Blowing him wouldn’t be wrong. Fellatio wasn’t infidelity.
Only a blow job. That’s all he’d take from Georgia. Just to make sure he could concentrate for the rest of the week.
Part 2
* * *
Building an Empire
CHAPTER 10
Jake
May 1970
People swarmed over Wall Street that Friday. Students covered the Federal Hall National Memorial steps. Yesterday the National Guard had killed four students at Kent State University during a Vietnam War protest in Ohio. Today, throughout the nation, protesters aimed their signs at President Richard Nixon.
A crying shame, those killings. Nobody but college kids and a few grandmothers trying to stop the war. They actually expected to make a difference with their marches? Ah, what the hell. Who else did the world have now? Such a ragged piece of history America inhabited. Vietnam had thrown the economy in the tank. Thank God things were quiet on Theo’s campus, but, Jesus, tragedy was as possible in Indiana as Ohio.
Nixon didn’t help matters, the bastard, calling these kids “bums,” while he sent their classmates to be killed in Vietnam. Nixon. His shifty eyes told the whole story of his character. Meanwhile, business was going to shit all over the country.
“Okay, buddy, here we go again. Although my hope is shrinking, the way you’re rejecting everything.” Georgia’s breathy delivery took the sting off her dismissive words. “Only two more before we reach foraging level. You’ve crossed off every property within a mile of your desires.”
“Ah, I believe in you.” He let his eyes travel her body. “Do your magic and pull a rabbit from a silk hat. My faith in you is limitless.”
“Can the sweet talk.” Georgia lifted her hair off her neck and twisted it into an approximation of a ponytail. Perspiration dotted her hairline. Her clothes clung to her back even though the temperature hadn’t topped sixty degrees. Tramping all over Wall Street clearly took a toll. She wore heels, which must have made walking even harder, plus her dress seemed like a long sweater. Sexy as hell—and he appreciated the effort—but not meant for hiking. A whiff of pure Georgia spun with her perfume wafted his way. His suit wasn’t exactly air-conditioned, but he’d taken off the jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“That last place could have met all your criteria.” She wrapped her hair with a rubber band pulled from her huge leather bag.
“Could have? Have you ever known me to do ‘almost’?”
“What’s wrong with subdividing? Or operating open space for a while? Two private offices should be plenty, right? One for you and one for your brother when he joins you.”
“You running an office-consulting business on the side?” Jake asked. “Stick to finding me the floor plans I want. I’ll decide what works. Don’t worry. Your commission will come.”
“Don’t get testy, sugar.” Georgia reached out for his arm, but he pulled back before she made contact. New York sometimes became Main Street USA. You never knew who watched.
He tuned her out as she babbled on. Duplicating his imagined future offices might not be possible yet, but Jake would be damned if he’d start out far from the ideal. Dough pumped in from both sides of JPE. Greenwich generated so many connections that he’d hired three brokers and rented space from the medical supply business next door to Uncle Gus. A waterfront address helped, despite the monthly payments killing him. Location defined you.
Gita-Rae’s new assistant, a tough-nut kid, kept the flow going between the brokerage and the Club. Charlie Marshal had barely scraped his way out of high school—similar to Gita-Rae—but his instinct and brains beat every college boy Jake hired.
Dragging Phoebe all over New York and Connecticut resulted in boatloads of Club members—but he paid a price. After going with him to every dinner-dance and fund-raiser in town, Phoebe nagged for quiet dinners, just the two of them and two-year-old Katie. When the hell was he supposed to have time to work? Gita-Rae might be smart, but she needed guidance. Only Jake could decide when and if to make a buy, versus making the illusion of having purchased stock for the Club. Not that he wouldn’t make good on all those buys; eventually he’d make the whole enchilada right. But right now he simply had a cash flow balancing act.
A hundred tasks needed his attention every day between running JPE and pressing the flesh. Nobody but he could play the role of Jake. Thank God Theo would be working for him come July. Jake planned to plop all the brokerage details on Theo’s plate.
Attracting money required burnished bait. JPE’s public face required luster and the brokerage provided that and respectability. Every day, the brokerage attracted more corporate clients, especially when Theo popped in to take the helm during his time off from school. His brother had perfect pitch for knowing the company’s coming technical needs when it came to anything computerized—both with managing their stock offerings and making improvements in how they managed the business end of JPE.
Theo needed an office. Solomon Azouley, the second broker hired, deserved one. Not only did he bring smarts, sophistication—something Charlie lacked—and education, but also Solomon measured a man in five seconds.
Plus, Sol—the nickname Solomon preferred—was black. Jake’s secret weapon, Sol. Clients, whether from the brokerage or the Club, heard the name Sol and figured him for Jewish. In fact, Sol’s father was Jewish, which explained how Sol slung Yiddish with the best of them, but to his ignorant clients, Sol appeared only as a massive black man who intimidated the hell out of them. Jake loved watching them react. He swore that some clients signed on just to show how open-minded they were.
He knew Sol from high school, but they’d lost touch until an Erasmus reunion, where Jake discovered Sol not only had brains and a brokerage license, but also he was money hungry as hell and not squeamish about the occasional shortcuts. The JPE team was shaping up nicely, especially with Charlie and Sol providing the perfect duo for managing the handshakes needed between the brokerage and the Club.
He needed to house the Club’s inner workings somewhere private for two reasons: to keep them separate from the straight-laced types he planned to attract for the brokerage and to give them privacy for machinations that the Club’s patina burnished.
Sometimes he wished he’d never started the damned club, but he was in too deep to stop now. If Jake could write checks and buy out every client, he would. He’d concentrate on building the best brokerage in New York City.
He shook away the thoughts. The funds he’d need to first straighten out the Club and then close it down meant earning a mountain of money. Soon. In due time, he planned to be aboveboard. Meanwhile, he’d keep the balls in the air.
“Let’s move,” Jake said to Georgia. “It’s almost noon, and I want to see every office available in the area.”