judgment and reciprocate.
Jo read for a moment, looking impressed. "A Stanford graduate. We don't get many of you here." Putting down the resume, she asked, "What kind of job are you after?"
"I was hoping you could tell me what's available," Lauren said.
Jo examined her briefly, then leaned back. "Employers aren't exactly beating down our door for new grads. In fact, most of the requests are for computer operators, clerk typists, sales clerks, truck drivers, dock loaders, etc. Not many want us to supply executive talent." She paused. "That is what you want, isn't it?"
Lauren felt her face grow warm. "I had hoped my degree in economics might count for something."
"It does, dear. It's just that the companies with executive training positions don't come to me. I'm more of a blue-collar handler." She picked up a headset and adjusted the microphone, then pushed a button. "Alice, get me personnel over at Travelers Insurance." She looked at Lauren. "The insurance companies often..."
"Hello. Ben Crossman, please." A pause and a smile. "Hello, Ben. Jo Preston. Fine. And Molly? Good. Look, I've got a new Stanford grad in economics sitting here. Anything going just now?" She listened for a moment. "I understand. Talk to you later, and thanks."
She turned off the receiver.
"Nothing?" Lauren asked.
"He said the whole area is flat right now. Most new grads of your caliber are going to Europe and waiting until fall. I don't suppose...?"
"No. I need a job now."
"How are you with computers?"
"I have one, a Mac Book. But I've only used it to write papers. I'm not a speed typist."
"Well, you're trim and certainly pretty enough to be a trophy secretary…."
Lauren made a face to illustrate her feelings about being a trophy anything.
"Thought not. Ever been a sales clerk?"
"No, but that I'm willing to try."
"It still won't be easy. The good stores require experience and references. There is one store with a high turnover that uses up people pretty fast. Ever hear of K-Mart?"
It only took one quick call by Jo.
K-Mart wanted her. In fact they were willing for her to take a crash course in cash register operation that same afternoon.
During the training process she learned about the frugal K-Mart economy. She, as a not-yet-hired person, would not be paid for time spent learning the tools of her trade. Then, when filling out the employment application, she found out that most of the help at K-Mart was part-time. That is, the majority of the employees worked 30-hour weeks and thus did not qualify for the fringe benefits given full-time employees. The store could save a bundle of money by hiring 150 employees to work 30 hours, rather than 100 employees to work 40 hours. It was explained that part-time help was standard in all department stores, and that they kept only a small core of full-timers.
The second lesson was in finding out from the spinsterly personnel officer that her wages, the legal minimum, were less than her trust fund paid in interest. She wondered if fear of losing the hourly wage was supposed to keep her motivated? Realizing that her smile was causing the unctuous personnel woman to stare, she stifled it and completed the form. Of course the woman would be dedicated to her job, she was full-time. Lauren choked back a giggle and handed in her paper, feeling like a grammar-school student.
"Can you start tomorrow?"
"Yes, if you tell me my hours."
The woman's gaze narrowed, evidently searching for sarcasm. "Eight to five. An hour for lunch. Tardiness or absenteeism will be recorded and can be used as reason for dismissal."
Surprised, Lauren blurted out, "Does that happen? I mean, do people get fired for coming in late?"
"Oh, yes." A tight little smile indicated sadistic pleasure at the thought. "Some girls have no responsibility." She became serious. "Cashiers must be on-line when the doors open."
The next day Lauren arrived twenty minutes early and later was asked to work thirty minutes over. It seemed her supervisor, a full-timer named Dora Ridgley, had no compunction in working her cashiers beyond shift limits.
"It doesn't matter if the cashier is late on the shift following yours, someone has to check out the customers. We'll punish her when she shows up, but you can't just vacate your station."
"I can understand that," Lauren said. "How do I show it on my time card?"
Dora looked shocked. "You don't. You're not authorized for time beyond your schedule. However," she added smugly, "your cooperation in meeting such situations will be taken into account. For promotional considerations," she said, weighting each word carefully.
Oh, joy, she thought. Not only am I expected to work for peanuts, I'm expected to be eager for more work without additional peanuts. Wonder why the Stanford School of Economics never taught this side of employment? But she knew exactly why. Stanford grads weren't supposed to be lowly employees, but employers — or at least managers.
