Gita-Rae, his first hire—though he shared Gus’s assistant, Ronnie Gallagher—provided his missing puzzle piece. He could only afford her part-time; her hourly rate would astound Gus. But she kept secrets like a sphinx. She was no genius, but she wasn’t a dummy. Shrewdness, that’s what Gita-Rae excelled in, and a head for numbers.
Money was her god. Growing up, she’d lived in the apartment next to Jake’s and also attended Erasmus High School same as him and Phoebe, although they hadn’t traveled in the same crowd. At fifteen the two of them discovered sex. Gita-Rae was boney as hell and flat-chested, but nobody gave a better hand job. Her dirty-sexy looks screamed bedroom. They lost their virginity to each other, though they never touched now. His need for her skills for the Club exceeded her carnal pull.
The Club might not be the main attraction of JPE, but it gave him a bigger thrill than boning Gita-Rae could. Private investment funds didn’t need to be opened to the public, and they weren’t strangled by regulations. No one got in without an invitation. His invitation. Gus told him people whispered about the Club, asking how they could join.
“Any new clients?” Jake called across the room.
“Don’t be so impatient,” Gus said. “I don’t know how you stay on top of the clients you have now.”
“Wake up, Uncle. Now’s the time. Can’t you see dollar bills falling from the sky? It’s like pollen in the spring, leaves in the fall—you only need to sweep up the piles. Everyone’s wallet should be bulging.”
“What goes up must come down, boychik.”
“You think Onassis lives by that weak-sister philosophy?” Jake wiggled his eyebrows.
“Live by his philosophy when you have his bank account.”
“I’m thinking like a wealthy man starting now. Think rich, be rich.”
“Big heads are the first thing to bring men down. The ego takes away your balance, and whomp, you tumble over like Humpty Dumpty.”
Gus might produce clients, but, Jesus, he depressed Jake.
Thank God for Ronnie Gallagher, who lived and died by numbers. Gus had brought the young accountant into the office fresh from school a few months ago. Each week, Jake paid for a few more of Ronnie’s hours to have him report directly to Jake. The kid’s skills were crackerjack. More important, he didn’t spend his time lecturing.
Patience and details weren’t Jake’s strong suit. Worker bees like Ronnie and Gita-Rae took care of the small stuff while he added bricks to his base. Jake planned on being a millionaire before he hit thirty. When the baby came, they’d live in a house, not some crummy apartment, where just by sniffing the air you knew how much garlic Mrs. Lynchowski threw in her soup and whether she served sweet or sour pickles.
Anyplace where your neighbors didn’t hear every time you farted.
Jake read real estate ads the way that some men read girly magazines. He’d already shoved plenty into his secret bank account, earmarked for their house, which he didn’t touch even when he borrowed the money from Red. His father-in-law could afford it.
Jake’s path led straight up, and nothing would stop him.
? ? ?
A week later, he circled house ads as he drank his first cup of coffee. As Phoebe grew larger, Jake worried. Imagining his future house soothed him. He could draw the place he wanted for his flawless family. Phoebe would bounce right back from her pregnancy—he hated seeing her tight body stretch out. No way would he let a fat wife drag him down. Wrapping his arm around her waist brought him top-notch pleasure. Other guys’ eyes opening a bit wider when they saw his doll of a wife almost gave him a hard-on.
If he expected her to be perfect, he needed to provide the right place. They should have already moved someplace where Phoebe could breathe in sweet fresh air and eat farm-fresh food. He wanted her healthy and happy.
“Is breakfast coming anytime this year?” Jake held up his coffee cup. “I need to be at the office early. I gotta get outta here.”
“You work for you. What are you going to do? Dock your own pay?” Phoebe flipped a piece of French toast.
Egg-soaked challah browning in butter might be the scent of heaven. God, she cooked like a French chef, soaking the bread overnight until the slices expanded to twice their size.
“Did you tell Mira House you’re leaving?” he asked.
Phoebe piled the French toast on a blue plate, ignoring his question.
“Did you?” he repeated.
“There’s no reason for me to quit so fast.” She reached into the fridge for syrup and butter, carrying the bottle of Log Cabin to a pan of hot water.
“No reason? I don’t like the idea of you traveling on the train while you’re pregnant. Especially now, when it’s getting cold and you could end up slipping in the snow.”
“Snow? It’s only October.”
“October in New York. Anything can happen. Sixty degrees today, twenty tomorrow. Plus, you need to be fair to them—the settlement house.”
Phoebe placed the plate before him; it was flanked by the warmed syrup in a china creamer and pats of butter on a small glass dish. “Fair?”
“The more time you give them to find a replacement, the better.” He took her hand. “They’ll be heartbroken, but I need you here.”
When she shook him off, he pointed to her belly. “We both need you. And I got plenty of work to keep you busy but safe.”
Pregnant and working in a slum—Christ, she’d make him look like a loser. How were people going to trust him with their dough if they thought he needed money so badly he sent her to work in a ghetto? Plus, memories of that night in the hospital never left him. If need be, he’d be careful for both of them.
Just shut up and for once do what I tell you. That’s what he would have liked to say.
“I’ll curl up and die from boredom in that dusty office,” Phoebe said. “The two of you yakking about every article in the paper, not to mention having to listen to Uncle Gus’s stupid jokes. It’s torture.”
Torture? His spoiled wife wouldn’t know discomfort unless the devil himself grabbed her by the neck.
“This won’t be for long, honey. I got plans. We’re going to be living someplace fantastic by the time you’re in the delivery room.”
“I’m fine living here,” she said. “I can’t stand being stuck behind an adding machine.”
Pinched, pursed, her face folded into a suspicious expression that mirrored her mother’s—the face Jake hated. Fine. He wouldn’t pressure her anymore on helping at the office. He’d get Gita-Rae to come in an extra day if it meant marching down the street wearing a sandwich board to attract more clients.
“Okay, Pheebs. I don’t want you worrying. Just stop working in that ghetto and concentrate on the baby. I’ll manage the rest.”
? ? ?
Jake’s phone rang minutes after he stepped into the office.
“All morning it’s been like this,” Gus said.
“Picking it up was too hard for you?”
“Do I look like a secretary?” Gus held up his hands. “You want to be a big shot? Act like one. Hire your girl full-time.”
“I thought you were my girl.” Jake grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“You wish,” Gus said.