She was wearing a $2,500 shearling coat from Searle and a pair of fur-lined Coach boots when she came to see Scottso the next week. He was busy at his desk, having been given an hour to clear out, while a security officer stood at the door making sure he didn’t take any material belonging to the company.
“Scott, I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I heard. Are you going to be all right?”
He looked at her once, shook his head, and reached across his desk for a stack of CDs.
“Ah, sir, you’re going to have to leave those,” said the security officer, waiting to escort him out of the building. “Those are property of the company.”
“You believe this?” Scott’s lip curled. “I signed half the artists on this label — I was in the studio when they cut these — and now they won’t even let me walk out of the office with a disc it cost about three cents to make.”
“I know how hard this must be.” She nodded. “But I’m sure you’re going to land on your feet once this is all over.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you.”
He snatched a picture of himself with John McEnroe off the corner of his desk and put it in the cardboard box at his feet.
“Do you really think it’s that useful assigning blame at this point?” she asked.
“Who else am I supposed to blame — myself?”
“Well, some people would take this as a time for self-reflection...”
“Oh, you’re good.” His nostrils flared. “You’re really good, I’ll give you that. I just can’t figure what your angle was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t. Like you didn’t wind me up and play me off against Larry Longman on purpose.”
“Oh Scott, come on...”
“Just tell me one thing: Were you working for Larry or was there someone on the board gunning for me?”
She turned away as he lumbered toward her, crossing her arms in front of her stomach.
“There was no one else,” she said. “You wanted a war, so you got a war. Wars are messy.”
He reached out and fingered the soft collar of her jacket, the knuckle of his thumb lightly brushing her cheek.
“I know it was you, Fredo,” he said almost tenderly. “You broke my heart.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not the fall of Havana.” She pulled away from him and started toward the door. “Act like a man, Johnny Fontaine. What’s the matter with you?”
“Jesus.” He made his eyes into slits. “What’d you do, memorize the dialogue?”
“And that’s not what you wanted?”
He gave her the wounded uncomprehending look of a lover betrayed.
“I don’t understand,” he said, following her. “Why’d you do this to me? Did I ever hurt you? Just tell me that. Why would you do this to someone you don’t even know?”
“It was never anything personal, Scott.” She stopped on the threshold. “It was strictly business.”
Part III
Main Street
The day trader in the trunk of Cleto’s car
by Mark Haskell Smith
Los Angeles, California
Fuck me, man. What is Cleto talking about? I can’t understand a word. He’s just barking all mad dog at me, spit flying from his mouth, sweat dripping from his big shaved head. He’s pissed. I can tell. His shirt is off and he’s pounding his chest with his fists, slapping the tattoo of the two skeletons buttfucking over his heart. He keeps saying stuff, but I don’t know what it means. He knows I don’t speak Spanish.
Naldo and Ramón. Those fuckers. They just rolled up on me and next thing I know my nose is broken, my bottom teeth are sticking through my lip, and I’m clotheslined by the driveway. Seeing stars. Really. Little bursts of light, like flashbulbs.
Amigos, what the fuck?
There must be some mistake. It’s me. Russell.
I want to say something but I can’t get any air. I think my jaw is broken too.
Cleto yelled some more and they stopped kicking me. Fucking Naldo and his cowboy boots. He kicked me so hard it feels like I have exit wounds. I’m pretty sure I broke a rib. Maybe two. And my shirt. Shit. My tofu festival T-shirt. What are they thinking? It’s collectible, man. The tofu festival only comes once a year.
I’m trying to tell them this as they pick me up off the ground. But they can’t hear me. It was a mistake only taking one year of Spanish in high school. If I could habla, I’m sure we could work this all out.
Naldo is holding me up, but I can’t see much. Something’s wrong with one of my eyes, like it’s dislocated. No, it’s my neck. I can’t hold my head up; it just bounces around like those stupid bobblehead dolls you get at Dodger Stadium. I can’t control the bobbling. It bobbles left, then right, then back. Bobble, bobble. I see the ground, the street. There are bright dark blotches on the pavement. My blood. Naldo’s boots. Bobble, bobble. The wheels of the car.
Why can’t I control my head?
Cleto helps me out. He grabs my hair and lifts my head up so I can see him. I start talking, but it just sounds like gargling. There’s too much blood in my mouth. That can’t be good.
Cleto looks me in the eye.
“You are gonna fuckin’ die, hijo de puta.”
I try to explain. Doesn’t he understand that it’s just a little correction? The market does this all the time. In another month everything will be back where it was, maybe higher. It’s certainly no reason to do anything drastic. Everyone, KLD Research and Analytics, Price Target, the Jaywalk Consensus, they all said hold Not sell. Hold.
Hold on tight, everything will be all right.
I try to explain this to Cleto, but my mouth won’t work. I sound like a cow. I’m mooing. Cleto looks at me and shakes his head.
“Throw this piece of shit in the trunk and let’s go.”
Now he speaks English?
Naldo and Ramon pick me up and throw me in the trunk of Cleto’s car. If I wasn’t already numb from the beating, that would’ve hurt. Naldo leans in and smiles at me. I try to talk again. Weren’t we friends? Didn’t I tell you to invest in Genentech (NYSE: DNA)? Didn’t you double your money when Caterpillar (NYSE: CAT) split?
Naldo whispers some advice in my ear: “Don’t bleed on
Cleto’s car, ese.”
Then he shut the lid.
It’s dark in the trunk. I go fetal. I can’t help it. There is no other way to get comfortable. I suppose that’s the point. They’re trying to teach me a lesson. I shouldn’t have hesitated. I should’ve made the trade, taken a small loss, protected the nut. Okay. I get that. But it’s not like it’s a washout. Not like that stupid computer stock I had. Cleto’s money is safe — well, as safe as it can be.
I wish I could explain it to him. It’s not like I had him in volatile stocks. I didn’t put his money in junk bonds. I mean, c’mon man, Time Warner (NYSE: TWX), Cisco (NASDAQ: CSCO), Eastman Kodak (NYSE: EK), these are not dogs we’re talking about. They may not be blue chip, but they’re blue chipish Right? They took a dive. Okay. I see that. But it’s not like they’re over. He’s got seventy grand in Microsoft (NASDAQ: MSFT), for fuck’s sake. It’ll all bounce back; he just has to be patient. Stocks go up, stocks go down. It’s what they do. Cleto needs to relax and enjoy the journey, think of it as an “E” ticket experience — the Cyclone at Coney Island, the Colossus at Magic Mountain, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride — it’s supposed to be fun.