* * *
Two weeks went by uneventfully, during which Lauren quickly began to feel like a veteran. Her normal inclination to perform correctly and efficiently got her into trouble. Dora clued her in.
"I'm afraid we have a little problem with your checking," she said. Were her supervisor's cheeks redder than usual?
"I don't understand," Lauren said. "My end of shift tallies are always correct. My customers don't complain, do they?"
"No..."
"And my line moves faster than adjacent ones. In fact, I've seen customers switch to my line after standing too long in another. I've even been told how grateful they are that I'm fast." Her look challenged Dora.
"That's just it." Now Dora was definitely embarrassed. "The customers think you're great. It's the other checkers. They say it's like being in a contest — they call it the 'checkout Olympics' – and it leaves them exhausted."
"What has my checking speed to do with theirs?"
Dora shrugged. "It's a matter of pride. Also, they get dirty looks from people who switch to your line."
She couldn't believe it. "You want me to slow down?"
The answer was carefully worded. "I can't ask that. Just try to get along with the other girls."
But the other cashiers had heard about her college degree. And she caught whispers that just because she was pretty and educated, she thought she was better than they. She had quickly become a pariah. When a slower checking pace got nothing other than complaining customers, with no increase in friendliness from the other checkers, she resumed her natural speed. After all, she reasoned, if the other checkers didn't like her, the least she could do was work at her own speed and maintain decent relations with customers.
One cashier bordered on friendliness. Amanda Rose. While the girl didn't exactly seek her out, she at least didn't snub Lauren when she passed her. This was such a difference from the others' petty remonstrances that she began to notice Amanda.
Lauren was checking at midmorning, about to take her ten-minute coffee break, when she heard a shrill voice.
"She cheated me!" A blowzy, red-faced fat woman was yelling at Amanda Rose. Alongside her was a young girl of about 14, looking distressed.
Lauren locked her register and walked closer.
"No way, Lady. I gave you the correct change," Amanda said patiently. Completely under control, Amanda was an experienced cashier and Lauren knew she wouldn't be rattled by a customer's rant.
Unfortunately, Dora wasn't as cool. "What's going on here," Dora asked Amanda.
"This woman is trying to turn a ten into a twenty."
Dora's face tightened. "Where's the bill?"
"In the register."
"Don't you know you're supposed to leave the bill on top?" Dora asked from between clenched teeth.
"Sure do. I followed the rule exactly. She was checked out, bagged, and out the door, before she came back and claimed she'd handed me a twenty."
Shaking with self-righteous fury, the woman hissed, "That's how slick this chick was. She talked fast so I didn't notice. Once outside, I remembered having a twenty in my purse." She leaned into Dora. "Cough up my other ten, or call the manager."
Dora's spirit sagged under the onslaught. She keyed the register and handed the woman a ten. "Please excuse our carelessness. K-Mart had no intention of cheating you."
Somewhat mollified, the woman sniffed and pointed at Amanda. "Maybe not, but that chick did. She should be sacked. No telling how often she's cheated me." Tossing her sausage curls, the woman grabbed her daughter's arm and propelled her toward the door.
Lauren, embarrassed for Amanda and wishing that Dora hadn't backed down so fast, started back to her stand. The red-faced woman was at the door, looking victorious. "But, Mama," the 14-year old girl with her said, "you cashed the twenty to buy popcorn, remember? I saw you give her a ten."
The answer was venomous. "Shut up. Someone might hear you. Wait 'til we get outside."
Lauren spun around in time to intercept the girl's helpless glance.
Seeking out Dora, she repeated what she'd heard. To her amazement, Dora blushed furiously, then snapped, "It was still Amanda's fault that it got out of control."
"I didn't see anyone out of control except that crazy woman." And you, she thought.
"It's too late, anyway," Dora said.
"What do you mean?" She looked around, then asked suspiciously, "Where's Amanda?"
"Gone."
"What do you mean, gone? I've just explained what happened."
"I believe what you heard, but I have no proof. We can't have salesclerks accused of theft."
"But she was innocent." Lauren could feel a surging heat in her neck.
