Staying positive meant concentrating on the future. Look at the brokerage, running like silk over glass. Theo kept a tight lid on the staff at JPE. Solomon added the gravitas. Where other firms let their guys go wild, Jake screwed the lid tight: no flash, no fucking in the stairwell, no snorting coke in the men’s room. No goddamned dwarf tossing. Some of the stories he’d heard—Jesus, his sins were the least of the Street’s crimes.
Hell, last year Asset Magazine had declared JPE the best-kept secret on Wall Street, the broker’s brokerage—the high-tech king straitlaced enough for your grandmother. His secretary had blown up the article, framed it in brushed steel, and placed the image front and center in the lobby where people entered.
If he’d written it himself, the piece couldn’t have been better. Plus, they had only whispered a mention of the Club: “Pierce’s powerful under-the-radar investment arm is almost impossible to join—rumor has it that entry requires being vetted by a hush-hush cadre of those in the know, whom nobody can identify. One source called it ‘Jake’s toy,’ where he gets to mix his ingredients for investments only available to preferred clients.”
After the article hit the newsstands, potential clients begged for Club membership, but he remained distant, ensuring that they believed only pushing the proper buttons opened the gate to Jake’s magic castle. Now every asshole with a computer wanted to play day trader, forgetting that what went up also came down. Meanwhile, the Club’s daily cash in and cash out drifted further apart, and he needed an infusion.
He slid Phoebe’s zipper up and then teased the tab back down. The scent of Poison rose as he massaged the tight muscles. Poison brought Bianca to mind, but perfume was the only connection between his wife and his current plaything. Blond wasn’t simply the color of Bianca’s hair; her aura, her personality, every word she spoke matched the buttercup shade of her curls. Bianca’s giggles, her chatter about everything and nothing drove him insane, so the little time they spent out of bed, the television usually blared in the background.
When Bianca pouted about the sex, followed by Chinese food delivery, followed by a movie popped into the VCR, the routine he’d established, he reminded her of the rewards with which his habits came. She’d mope for a moment or two, but then snuggle beside him and gaze at the newest trinket he’d picked up at some hole-in-the-wall jewelry store.
Jake didn’t fool himself. He’d gone from swearing that he’d never cheat, to Georgia, to a variety of one-night stands, to regular “dates” with Bianca, but at least it never meant anything but sex. Emotionally, he and Bianca shared nothing. Hell, look at the two women side by side: Phoebe’s strictly classy appearance, taut, toned, and sleek, outshone Bianca by miles, but sometimes you wanted a Twinkie instead of uncovering the layers of Baked Alaska. Bianca’s bubble breasts would be hanging down long after Pheebs’s still stood at attention, but playing with them now provided a heck of a treat. His poor Phoebe. No matter how many hours she spent exercising, she’d passed forty. Bianca’s pliability, her satin finish, her expanse of unmarked flesh: it was her moment in time, and one he relished touching. No army of cosmetics and skin-care products lined her bathroom shelves.
“How about an early celebration, Pheebs?”
“I’m all dressed and ready.” Even as she spoke those practical words, an aura of pliancy rippled toward him.
“So you are.” He tugged her tight dress up and bent her over the bed. She arched up to meet him, and he pulled her closer, holding her hips, feeling the silk fabric slither over her skin, watching golden chains slip up and down her arm. Poison’s heady aroma collided with the scent of roses on her dresser, and he drove into his wife with the force of screwing two women at once.
? ? ?
A large placard with his name and picture made the Waldorf Astoria Hotel ballroom entrance seem to rise and greet Jake in acclaim. His portrait took up half the real estate on the poster. Underneath his image, the words read “The Jewish Guardian of the Heart Fund Honors Jake Pierce, Advocate & Sustainer.”
After his father’s fatal heart attack two years ago, he’d donated a million dollars to begin the Kenneth Pierce Fund, under the umbrella of the Jewish Guardian of the Heart Fund. Jake’s mother had died a month later, and he donated another two hundred grand but asked them to keep the name the same.
“I still can’t believe you donated so much,” Phoebe whispered as they entered the Grand Ballroom. “Are we really that rich?”
“We are, baby. This is our life.” He swept his hand to take in the entire scene.
She squeezed his hand. “But you gave over a million? How in the world—”
“Don’t worry. I put a pile of contributors together, that’s all. Donating’s an investment.” If they thought you could drop a million, they’d throw ten million at you. If he’d given twenty million, they’d fall down on their knees, begging him to take their money.
“But still,” she said. “So much.”
“We’re in a different stratosphere now.” He analyzed the room to see who was there and where the money congregated. “I’m not a putz from Brooklyn anymore.”
“You were never a putz.” She laughed, her face lit with the glow of the room. “Okay, sometimes you’re a putz, but very often you’re a heroic putz.”
“Thanks, baby.” He lifted his chin toward a group he’d identified as being married to the room’s biggest money. “Over there, you see those women? Go forth and bring me greedy wives. Then you can go talk to Deb and Helen. And thank me—I put them at our table and not the gold-encrusted wives.”
“Putting on my Groucho glasses as we speak.” She ran a hand down his cheek before walking away.
Jake pulled up his Club persona. Right about now, a drink would be perfect. He imagined the cool bite of Scotch and ached for the liquid like mother’s milk. A few seconds later, the craving left. Most people thought he’d had an alcohol problem that he’d conquered with iron control. Some believed medical reasons kept him sober. Friends accepted his declaration of loathing the smell, since his mother self-soothed with booze more and more as the years went on.
The truth was none of the above.
In vino veritas.
Loose lips sink ships.
Jake headed to the polished mahogany bar, white lights marking the path to the booze. Longing rushed in again. He pushed down the hunger with a promise of having this shit over in another year or so. Then he could have a drink.
He’d be glad to close the door, though he wondered if he’d miss the kick of seeing the insane gullibility all around. Sometimes he felt like he was the victim. After all, Jesus Christ, who would have expected so many people—smart people, well-informed people, business people—to buy into the idea that anyone could keep building a fortune straight up? Life always came with downs, so who actually believed that Jake could perform the magic he said he could pull off? The educated ones, they had to know, wink-wink, what they were buying into. Otherwise, how could it have been so fucking simple building a fortune using his artless plan?