Which put him back on the fucking roller coaster to get more clients, because, for sure, tomorrow morning the telephone would ring with more people wanting to empty their accounts.
Nothing had changed since the days when Eli Rosenberg and his putzy cousins pulled out their money.
On the desk were the books he’d carried from the Bronx. He opened Registration and Regulation of Brokers and Dealers to a random page.
“We have seen that the effect of subordinating a liability pursuant to a satisfactory subordination agreement is to permit such indebtedness to be treated as part of capital for purposes of the rule.”
Close to gibberish, that’s how it read to Jake now.
Jake skated on the thinnest of knowledge these days. Years of spouting bullshit, along with turning over all operation of their legit business—the brokerage—had knocked out all stores of real information. He spent his days as a babbling brook of words meaning nothing, and yet nobody questioned him. How long before everyone saw he was a naked emperor? Jake almost hoped the SEC would find him out, allowing him to release his hold on the bulging bag of lies he carried everywhere.
Any day now, he’d burn his ledger.
CHAPTER 23
Phoebe
November 2008
Diffuse morning sun lit the breakfast nook. Phoebe missed the brilliance of the ocean’s reflection. Even in a penthouse, Manhattan rooms never flooded with the spectacular light that bounced off the water. She shook the New York Times, both to straighten the pages and get Jake’s attention. “Listen to this, honey.”
He made a humming sound from the back of his throat, which she took as permission to read aloud.
“The mortgage crisis hasn’t merely caused millions of home foreclosures, cost big Wall Street firms tens of billions of dollars and forced layoffs.” She leaned the paper against the coffee carafe.
“It has also made it harder to find willing participants for Wall Street Warriors, a cable television show that documents the lives of traders, brokers, bankers, and other financial professionals.”
Jake twisted his lips into an expression of impatience.
“Insane, right?” she asked. “Did you know they were doing a reality show about Wall Street?”
“Jesus Christ, Pheebs, do you think I want to listen to that shit first thing in the morning?” He slapped the Wall Street Journal against the kitchen table. “A reality show? All the damned realism I need is waiting for me every morning when I walk in the office.”
The beginnings of a Jake rant colored the atmosphere. Their mornings became worse daily. His clockwork schedule had fallen apart, and she didn’t know why. Some days he left for JPE an hour late, almost as though he didn’t want to leave the apartment; other days, he ran out to meet Charlie at dawn.
She scanned the paper for something calming, news he’d enjoy, but the headlines all contained dynamite:
Blame Not a Problem to Find in Mortgage Market and Credit Crisis
Wall Street Markets Tumbled the Most in Nearly a Month Yesterday Afternoon . . .
Finally, the word optimistic appeared in the business section. “Listen to this, Jake. From Athens: ‘The European Central Bank claims havoc wracking global financial markets showed signs of lessening, leaving its benchmark interest rate unchanged at 4 percent.’ Good news, right?”
“If we lived in Athens.” He scraped up another piece of omelet. “Good eggs. How do you do it with all that fake shit?”
“It’s real egg whites and low-fat cheese.” Jake’s talent for changing the subject rarely fooled her. “Athens should mean a lot to you. We’re part of the world economy.”
“The world economy? When did you become an economist? Give me a break.” He shook his head. “You read your section of the paper, and I’ll read mine, okay? Stop sharing every word. You’re driving me nuts.”
“Why are you being such a bastard?”
Jake looked up from the sports section with his lopsided grin. “You just read me the reason why. Right? The news.”
Phoebe avoided smiling back. “Well, which is it? We’re worried about the news? We’re fine? Should I cut back? Are we in trouble?”
Half the people they knew wore pinched faces. She didn’t want Jake carrying the burden alone.
He put down the paper and locked eyes with her. “I’d never let you down. No worries, but if you want to save money, you can start with this.” He held up his last bite of toast—dry, no butter or jam.
Phoebe waved away his words. The older they got, the more she watched their meals. They were in their sixties. She had no idea of her natural hair color anymore. Appointments for Botox and wrinkle fillers were as regular as visits to her dental hygienist. Already Jake took Lipitor for cholesterol and Lisinopril for his high blood pressure, though he managed to forget his frightening numbers each time he left the house. Beyond her table, there was no controlling him.
“Thank your lucky stars I watch out for you,” she said.
After folding his napkin and placing it next to his plate, Jake came up behind her. He leaned down and kissed her neck. “Pheebs, you’re still the sugar in my coffee and the honey in my heart. Seriously. You know how much I love you?”
Maniac to mushy and sentimental again—male hormone surges? She should ask Helen if Alan was like this. “I love you too. Now go earn money for that dry toast I intend to keep serving. I have to check in with Ira and Eva about the incubator store.” Eva’s newest idea excited her more than anything they’d tried: a small space right in Mira House. They’d take advantage of the growing moneyed population around the settlement house, while training unemployed women to staff the in-house Cupcake Project.
“Got it,” Jake said. “Toast money coming.”
He left to shower. His scraped-clean plate wouldn’t prevent him from barking at Connie for a bagel and lox within a half hour of arriving. No matter how many times Phoebe spoke to her about the heart problems in Jake’s family, she ordered Jake his loaded bagel.
“I’m his secretary, not his doctor,” she’d say.
What could Phoebe say? She knew how impossible it was to say no to Jake.
She cleared the dishes, brought them to the kitchen, and stacked them in the sink for Shirley, who’d be there soon. Getting the clean sponge from the dishwasher, she wiped down the counters and then carried a cloth over to the table, making sure to wipe every crumb. Jake’s need for order, always strong, had bordered on obsessive since they moved to Manhattan. If she didn’t have Shirley, she’d give up either the Cupcake Project or Jake.
Too bad Shirley couldn’t clean up his tantrums along with the dishes.