Big Numbers Read online

  Gerry holds up his left hand like he’s directing traffic. “There’s nothing you can say. And Kelly and I didn’t come here for sympathy. I wanted to let you know so you can begin cleaning up my trading positions...turn the options and speculative stuff into cash. And I wanted Kelly to meet you so it’ll be easier for her later dealing with my estate. As you know, Austin, it’s a lot of money.”

  Boy, is it ever. I close my eyes and imagine Gerry’s pages in my client book. Five million in tax-free bonds. Another five million in blue chip stocks. Maybe half a million in stock option trading positions, half a million in cash.

  “I should tell you I’m seriously thinking about cashing in everything, transferring the funds to my bank,” Gerry says. “Let their trust department manage the money for Kelly. She doesn’t know a stock from a bond.”

  I’m not often at a loss for words. Salesmen without a bent toward blab do not survive. But staring at my round and friendly New Jersey-based cowboy, those bushy eyebrows underneath the Stetson, I can’t conjure a single word of advice. All my brain sees is numbers. Twenty thousand shares of this, five hundred contracts of that. The thousands in back child support and alimony I owe my ex-wife Susan.

  “Austin?”

  Some career being a broker. I push numbers to get people on the telephone. To sell them stuff, I tell my clients about all kinds of numbers—earnings, yields, and price-to-book ratios. And when I do make a sale, I write numbers on the trade ticket, enter commission numbers in my book. Pretty much the whole damn business is numbers, numbers, numbers.

  And Gerry’s account is big numbers. My very biggest. My monster.

  I stand up behind the desk, walk around to the front edge, and lean my butt against the mahogany. The measured smile is a standard technique to convey intimacy, straight talk. I have no idea what I’m going to say yet, but a little silent reflection is okay. It warns people that my words will be important.

  “Are you okay, Austin?”

  I stare through the conference room’s glass at my associate Walter Osgood. Walter sold pots and pans door-to-door before his wife convinced him to try stocks and bonds. Now he lives in a forty-room mansion on the Navasquan River, owns three Mercedes. What would Walter say?

  “Austin?”

  “Maybe you’re about to make the same mistake a lot of husbands make,” I say. “You’re trying to protect your wife from the responsibilities associated with handling her finances.”

  I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this, so I pause to assess. Gerry is shaking his head negatively. Kelly on the other hand seems to like what she’s just heard. Her breasts are smiling at me. No, I mean her lips are smiling at me. Vulnerable. That Marilyn Monroe “help me” look. Stockbroker instinct tells me to keep pressing. Maybe even pour it on.

  “The truth is, Gerry, Kelly is still a young woman. She’s going to be rich for a long time. Is it really your belief she doesn’t have the desire or the intellect to handle her own money?”

  Of course I’ve gone too far. I made it sound like he thinks his wife is stupid. Not only that, I’ve reminded him the pretty redhead is going to be around doing damage to men’s heads long after he’s playing ghost riders in the sky.

  “If Kelly were my wife,” I say, “I’d want and expect her to take care of herself. I’d want her to know how to handle money. How to talk to accountants, lawyers, and stockbrokers. Heck, Gerry, I’d teach her what she needs to know.”

  Gerry’s bushy eyebrows are now a single line of disapproving fur. I suspect he’s angry at the way I’m playing to his wife. Screw him. I now fully understand what my instincts whispered a few seconds ago; Gerry has terminal cancer. Barring a miracle cure, or black magic, Kelly’s going to end up with all the loot.

  “What do you think, Kelly?” I say. “Do you think Gerry should turn control of your money to a bank trust department? A group of strangers?”

  “They’re no more strangers than you are,” Gerry says. More of a bark, actually.

  I ignore my monster’s snide remark and watch the redhead. I love the way Kelly takes her time, glancing sideways at Gerry, staring at me, slowly twisting the seven-carat diamond on her ring finger. Checking her hole cards one more time.

  “I think the best thing would be for us to stop worrying about money and concentrate on beating the cancer,” she says. “The doctors say some people survive pancreatic cancer.”

  Sure, Kelly. And somebody wins the Irish Sweepstakes every year, too.

