Two-twelfths of a Boy Scout, says Diamond.
Twelve-twelfths of a disaster, says you. Jesus, everythings an ugly mess!
Ugly? I think its rather grand.
The fun is just beginning.
Yeah. Absolutely. From the vantage point of the pad.
The manager switches the channel back to the baseball game, nearly toppling off the stool in the process. The waitress wiggles up to see if Diamond wants another almond soda. You can sense the humidity thickening under her skirt as she talks to him. Its like Miami under there. Here! you snap, shoving your untouched latte at her. This needs to be reheated. She could probably bring it to a boil between her thighs. If you would go to the ladies room and attend to your grooming, you doubtlessly could wilt this irksome flirtation on the vine-but youll be damned if you will stoop that low. Or assume that risk.
Pardon my bluntness, Mr. Diamond, you say when the girl has torn herself away, but I think youre sucking on about a vineyard and a half of sour grapes.
Do you, now?
I think youre taking a childish pleasure in this crisis because … because you cant be involved in it anymore. In the market, I mean. You screwed up and got kicked out of the business, and now youre happy the business is in trouble. Its a vengeance thing, if you ask me. Pure spite. If you could get your job back, youd be singing a different tune.
Diamonds irritating grin grows irritatingly brighter. Id be suffering along with the rest of you?
Yes. Thats one way to put it.
When he laughs, the waitress looks at you enviously from across the room, jealous, no doubt, that he finds you so entertaining. Oh, Gwendolyn, he sighs. Such naivetE in these times might be refreshing if it wasnt actually pathetic. You turn as red as a cardinals beanie and rise from your cushion, but Diamond doesnt seem to notice. NASD never got around to banning me, he goes on, and even if it had, therere entire firms on Wall Street comprised exclusively of brokers whove been banned from the business.
Hmmm. This is interesting. You settle back down.
Within three months of the day I was sacked, I couldve gone to work for any disco in the country, with the possible, I emphasize possible, exception of the one that canned me. And I burned my employers as well as my clients.
Yes, indeed, this is getting very interesting.
Seriously?
Of course. Theres only one rule in the investment business: squeeze juice. You know that. And as long as you obey that rule, it doesnt much matter what other rules you break. Wall Street loves guys like me the way a pimp loves a tight-twatted hooker with a habit.
You are so intrigued you ignore the indelicacy of his analogy. Uh, let me ask you something, you say. In confidence. If Posner should let me go on Monday, if Im accused of churning and stuff-and Im not saying I will be-you think I could catch on with another firm? In due time, I mean? A relatively short time?
The way Diamond chuckles, the waitress must think youre Dorothy Parkers granddaughter. In one rainy Saturday afternoon, youve transformed Pony Espresso into the Algonquin. Oh, probably, he says. You can sell, so I hear, and therere chop houses thatll hire anybody who can sell. So, if you want to run for dwarfs, theyll run you. But, frankly, I cant see you running for a jumbo, not even if you were clean, because you dont squeeze that kind of juice.
I very well could.
Doubtful, Gwendolyn. Its doubtful. Youve got the drive, all right, but you lack the talent. The truth is, youve chosen a profession in which youll never be more than a marginal success.
Marginal! How dare he! You are so outraged you lose all fear of him. Why? Because I made a few mistakes? The same damn mistakes you made, only not as bad. Because Im a woman? Is that it? Because Im Filipino? I have an MBA! How would you know what my abilities are? The more your voice rises, the more boopsie-woopsie it sounds. The waitress is looking at you in a new light, now. As they say in sports, Mr. Momentum has moved to her side of the field.
Calm down. Calm down. Its no big deal. If it was a crime collecting pay for a job youre not good at, half the countryd be eating jail chow-including that evil pufftoad who just spoke to us from the Oval Office. Anyway, Im not saying youre incompetent. Youre probably an average bookie. But why diminish your soul being run-of-the-mill at something? Mediocrity: now there is ugliness for you. Mediocritys a hairball coughed up on the Persian carpet of Creation. He takes a gulp of his soda. But how do I know youll never be a major player? Simple. Day before yesterday, after the bell, after the crash, I watched the bookies stream into the Bull and Bear, rattled, shaken, unnerved. They were wringing their hands and sniveling-and you were right there sniveling with the rest of them. Now, if you had what it takes to be a major player, you wouldve been at your desk calmly pinpointing buying opportunities, tracking down bargains. Believe me, thats where the all-stars were.