Small beads of perspiration dotted the supervisor's forehead. "We borrow an old saying in cases like these: 'Where there's smoke there's fire.'" She turned abruptly away, unable to meet Lauren's intense look. "I'm sorry," she mumbled quietly.
Chapter Three
Nighttime in New York was Jason's favorite time of the day. After all the orders for stock had been tallied, all accounts balanced, and everything filed in its proper folder, he would turn off his iMac and leave the office, sauntering the ten blocks home. Not that home was much, a third floor walk-up in an ancient brownstone that had long ago been sub-divided into apartments. His was the front half of the narrow third floor. It was as if someone had planned a miniature of a real apartment. The bedroom was small, the bathroom and kitchen tiny, but the long living room was big enough for a couch and a television at one end, and a breakfast table sat squeezed into the opposite end next to the kitchen. Three large windows provided a bounty of natural lighting. By standing just so at one window, he could see a sliver of Central Park. He didn't mind the diminutive size of his quarters, since he considered the accommodations temporary. To his way of thinking, he was serving an apprenticeship and expected some deprivation during his learning period.
For once he was looking forward to more than a solitary evening reading technical books. He'd contacted the only other person he knew on the East Coast, a guy he'd known since childhood. In grammar school, Larry Avery had been his best and closest friend. Jason wondered how Larry would categorize their friendship.
He heard a triple knock at the door and quickly opened it.
"Larry." He extended his hand, which the other shook firmly before yanking Jason forward and giving him a bear hug.
"It's good to see you, Jason," Larry said smoothly.
They looked each other up and down. Larry had grown at least four inches since he'd last seen him. "What happened to the glasses?"
"Contacts," he said with a smile. "And orthodontics and caps, three years of karate, and a girlfriend you'd have to see to believe.
"You look great," Jason said sincerely.
"Thanks. I feel like a full-fledged human being these days."
'What happened to the scrawny little kid I was always protecting?'"
"He grew up and became a successful Princeton graduate who landed a socko job with the State Department."
Pulling Larry inside, Jason closed the door. "How about a drink?"
"Sure. Got a beer?"
Jason burst out laughing. "Beer? With your perfect haircut, Princeton tie, button-down collar, and pin-stripes, you ask for beer?"
"Pretty sophisticated, huh?" Larry slipped out of his coat and threw it over a chair. "If you'd been to as many receptions as I have in the past year, you'd beg for beer."
"Martini overload?"
"And Manhattans, Champaign, screwdrivers, bloody Marys, you name it. All the while standing around with a hearty grin until my facial muscles cramp. Some days I have to frown to relax." He grinned. "Well, it's not quite that bad, but almost."
"Karate?"
"Black belt. Had the award ceremony three weeks ago." He looked suddenly serious. "God. You can't believe how good it feels to stand face to face with another karateka and hold my own." He stared at Jason. "Remember how scared I was of those older boys?"
Jason nodded. "With good reason. In the fourth grade when Georgie Watson moved into town and decided the only way to be king-of-the-hill was to beat up every fourth grader, he picked on you first. You know why?"
"I was weakest."
"Yes. Because you were a year younger and smaller. He wasn't taking any chances." Draining his beer, Jason held up the empty and raised his eyebrows. At Larry's nod, he stepped to the refrigerator and brought two more cans. "Georgie, if you recall, was a foot taller."
"It didn't stop you," Larry said.
"I was nearer his height and too dumb to be frightened."
"Bullshit. Even then you couldn't resist protecting the oppressed underdog."
It had been said as a joke, but Jason saw earnestness hidden beneath the surface. His face warmed and he quickly took another sip. "Aw, it wasn't so much."
"Georgie beat you up pretty bad."
"Yeah. But he knew he'd been in a fight. And I told him he'd have to fight me all over again every time he touched you. I remember his surprise at my warning him off so soon after he'd beaten me up. I told him that if I couldn't beat him fairly, I'd get him with a baseball bat when he least expected it." Jason chuckled. "Hell, I'd used up every other weapon in my arsenal. Terrorism was all I had left."
The admiration in Larry's expression was uncomfortably apparent. "It worked. Georgie never picked on me again."
"And I got a reputation as a whacko. It had one other benefit; it kept him away from me, too."