  The pretty redhead reaches for Gerry’s hand. “Let’s forget about money, Gerry. I want to go home.”

  The tender voice, those glistening green eyes...it all seems a bit much. I swear Mrs. Gerry Burns even threw a little sex into that “I want to go home” line. I’ll bet my monster cowboy’s working up a hard-on right now, ready to go home and ride the happy trail between Kelly’s legs.

  I know I am.

  Gerry pushes up from his chair and offers his hand, mumbles a few words about thinking things over, that I’ve made some sense. I don’t pay that much attention because Kelly is giving me a much friendlier farewell. Standing close. Staring into my eyes. Squeezing my hand. There was something electric between us last year, and now, me lost in her neon green eyes, that feeling rushes back. An inexplicable knowledge of mutual destiny. Some kind of bond, a spiritual matching.

  Oh, my. My financial instincts were dead-on, too. I definitely played up to the right person in this duo, the one open to suggestions.

  Walking them into the parking lot’s mid-September sunshine, opening the Cadillac Escalade’s passenger door for Kelly, I wonder what I should suggest next.

  FOUR

  Late that afternoon, Luis’s Mexican Grill is empty but for me and my favorite bartender. I watch with a smile as Luis puts the bottle of Herradura Gold in front of me along with a salt shaker, a dish of lime wedges, and two shot glasses. He wants to drink with his favorite customer.

  “Cruz says you again spent the night in our parking lot,” he says.

  Uh, oh. “Truth is, I haven’t found another roost yet, or at least one where they don’t call the cops.”

  Luis smiles at me. “Do not concern yourself. I will tell Cruz we have made an arrangement. But I am worried about your drinking, amigo. It is your business which still troubles you?”

  I’ve never told Luis about my visitation rights being taken away. I’m afraid he’ll think less of me for letting it happen. Bad enough I think less of myself.

  “The hell with my business, Luis.” I lick salt from the back of my hand, down the shot of fermented cactus juice. “I’d rather talk about a woman who came to see me this morning.”

  His bottomless black eyes flicker with interest.

  “She’s a redhead, very attractive,” I say. “And—oh, yes—she’s married.”

  The flicker dies. Luis’s forehead bunches with wrinkles. “Then why would you even desire to discuss her?”

  I shrug. I know my favorite bartender is not going to like this. Hell, he’s appalled already, might even throw me out. I decide to give him the full-boat Carr grin before I toss the punch line: “Because her husband is my richest client. And he’s dying of cancer.”

  Luis’s eyes roll. His square chin moves slowly side-to-side, my favorite bartender maybe thinking over the long list of potential indiscretions. Finally, he pours us another shot of Herradura. “So you think perhaps you will marry this woman when her husband dies? Then you will be rich, too?”

  Wow. I am mucho impressed by Luis’s working knowledge of my tequila-infected brain. Austin Carr’s wildest fantasies lay before him.

  “Oh, it’s just something to dream about,” I say. “Like humping Shania Twain.”

  Luis skips the salt this time, minimizing his shooter ritual to the tequila and a juicy wedge of lime. “I think your plan is bad.”

  I feel the skin around my eyes scrunch up in puzzlement. I called it a dream, didn’t I? Not a plan.

  “When this woman gets her husband’s mo
ney, she will leave New Jersey,” he says. “The rich ones always travel. It is what women like to do.”

  I am truly shocked Luis is taking this so seriously. The idea is ridiculous. A daydream. Like watching a two hundred fifty thousand dollar Italian sports car drive by. Sure it would be fun to drive one, but maintenance alone puts the thing out of reach. Forget about the initial outlay.

  FIVE

  That evening I put on a pair of super-sized aviator mirror sunglasses and my Dodgers baseball hat, found a thick tree for cover near the left field foul line of my son Ryan’s fall league baseball game. The shade is cool, the bird calls soothing. Who cares if the court order the ex-wife obtained bars my attendance?

  By the fifth inning Ryan has earned a walk and two singles, made three or four nice plays at shortstop. He’s on deck, ready to come up again with men on base when I see a Branchtown patrol car slide quietly into the parking lot. Maybe a cop’s son is playing, too.

