17
BESIDE ERIC’S Quotron, lying atop his in box, was the sheet of all positions in Tom’s account. In three weeks, the next quarterly report would be sent to Boston. If Eric couldn’t make a dramatic improvement by then, the quarterly statement would show a 12 percent decline in the value of Tom’s portfolio. Should Tom buy a Wall Street Journal, or a Barron’s, or any other financial publication, he could easily see that the Dow Jones industrial average was up more man 8 percent during this same period. The S&P 500 had done even better, up 11 percent. And if Joe decided to complete his betrayal, he might send Tom a statement of Joe’s performance: up 20 percent. Joe might not even need to inform Tom himself: the Boston Beans, having switched management, might insinuate the facts of Joe’s success casually into a country-club conversation with Tom.
Of course, Eric was behind Joe’s and the major average’ gains for only the past nine months. A sensible man, with a normal amount of courage, would give Eric more time. After all, Eric had been successful for three years; the money he had lost for Tom over the past nine months was money Tom didn’t have three years ago. But Eric knew Tom wasn’t a sensible man. Tom had allowed an old Wasp investment firm to mismanage him for twenty-five years without a complaint, and yet Tom had complained to Eric after only nine losing months.
“Shouldn’t we get out of some of these small companies?” Tom asked when he and Joan had visited New York two months ago. He said “small companies” with his head tilted, mouth in a sneer, as if small companies were ugly, distasteful things, grubby little delis run by fat, greasy Jews.
Tom’s last words were: “I might have to withdraw some money by the end of the year. I’m considering a real-estate deal out West. I’ll let you know ahead of time, of course. I may not. I have to study the situation.” A warning? A politely worded introduction to the final bad news? A last chance?
Ask yourself, Eric said in the shower, ask yourself: What is the difference between me and Tom’s former incompetent money managers? They were old boys, good goyim; I’m a high-school-graduate Jew.
Ask yourself, Eric said to the black gutters, as he rode his bike between the glacial walls of the tall trucks: would Tom question me over a bad nine months if I knew how to wear peacock-colored clothes and could sail a boat?
Ask yourself, Eric said to his morning coffee, staring at the sheet: would Tom keep one of his own on such a short leash?
Then why pick Joe for a replacement? Eric didn’t believe the real estate story. Tom would give his money to Joe.
There he sat, that old owl, each day looking more and more like a rabbi. Joe and Sammy whispered to each other all the time now. There were no more dinners with Joe’s contacts; there was no more talk of tapping Eric as Joe’s successor. Joe smelled blood; he thought he could wrest Tom away and leave the whole operation to Sammy. Of course, they’d keep Eric on, the house whipping boy, the dutiful number two.
Leave, Nina advised. Tom will stick with you, clients will go with you, you’ll make money for them, you’ll be on your own, you’ll be happy.
She didn’t understand the danger.
Neither did Joe. Tom would eventually leave Joe also. The old fool doesn’t realize that.
Maybe Tom wouldn’t, maybe he’d stay with Joe. Maybe it’s something about me.
Eric wasn’t a good salesman. That’s what his mother said of his father’s failure: your daddy wasn’t a good salesman. When Eric explicated his investment philosophy for clients, he was nervous: he spoke rapidly; he admitted he might be wrong; he didn’t possess Joe’s pompous air of wisdom and sagacity. Joe’s manners were bullshit, of course. But it was bullshit that reassured the customers.
Maybe anti-Semitism is an excuse.
Maybe I’m just a loser.
Eric tasted metal in the hollow of his tongue, tasted the sour fear of a lifetime in a single swallow.
He couldn’t stand this indecision, this waiting.
“Market’s open,” Sammy said. The red numbers began their undulation across the ticker.
Eric picked up the phone, their direct line to Joe’s two-dollar floor broker.
“What are you doing?” Sammy asked.
Fuck you. Eric stared ahead. “Billy?”
“Hey, Eric. Got something for me?”
For months now, Eric had absorbed the white noise of market opinion, thousands of pages of it, hours and hours of statistics and interpretation. The market was at an all-time high. He was going to sell it. The overwhelming majority of traders were bullish. In history, great fortunes on the Street were made by going against the crowd, exiting against the mob rushing in, or entering while they ran out, shouldering through the babbling herd with no apologies to ease the way.
“I’m gonna sell the market, Billy. In the Winningham account, I want to clear out all positions. I’ll give them to you—”
“Eric!” Sammy tapped him on the shoulder. “Eric!”
Eric went ahead with the recital of Tom’s positions, ignoring Sammy.
Sammy rolled his chair over, bumping Eric’s. “Eric, have you lost your fucking mind? You can’t go to cash in this market. Tom can invest in cash by walking to the fucking bank. He doesn’t need us to earn six percent.”
There was heat in Eric’s body, terrible heat. It flashed through him; he put his face at Sammy’s pale ferret face. “You shut your fucking mouth! I don’t want to hear a goddamned word out of you! Shut your fucking mouth!”
“Eric?” Billy called out plaintively through the phone. “Eric? Is that you?”
The room clicked and whirred into action. Sammy moved; the secretaries looked over; Joe pushed his chair away from his monitor. Eric shielded his eyes, stared down at the list he had made weeks ago, and talked to the phone, only to the phone. He finished reading off Tom’s stocks. “Okay? That’s the exchange. I’ll handle OTC. Now, when you’re done getting out, I want you to go short these Dow stocks in thousand lots: IBM, GM, International Paper—”
“Eric!” This was Joe now. “Eric, I’m long those stocks. They’re very strong.”
Eric continued the recital of his list—
“Use the options! Or the futures! If you want to hedge, that’s the right vehicle!” Joe’s voice sounded nearby.
Eric glanced up. Joe had left his chair.
I got the old bastard off his perch.
Joe’s hand landed on Eric’s shoulder. “Listen to me. This is not the way to be short.”
Eric stared ahead, down at the sheet with the short list, scrawled in his hand one late night months ago when he had dreamed of this, of a decisive triumph—
“Good evening, our guest tonight on Wall Street Week is Eric Gold, chief investment officer of Washington Heights Management, his own firm. Mr. Gold went short the stock market at its all-time high two years ago. We’ll find out tonight—”
“Eric,” Joe whispered in his ear. “I’m asking you to delay for an hour. Let’s have a talk in my office first. I’m sure we can work out a mutual strategy—”
“Hold it, Eric,” Billy said on the phone in Eric’s other ear. “Let me close out the long positions first, then I’ll get the shorts.”
“Okay. Get back to me.” Eric pushed away from his desk, bumped into Sammy’s chair, and got free of Joe’s hand. “It’s done,” he lied. It wouldn’t be done until Billy called back. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“It’s inappropriate for you to be short stocks that I’m long.”
“Then get out of your stocks.”
“Eric,” Joe said, and put his hand out again, gesturing to his private office. His voice was low, seductive. “We need to talk.”