"You stepped in other times, with other would-be bullies. I sometimes wonder how I'd have survived without you."
"Look at you now. You made it with your own wit and brains."
"Only because I wasn't demolished by the system. I know one thing: No kid of mine will ever skip a grade." He leaned forward. "Why did you do it? Really."
Jason thought about it. "I guess I identified with you. As the janitor's kid, I was picked on for reasons I couldn't understand. I was proud of my father, yet teased because he was the custodian. It lasted until my growth gave me some bargaining power. I became Kamikaze Jase, who fought anyone, regardless of size. You were too small and too young to do it my way, so I did it for you." Jason shrugged. "Maybe I thought being a noble protector would increase my own status." Sighing, he added, "It didn't."
"Yes, it did, Jason. With me it did." He paused. "You impressed that little rich girl, too. What was her name?"
"Lauren Wheaton." For an instant her image flashed into his mind. The skinny, bespectacled girl with the beautiful hair."
"That's right, her last name was Wheaton. Her folks practically owned Riverside."
"Not quite. Although they may have owned the biggest mansion in town."
Larry looked pensive. "Did you know my dad worked for Wheaton Industries after I went to college?" Pausing, he added, "Died there, too. He was 63 and looking forward to retirement. A stroke did it. By the time I got home he was in a coma that he never came out of. Mr. Wheaton came to the funeral."
"Sorry about your dad. I hadn't heard."
"You were away at college. I'd lost track of you or I would've called. Dad always liked you."
"I liked him, too. Other than my own dad, yours was the gentlest, kindest adult during my early life."
"Thanks for telling me that." Soberly, he added, "If I can ever do anything for you, just call."
Too serious, Jason thought. To break the tension, he said lightly, "All right. When the State Department lets you know when the next world war is starting, tell me. I'll go short on travel stock and long on chemicals, textiles, and aircraft manufacturers."
"You've got it." Funny, Larry wasn't smiling.
* * *
By the end of three months, Jason had gotten used to most of the things that had overwhelmed him when he first arrived in the city. He'd survived his first garbage strike and almost, but not quite, had learned to ignore the smell of rotting food on every curb. He'd learned that the combination of subways, buses, and walking almost made up for not having his own car in the city of yellow and checkered cabs. And finally, he'd learned to dress warmly on even the hottest days, since air conditioning in the office kept a frigidly even temperature and light clothing left him shivering and slightly blue by the end of the day.
He waved to Johnny T. on the way to the elevator and cut off his whistling when a stranger scowled at him on the way up. Watch it, he told himself. Can't let anyone suspect I'm happy.
He entered the now familiar office and inhaled a mixed aroma of floor wax, the faintly electric odor of operating computers, and the overlay of sundry men's cologne. Why did every broker think he had to spray himself with the latest advertised scent in order to work. He sometimes found the miasma a bit overpowering.
Swinging by his desk to read the messages on his terminal, he saw nothing important. Four please-call-backs, one no-message, and a buy order for one block of Boeing stock.
Still standing, Jason got onto the web and placed an order for 100 shares of Boeing preferred. While there, he scanned through the purchaser's account. Hmm, he thought. The man, Gerald Horne, already owned 4000 shares of Boeing. What does he know that I don't? Suddenly interested, he sat down. Let's check a bit deeper. One by one, he looked up past purchases of Boeing stock, checked the purchase price and then the price over the next three weeks following the purchase. Each time Horne bought, he'd anticipated a price jump in the stock. Insider knowledge? The man lived in New York, not Seattle or Chicago, major Boeing sites. How about sales of Boeing stock? Twice. Horne had dumped 1000 shares just before a short-lived downturn in the stock. He'd made it work twice.
He'd examine the remainder of Gerald Horne's portfolio later. On impulse he dialed into the net and placed a purchase order for a block in his own name, planning to sell within a week. He couldn't cover the $5800 buy, but he shouldn't have to. By selling within the week he wouldn't have to actually put down any money. If the stock went up — as it had the other times Horne bought — he'd reap his profit painlessly. On the other hand, if the stock price dropped, he'd have to make up the difference out of his own savings. Penny ante stuff, sure, but he had to build an operational base. Being a major investor took money that he didn't yet have. He'd come east with modest savings, and was paying monthly on his student loans. He needed to stretch his few hundred into thousands. That would take time and careful investing.