  Or maybe not. My ex-wife scurries out of the stands to greet the police cruiser. I desperately want to watch Ryan bat, but my ex-wife’s past deeds dictate extreme caution. I turn my back on the field and make like a squirrel, darting through the park’s thick stand of locust trees and pin oaks. I reach my car, key the engine, then glance over my right shoulder to back up. Damn. A beefy Branchtown cop stands directly behind my car, his left hand raised, telling me to stop. The big cop’s right hand rests on his gun holster.

  “Turn off your engine and step out of the car please,” says a sharp voice in my ear. My head snaps back. A second cop has approached my driver’s window while I was admiring his partner’s artillery. My ex-wife stands behind this second cop, her face contorted with venom.

  “Deadbeat,” she says. More of a shout, really.

  The cop motions for her to calm down. “Ma’am.”

  I douse my engine and climb out into the fading evening light. This second cop is younger than the first, about my age, and wears a kindly face with soft brown eyes. Friendly looking. Maybe he has children of his own.

  I give him the famous, full-boat Carr grin. “I just wanted to see my kid play ball.”

  He nods, then spins me by the shoulders, slams my chest against the camper, begins to pat me down. The full-boat Carr grin doesn’t work on everybody.

  My ex-wife seizes the opportunity to deliver additional poison. “You can watch Ryan play ball when you pay me what you owe, you damn deadbeat.”

  The cop motions her away. “Step back, ma’am. We’ll handle this.”

  Good thing the cops are here to protect me. Since the divorce, my ex-wife’s chest and shoulders have grown to the size of an Olympic wrestler’s. Worse, her hatred runs deep, even though I forgave her many years ago. Sometimes her court actions seem vindictive, but I figure she’s just trying to provide for our children.

  “Put your hands behind you, Mr. Carr,” the young cop says. “You’re under arrest for violating a restraining order.”

  I spend the night in jail with two drunks and a twenty-something pot dealer, but next morning a municipal judge lets me go with a warning.

  Walking back to the baseball field from Branchtown’s tiny courthouse, hoping some thief stole my camper, I consider robbing a local branch of the Navasquan National Bank. How else will I ever pay off my past-due alimony and child support?

  SIX

  Turns out my cowboy Gerry Burns lives in a captain’s suite at the Navasquan River Boat Club, a swank twenty-story condo with a marina full of big yachts. Hatteras, Grand Banks, Chris-Craft. There’s no horse stable—surprise—but I can say first hand that over the bar of the marina’s public restaurant rests a fine pair of Brahma bull horns.

  When I finish my Bombay martini, I drop some money on the bar, gobble a handful of breath mints, and pick up my props. I’m headed for the fancy condo across the street and the opening salvos of my War to Keep the Burns Account. Not quite shock and awe, but I have manufactured a semi-reasonable excuse to drop in.

  Today it’s hot. Over eighty at eleven in the morning. New Jersey’s weather is like its politicians. Whichever way the wind blows. Warm, humid, and Jersey Republican weather comes from the south, in this case a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico.

  The drivers of two Mercedes sedans and a red Jaguar two-seater are dealing with valet parking in front of the condo. One of the Mercedes belongs to Kelly Burns. She’s standing there in dark sun glasses and a black swimsuit under a short, yellow-flowered green beach wrap. Her red hair is lumped on one side, stiff like an old mop.

  When I get closer, I see she’s wearing little or no make-up, and there’s a nervous element to her body language. In a hurry, maybe? Or worried?

  “Austin?”

  I approach and offer my self-serving gifts. “I just came by to drop off these books for you. Stuff on investing.”

  My reflection appears in her dark glasses. I feel probed by alien scanners, two maybe three beats. I have no clue what she’s really looking at, let alone thinking, but the clumpy hair, the lack of make-up...I’m guessing Mrs. Gerry Burns isn’t doing well as nurse to the terminal cancer patient. Call it a hunch.

  “I was headed for the beach,” she says. “And frankly, Austin, I don’t have time to read books.”

  I sigh, letting my disappointment show. What happened to that chemistry, Kelly? Didn’t you feel it, too?

