“JPE.” Jake stuck up his middle finger. “Jake Pierce speaking.”
“Jakie! Just the guy I wanted. It’s Eli. Eli Rosenberg. Gus’s cousin.”
He wedged the receiver between his chin and shoulder, gestured as though making a writing motion, and then pointed to the receiver, mouthing “Eli.”
Gus threw over a pencil followed by a pad. Eli—Gus’s wife’s cousin—held hot-ticket status. Not only did he invest $15,000 in the Club, but he also brought in three others with as much.
“What can I do for you?”
“Already done, buddy. Heck of a return. Couldn’t be happier.”
Happy? Hell, the man should be ecstatic. Eli and his family realized over 25 percent returns in the Club last year when the S&P 500 did about 16.5 percent—he’d pulled a fucking miracle out for them all, picking winner after winner. Some of his clients needed to be educated to understand just what a big deal that was—beating Standard and Poor’s index of the country’s top companies.
“Glad to hear you’re a satisfied customer.”
Finding Dippin’ Donuts just as the company went public placed the huge cherry on the sundae of his ride of perfect picks. Again Jake felt the rush of calling it right, following his hunch that the good old USA was ripe for breakfast on the road. He put everything available into Dippin’ and never regretted the move. Hell, he even bought some for him and Phoebe.
“More than satisfied, big guy. You did it. We’re cashing in on top.”
French toast flipped in his stomach. “What are you, crazy? The ride’s just begun.”
Eli laughed. “I bet lots of people said those words the day before the Crash. Hey, pal, I’m sixty-one. I’m not looking to be Midas. Comfortable works just fine. So thanks, you did well by us. We made money. You made money. Everyone’s happy. Now send us all checks. We’re investing it in a house. A place in the Catskills.”
“Us? Who do you mean by us?”
“The cousins. They’ll be calling later. We’re going in together and buying an empty bungalow colony in Loch Sheldrake. Making it a family place. Four cabins. One for each of us and one for guests. We’ll have a lake, a couple of rowboats. Come up with your pretty wife. Bring the whole mishpocha.”
Fuck him and fuck his mishpocha. Like Jake gave a shit about bringing his family to visit Eli at some pissant farm. He added up Eli’s and the cousins’ profits and almost croaked. Between the four of them, he’d end up paying out close to $150,000. A fucking fortune. You could buy ten houses for that money. This move would bankrupt him.
The Club didn’t come close to having cash like that on hand. When Dippin’ Donuts hit the high-water mark, Jake cashed in to make a killing on another stock, borrowing a little Peter to buy some Paul. He used a personal float once in a while, when hot stuff was ripe for the buy, when his bills were due and it worked—as long as the Club clients didn’t act like assholes.
Jake planned to put it all into the clients’ accounts and keep it neatly zipped, buy all the stocks timely as Big Ben, just as soon as his client base solidified. For now, he moved it in and out. Another year or two, and then he’d have it all under control.
You gotta keep it all straight and clean, Jake.
Of course, Red. Believe me, I learned my lesson. I feel like a schmuck.
He’d almost lost it when Red clapped him on the shoulder like a real father, as though Jake were someone the world could count on, not some loser like his dad.
Hey, kid. You caught an ambition attack. Hustling is good. Being a hustler, though? Stay away from that, son.
Jake wouldn’t ever ask his father-in-law for money again.
Whatever it took, he’d make this right.
CHAPTER 9
Jake
Jake held up two ties, placing one and then the other under his chin. “Solid or striped?”
“Solid.” Phoebe nodded at her empty teacup. “One more? This cold has me knocked out.”
“Knocked out and knocked up. Sad combo, baby.” He put a hand on her forehead. “You feel warm. I think this is more than a cold. You’re staying in bed. One tea coming up.”
As Jake headed to the kitchen, he chewed his tongue to release any gathering irritation on having to do one more thing before leaving for work. Even the stupidest of husbands knew enough to brew a cup of tea for an eight-months-pregnant wife without complaining. Jake prided himself on taking care of Phoebe way beyond what he’d seen growing up. His parents had lived as though in bordering countries where treaties prevented all-out war but allowed repeated skirmishes. Early on in his marriage, Jake had vowed that his children would grow up surrounded by love, money, and opportunity.
After relighting the flame under the still-warm teakettle, he grabbed a clean cup. Memories of his parents refilling the same sticky one all day turned his stomach. How could anyone drink out of a dirty mug?
Evidence of last night’s meal filled the sink. Poor Phoebe could hardly lumber to the stove and back. Jake folded up his sleeves and tied on a red apron. While the water boiled, he washed the dishes, and then scrubbed the counters and put away the remains of breakfast: a carton of Wheaties, a bowl, and the yellow butter dish from Phoebe’s toast. Even scanning the morning papers had become difficult with her laid up in bed, but he saw the most important headline of the day: PEACE-TALK HOPES BOLSTER MARKET; Stock Prices Show Advance for Third Consecutive Day.
God loved him.
History worked for him.
Heebie-jeebies shivered down his arms as he pulled a fresh tea bag from the Tetley box, releasing the dusty odor. Back home, wrinkled, dried-up tea bags wedged into stained tin cups littered his mother’s kitchen counter. She had rotated them, convinced that she could pull six more ounces from even the most desiccated. Even a whiff of tea had made him sick since childhood. Now he could hardly stand to leave the tea bag in long enough to make Phoebe a strong brew, but he forced himself to let it steep until the water darkened to the tongue-turning tannic mess that Phoebe preferred. Once the liquid appeared sufficiently murky, he added sugar. Lately she asked for two heaping teaspoons.