The guy at the next desk was trying to read Jason's screen. Leaving the web, he switched to email mode and stood up. It was too early to return the three calls. He walked to Grossvelt's office, pretending not to notice the mildly hostile eyes that followed.
"Morning, Mr. Grossvelt."
"Good morning, Jason." The old man slumped in the same posture as the previous night, wearing the same weary expression and the same charcoal suit. His grizzled hair was perhaps wilder than usual, but he looked otherwise the same. If his tie weren't different from yesterday's, Jason would've sworn he'd sat without moving the entire night. "I saw you working diligently at your terminal. What's so important before the exchange opens?"
Jason tried to keep from blushing. "You'd probably think I was being silly."
"Try me."
Jason explained about Horne and how his buying and selling had always preceded an up or down turn in the share price. He waited for Grossvelt's reaction.
"I don't think you're silly at all. But technically, you know, you're violating FEC regulations by not actually sending in the purchase price. Even," he added, "if you sell before the check clears."
Jason sat down across from the old man. "I thought it was a technicality universally violated."
"It is. By brokers. But, sooner or later there will be a crusade to 'clean up Wall Street' or some such, and records will be checked. It'd be best not to appear on the list of offenders."
"I'll cancel the order," Jason said, starting to rise.
Grossvelt waved him back down. "When it's time to pay for the stock I'll cover it. You pay me back when you sell and receive your cashier's check." Grossvelt never changed expression. Anyone watching from the bull pen wouldn't be able to tell whether Jason was being praised or scolded. When Jason started to speak, Grossvelt interrupted. "It's a small thing to me, loaning money for a week, but your reputation on the street is a big thing. In the long run your reputation will be more important. Don't let a breath of scandal or misconduct ruin it."
Chapter Four
Lauren drove to Palms, a forgotten little residential area nestling against West Los Angeles. She checked the address on a small card. Finding the cross-street, she turned onto it and coasted down to a large stucco apartment building. It had taken some insisting, but she'd finally gotten Amanda Rose's address from Dora.
"Why do you want it?" Dora had asked, her tone a bit strained. She hadn't been the same since Mandy had been fired.
"I'd like to see if she needs help. I mean," Lauren added casually, "she was fired through no fault of her own."
Dora bristled. "I can't re-hire her."
Not without admitting it was your fault, Lauren thought. She said aloud, "If I were fired, I'd feel better if someone came and visited."
So, Dora had acquiesced and gone to personnel for Mandy's home address.
Pulling to the curb, Lauren parked and automatically locked her car. She walked up concrete steps to the outer door. Apartment 2D had a bell with the name "Rose" above its button. She pushed it.
Mandy's distinctive voice called through a tinny speaker. "Who's that?"
"Lauren Charles, from work."
The door buzzed and Lauren pulled it open. Inside she saw Mandy at the top of a flight of stairs. "Come on up." As Lauren climbed the stairs, Mandy said, "I never thought I'd see you again." Her warm smile was genuine. She held open the door to her apartment. "Come in."
"You're wondering why I came." Lauren wondered how she should tell her? Blurt it out, she told herself. That's how I'd want it. "I came to tell you something."
Mandy sat expectantly in a threadbare but spotless overstuffed chair. If anything, she seemed overwhelmed by Lauren's presence. Lauren was beginning to feel strange about being there. Still....
"That woman in the store, the one who got you fired over the twenty dollar bill. I heard her daughter say she'd already broken it for popcorn before coming to your check stand."
Mandy's relief brought her up from the chair. "That's it then. You can tell Dora and I'll be rehired, and everything will be fine."
"I did tell Dora — before you were fired. She wouldn't back down then, and she won't now." Lauren told her about the conversation she'd had with Dora before coming over. "It's not fair. Dora's a jerk. But I don't think you'll be able to come back to K-Mart. It's her word against ours, and she's management." As she heard her own words, Lauren was surprised at how much she meant them. Somewhere during the past few weeks she'd stopped identifying with owners and managers.
Dora settled back into the chair and brought her hands up to her face. "I won't get another job. If I list K-Mart, the new place will hear that I'm a thief. If I don't list K-Mart, I won't have the experience to qualify."