  She laughs. “I suppose that sounds strange, doesn’t it? I have time for the beach, but not for reading—adding to my knowledge.”

  I show her the famous Carr half-smile. “Not strange, really. More like typically human, especially for pretty women. Let me stick them in the car for you. In case you change your mind.”

  She removes the dark glasses and studies my face. One beat, two beats. “Sure. Why not?”

  I toss the books on the Mercedes’ back seat, shut the door, then gaze at the redhead to make my goodbye. At least I tried, made an appearance. She’s staring at the hazy September sky, not me. Maybe she’s thinking about my smile.

  She sighs and slips her glasses back on. “As long as you’re here, maybe you can help me with something. I have a little money problem.”

  Oh, boy. I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “My specialty.”

  She motions toward the Mercedes. “Take a drive with me?”

  Did I show up at the right time, or what? I force my eyes away from her trim, barely-covered ass as we both drop into the front bucket seats. Sexual thoughts are a no-no. Toward the goal of seeing my kids again, I have to concentrate on keeping the Burns’ millions under management.

  She zooms away from the condo. I notice Kelly’s nine-year-old Mercedes has two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. Wonder why Gerry doesn’t buy her something new?

  Kelly turns left on Route 36, north toward Sandy Hook and the Highlands. Although the Atlantic Ocean is less than fifty feet away, I can’t see the water or the sand on our right because of a twelve-foot retaining wall made of boulders and cement. Just about two years ago, Hurricane Becky pushed the ocean across this highway into the Navasquan River. The expensive beach homes on our left are new and built ten feet higher than the last crop.

  “So what’s the financial problem?” I ask.

  “I have a pile of cash in the trunk,” she says. “Over a hundred thousand.”

  Wow. What’s happening here? I wait for more information but she doesn’t provide any. She has the driver’s window down and her golden red hair is blowing straight out behind her like a ripped flag. That lumpy patch is dancing to its own song.

  “Sounds like a big happy to me,” I say. “What’s the problem part?”

  “I want to hide it, not spend it.”

  I turn my gaze on the rock wall flying by. I can’t believe she trusts me with this. Must be the Carr smile. Too bad I can’t bottle that grin. Or get it to work over the telephone. I wouldn’t have to keep entertaining larcenous ideas.

  “Hide it from whom?” I ask. “Gerry?”

  When we hit the fork at the Highlands Bridge, K
elly steers us toward the Sandy Hook beaches. Two weeks after Labor Day, every parking lot is a big empty.

  Kelly shifts her gaze my way. “Does it matter who I’m hiding it from?”

  “If you can tell Gerry about the money, we’ll put the cash in his account. He can give you what you need whenever you want it.”

  “And if I don’t want Gerry to know?”

  I had a feeling. “We’ll figure out something else. You have any I.D. in your maiden name?”

  “An old driver’s license and a U.S. passport. I never got around to changing it.”

  “That’s an excellent start,” I say. “Now, are you willing to break the law?”

  SEVEN

  I suppose it’s common for the mind to conjure nasty thoughts while counting money, but here with Kelly in the back seat of her old Mercedes, sorting her cash into fourteen stacks of seventy-five one hundred dollar bills, and a fifteenth pile that’s one Ben Franklin short, I want to throw her down on the cash, do the sex act like large-eared rodents.

  One hundred and twelve thousand four hundred dollars. Wow. I don’t know if it’s greed, lust, or poor ventilation, but my neck, shoulders, and backside are sweating like warm cheese.

  We’re nestled into a secluded Sandy Hook parking lot for birders and hikers. Eight spaces. We’re the only car. On the back seat, where we just counted the loot, Kelly’s half-bare ass keeps inching closer.

  “Now what?” she says.

  “We visit fifteen to twenty banks and/or savings and loans, as many as it takes, exchange one of these stacks at each bank for a seventy-five hundred dollar bank check. Then I deposit the checks into a new account for you at one final institution, write a check on that new account to Shore Securities.”

  “That’s against the law?”

  “Avoiding record-keeping on cash transactions? Uh, yes. It’s called laundering money. Not to mention the multitude of regulations and laws I have to break by opening an account in your maiden name. Maybe you never heard of the Patriot Act?”