Suarez pocketed his earnings and drove down to headquarters. It was then late Saturday afternoon, but Anthony Harker was still at his desk, working on a big chart that he covered up when Manny came into his office.
"Hey, man," Suarez said, flashing a grin, "I got a small problem."
"Yeah?" Tony said. "How small?"
"I just got paid at Coe's boiler room. Do I gotta turn in the moaney to this organization or what?"
"I asked Crockett. He says you'll have to turn in the money. Sorry."
"Hokay," Suarez said.
"By the way," Harker said, "how much did you make?"
"Almost three hundred," Suarez said, and bopped out to his car, snapping his fingers and smiling at all the women he passed.
He stopped at a few stores before returning to the home of the Cuban lady where he was staying. She was nicely put together. And she seemed muy simpatica. Manny bought five pounds of barbecued ribs, a liter of light Puerto Rican rum, and drove homeward whistling "Malaguena."
On Monday morning there were new scripts on all the yaks' desks. They were no longer peddling platinum. Now they were to push shares of stock in something called the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. One dollar per share; 1,000 shares minimum. Suarez picked up his phone and went to work.
23
On his way to Birdie Winslow's condo, David Rathbone stopped at a florist on Atlantic Boulevard. The place was crowded, with two clerks trimming and wrapping flowers at a back counter.
Just inside the door was a display of lavender mums. They were bunched by the dozen with maidenhair, each bouquet held by a rubber band. The sign read: $20 per dozen. Glancing at the busy clerks to make certain he was unobserved, Rathbone selected a bouquet, then slipped a single mum from another bunch and added it to his selection. He took the thirteen flowers to the desk, had them wrapped in green tissue, paid the $20 plus tax, and was on his way.
Mrs. Winslow met him at the door of her apartment clad in a paisley muumuu that hid her lumpish body. David proffered his bouquet.
"A dozen mums!" she cried. "How divineV
"Baker's dozen," he said, smiling. "About an eight-point-four percent return on investment."
"What?" she said, puzzled. "Well, they're lovely, and I thank you for them. But you've been a naughty, naughty boy. You haven't called me once, and I thought you had just forgotten little old me."
"No chance of that," he said, touching her cheek.
"But I've been to Europe since I saw you last and came home to a deskful of work."
She motioned toward the couch, then took the mums into the kitchen. She returned with the flowers in a crystal vase half-filled with water.
"Don't they look divine?" she said. "Lavender is one of my favorite colors. Now where shall I put them?"
He glanced around. He couldn't blame her for the way the apartment was furnished since it was a rented condo, but the decoration was really horrendous, the upholstery and wallpaper all fuchsia poppies and bilious green palm fronds.
"Perhaps on top of the TV set," he suggested.
She placed the vase there and stood back to admire the effect. "Sooo pretty," she murmured. Then: "I made a pitcher of your favorite-vodka gimlets."
"Just what I was hoping for."
She brought him a warm drink in a small glass with one lone ice cube. He sipped and decided it had to be the worst vodka gimlet he had ever tasted, so limey that it puckered his lips.
"Delicious," he said. "Aren't you having any?"
"A diet cola for me," she caroled. "I've been trying so hard to lose weight."
"Oh Birdie," he said, "you're not too heavy. You're like my gimlet-just right."
"Thank you, kind sir," she simpered, brought her drink and sat close to him on the couch.
He lifted his glass in a toast. "Here's to health and wealth," he said.
"And love," Mrs. Winslow said, looking at him through her false lashes. "Don't forget love."
He set his drink on the glass-topped cocktail table.
"Birdie, I hope you've been getting your statements regularly."
"Yes, I have, and that's something I want to talk to you about."
"Is anything wrong?"
"Well, my next-door neighbor has an account with Merrill Lynch, and he says that every time he buys something or sells something he gets a confirmation slip. Should I be getting confirmation slips, David?"
"None of my clients ask for them, but you can certainly have them if you wish. I just didn't want to flood you with a lot of unnecessary paper. After all, the purchases and sales I make on your behalf show up every month on your statement."
"That's true. So you don't think I need confirmations?"
"Not really. Just more paper to file away and forget."
"I suppose you're right. I can't tell you how pleased I am with the way my money has grown."
"And it's going to do even better," he said. "Why, just this morning I got a tip from a friend on Wall Street about a new commodity trading fund that's being organized. If we get in on the ground floor, I can practically guarantee a fifty-percent return."
"Oh David, that is exciting!"
He finished his drink manfully. But it did him no good; she brought him another.
"Now let's forget about business for a while," she said, "and just relax. It's been so long since we've been together. I hope you don't have to rush off."
"Not immediately," he said. "But I do have an appointment in about an hour."
"Plenty of time," she assured him. She rose, held her hand out to him. "I bought a new clock-radio for the bedroom," she said. "Would you like to see it?"
She was naked under the muumuu and smelled of patchouli. But in situations like this-and he had experienced many-he resolutely closed his mind to physical stimuli, or the absence thereof, and concentrated only on the profits this suppliant woman represented. Then he was able to perform competently, his mind detached and calculating.
He left her lolling on the rumpled sheets. He dressed swiftly, kissed her cheek, and murmured, "Divine!" Then he drove home, windows open, gulping the salty sea air. Back in the town house, he gargled, brushed his teeth, and showered. He hoped he merely imagined that the scent of patchouli still clung to him.
He mixed a decent vodka gimlet, a double in a tall tumbler with plenty of ice and fresh lime. He carried it upstairs to the terrace. It was a warm day but cloudy, with rumblings of thunder westward. He hoped for a driving rain that might wash everything clean and leave the world shining.
He was still on the terrace, a few fat drops beginning to splatter, when Rita returned.
"You're going to get soaked," she warned. "It was pouring at the Pompano Mall."
"I won't melt," he said. "Did you ever walk through puddles when you were a kid?"
"No, and I never toasted marshmallows. I had a deprived childhood. I'm going to take a shower."
"I'll mix us drinks and bring them to your bedroom."
"That's a good boy," she said.
When he brought the drinks up from the kitchen she was still in her bathroom, the shower running. He sat on the edge of her bed, sipped his gimlet. He knew that in a few moments he would be the supplicant, a reversal of the roles he and Mrs. Winslow had played, and he wondered idly if love might be a lose-lose game.
Rita came out of the bathroom dripping, wiping her shoulders and arms. She handed him the towel and turned. Obediently he dried her back, with long, slow strokes.
"Guess what," she said. "I was wandering through the Mall, just looking around, and I bumped into an old girlfriend I haven't seen in years. Claire McDonald. We used to party together in Tallahassee. We had lunch together and talked over old times."
She took the damp towel from his hand and tossed it onto the floor. Then she sat down next to him on the bed, picked up her drink, took a sip.