Lauren, so fresh from job hunting herself, knew how right Mandy was about that. The unfairness of it made her want to set things straight. If only.... She leaned forward and grabbed Mandy's arm. "I've got an idea. How would you like me for a supervisor?"
"Are you nuts?"
"No, I don't think so. Say you apply for a new job and list me as your supervisor. Give them the number of the pay phone near my register. I'll listen for it and answer with the appropriate title. I'll give a smashing recommendation for Ms Amanda Rose." She looked at Mandy. "How will they know the difference?"
Mandy's eyes glistened. "You'd do that for me?"
"Sure. Why not? I'd be telling the truth, anyway. You were a good employee." She didn't want Mandy gushing over with gratitude, so she forestalled it by suggesting they look at her resume.
"Resume?" Mandy looked confused.
"Right." As she suspected, no resume. "So we'll write one." She dug into her purse for a pen. "Got any blank paper?"
A re-energized Mandy jumped up. "In my computer."
Lauren was feeling better by the moment. If there was one thing she'd learned at Stanford, it was how to write a good resume.
* * *
An excited Mandy called three nights later. "I talked to people at Macy's today. I think they're going to hire me."
"How wonderful," Lauren said, and really meant it.
"It was your resume that did it, I think."
Laughing, Lauren said, "It's your resume, remember? All I did was list your experience in proper order. We didn't fake anything."
"Lauren?"
"Yes."
"Did you mean what you said about answering the payphone and giving me a good recommendation?"
"Of course. It was my idea, remember?"
Mandy exhaled loudly into the receiver. "I was afraid you'd change your mind."
"Nope. I'll be right here," she said, settling comfortably into her new big-sister role.
* * *
The call came on Friday. Even though she'd been listening for the ring, she was so busy checking that it didn't register until she heard Jean Murphy at the next stand say, "Now, who's calling on that pay phone?"
Jumping back, she locked her cash register and told the next customer to wait just a moment, then ran to the phone.
She pitched her voice high and added a nasal twang. "K-Mart. Ms Charles' office."
A well modulated female voice asked, "Is Ms Charles in?"
"Just a moment, please."
She pressed the receiver against her chest, took a deep breath, then brought up the phone. She spoke in a carefully modulated tone, "Ms Charles speaking."
* * *
Mandy called again the following Tuesday. "I got the job."
"That's great, Mandy. Macy's won't be sorry and I'm sure you won't. It looks like Dora did you a favor."
"She'll choke when she hears about my new job."
"Ah, Mandy. I wouldn't brag about it to anyone. Dora might be vindictive enough to call Macy's. That would get us both fired. I suggest silent smugness as the better course."
From the long pause, Mandy was thinking it over. "I guess you're right. Okay, I won't tell anyone." With a giddy little laugh, she added, "It'll be like starting over. New job, new friends — that last includes you, Lauren. Oh, and I didn't tell you the best part. They're starting me at $1.75 an hour more. And Lauren...."
"Yes."
"It's full-time, with benefits."
* * *
Friday night Lauren's Uncle Fred called to invite her to The Clarion, one of the nicer restaurants in Pasadena. She agreed to meet him the next evening.
He was amused by her tales of the modern working girl. "Why are you struggling along on minimum wages...."
She interrupted, "I got a fifty-five cent raise yesterday." She had wondered at the time if that wasn't a little guilt expiation on Dora's part.
Talking right over her, he continued, "...with your degree, your connections, and your trust income?"
"Uncle Fred, you know why. I want to make something of my life. On my own, without the Wheaton name blazing a trail for me, without 'buying in' with money or influence. Sure, I want to become successful, maybe as a buyer for a major clothing chain, or as a consultant economist. Later I might even want to go back to school for a Ph.D. in economics, but I don't want to be just another academician without real-world experience."
Her uncle laughed. "You always were a feisty little devil."
Why, he's a handsome man, she suddenly realized. To her he'd always been just plain old Uncle Fred. Friend, older playmate, and often the only adult who seemed to understand her.
"Speaking of my trust, did you fix it?"
"Yes, dear. I'm now your fund manager. When you signed those papers last week, you made me your trustee. From now on you have to see me when you want money."
"Fear not," she said in mock seriousness, "I still have over six hundred dollars left from the original thousand I withdrew. Believe it or not, I'm living on my K-Mart wages."
"And you still insist on being 'Lauren Charles'?"
"That's right. All Lauren Wheaton's mail goes to a rental box that I check weekly. Nobody but you knows my address or what I'm doing." She giggled. "You're my only link with the past."
Raising his glass, her uncle announced a toast, "To your life as a working girl."
Chapter Five
One bright Monday Jason was called into Grossvelt's office first thing. He found the old man sitting with his overcoat on, looking worried.
"Is something wrong, Sir?"
"No, not really. I've got an early appointment with my old friend Dr. Hammerschmidt." The words were off-hand, belying his concentration on the computer. He was shaking his head as he read the screen. Light from the computer screen created highlights in the white frizzled hair.
Jason's stomach knotted. "Are you sick?"
Grossvelt looked up in surprise. "Me? No. At my age it's good to have regular checkups. If this one hadn't been scheduled for so long, I'd cancel."
"So what's up? Something happening with the market?" He walked around so he could read the screen, too. Every quote on the screen was for various oil stocks. "What are you expecting to happen?"
Looking up from the screen, Grossvelt studied Jason for a moment before replying. The Middle East Oil Talks might be heating up."
"But they've been going on for weeks. No two Arab countries can agree on anything, let alone with the other countries involved. Do you think they're going to finally break their deadlock?"
With a finger touching the side of his nose, Grossvelt said, "I smell change. Articles in the Christian Science Monitor, in the New York Times, in the sudden silence surrounding the talks. I think the smoke is about to turn white."
Jason laughed. "You talk good Catholic...."
That brought a smile. "So, Jason. I want you to monitor the oil news all day, at least until I get back. At the slightest uptick, contact me. If my hunch is right this will begin the best bull market in oil since OPEC jacked us around a few years ago." He scribbled on a small pad. "Here's the number for Dr. Hammerschmidt. I'll taxi both ways to cut down on travel time. Don't forget," he added seriously, "call me at the first uptick."
Jason watched him go, sensing that more than oil was on Grossvelt's mind. Was Jeremiah really sick and not telling him, he wondered. Jason suspected that Grossvelt would have to be half dead before he admitted to it.
* * *
The morning went slowly, with the quotes for oil stocks staying remarkably steady. When half the afternoon was gone, Jason began to worry more about Grossvelt than the oil. He should have been back hours ago. When the telephone buzzed, he expected to hear the old man's voice.
"Jason? Had a devil of a time reaching you." It was Larry Avery.
"Hi, Larry." At least it was a break in the routine. Besides, he could watch the computer screen and talk at the same time.
"Remember when you said to call you when WWIII was about to start?"
"Oh, no. Has Iran finally invaded the East Coast? Will we all be saluting an Ayatollah by Christmas?"
"No," Larry said. "Worse than that. The OPEC talks are about to end."
Jason stopped breathing and gripped the receiver tightly. "How do you know?"
"Never mind how. The point is, oil is going up. Saudi Arabia has finally agreed to control production and push prices up. A guess is that their aiming for $150 a barrel within weeks. Unless Russia, Venezuela, or Britain start flooding the market, the Arabs will probably make it."
"When will this be announced?"
"Soon. Rumor is, they're only waiting for Wall Street to close up shop."
"Less than two hours," Jason murmured. Where the hell was Grossvelt? "Larry, this is important. Are you certain of your source?"
"Absolutely." He paused and took a loud breath. "You said you wanted to know. Remember to sell short or long, or whatever it is that will help."
Jason thanked him and hung up, his mind racing. Dialing the number for Dr. Hammerschmidt, he typed in another request for oil stock quotations. No sign of any break yet. A female voice broke his concentration. "Dr. Hammerschmidt's office."
"Yes. Is Mr. Grossvelt there?"
"Sorry," she said. "Mr. Grossvelt left an hour ago."
He wondered what he should do. If Larry's information was correct, the time to buy is now, without wasting another moment. If and when the news breaks, oil stocks will go through the roof. Grossvelt had to arrive any minute.