You protest. I couldnt buy. Not even on the bargain table. I didnt have the liquidity.
You had a computer, didnt you? If you know how to bulldog a computer, it doesnt matter if youve got cash in the drawer or not. Hey, right now you could cowgirl into your desktop and probably save your ass, no matter how much butter youve churned. If you were good enough.
Extremely interesting. Are you good enough?
He shrugs. I used to be.
But you didnt save your … job.
Didnt want to. And I cant imagine why you would want to, either. He grins. Now that youve met me and are starting to have an inkling that therere things transpiring in this universe that make the equities market seem like a cross between a gang-bang and a Tupperware party.
To what Diamond may be referring, you neither know nor care. You decide to play on his sympathy. Well, you probably come from a wealthy family, you say. For me, its first and foremost a matter of security. I know what its like not to have money.
To go through life feeling up when the markets up, feeling down when the markets down: thats your idea of security? And dont try to play on my sympathy. I was an autistic child, and Im still narcissistic enough to be virtually immune to hard-luck stories. Everybodys got one. Except the people on the pad.
Okay, you have underestimated him. Perhaps because hes more than a smidgen crazed. To take advantage of his disco skills, you may have to resort to more unseemly, and perilous, tactics. You excuse yourself and head for the womens room, your bag with its cargo of cosmetics clutched in your hand.
TWO FIFTY-NINE P.M.
The waitress is mewing to Diamond when you return to the table. She is so engorged with hormones her eyes are bulging. But it doesnt matter. One look at you-spiffy now, vivacious, confident, smiling (with good reason, for you have had good news)-and the screen door is slammed on her eager little clitoris. Try eating asparagus, you advise, woman to woman, as you push past her into the booth.
Diamond is approving, you can tell, but though the red lanterns of lust blink continually from the marquee of his personality, he is not given to slicky boy flattery or Latin Lover lines. As a matter of fact, he mentions nothing about your appearance, electing instead to turn the spotlight back on Q-Jo. I guess what youre telling me is that your friend has been incommunicado since she left for Thunder House yesterday afternoon. Im afraid I cant help you much, but Ill …
Its okay, you say through a smile of such width and wattage an observer might confuse you with one of those uninhibited sprites who swill soda pop on TV commercials. (Gurus and philosophers might as well give up, the Huff herself said once. Apparently, all it takes to send human beings into ecstatic bliss is the right combination of sugar, carbonated water, caramel coloring, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid, and natural flavorings. To which you replied, Coke was up one and an eighth today, Pepsi up a quarter. Im happy.)
What do you mean its okay? The viperous way Diamonds eyes narrow, the switchblade spring of his voice, warn you anew that this is not a man to be trifled with. But you are not trifling.
I mean shes home. Q-Jos back. From wherever shes been. He looks incredulous. I cal
led when I went to the restroom, you explain.
Well, Jesus, what did she say?
I didnt speak with her. Her line was busy.
Gwendolyn, that doesnt mean shes home. It couldve been incoming on her machine.
No, I waited for over two minutes and tried again. Still busy. Shes home, all right. This whole thing must seem bizarre to you, but, look, she was gone all night and most of today, and I truly did believe something awful had happened. Im sorry I involved you in it, I really am. But Q-Jos safe, and thats what matters. Shes safe.
THREE-TEN P.M.
Larry Diamond had taken a bus to the amphibian show, so you offer him a ride home. He is thrifty, you are brave. The President must be very proud. Yet, what else could you do? Had you simply gone off and left him at the espresso bar, he and that scruffy little server would soon be copulating like alley cats. It was written in the steam. For reasons that remain less than clear, you harbor objections to that union. No, no, I insist, you insist. Its practically on my way.
As the Thunderbird flies, he mutters, because even someone as unfamiliar with the local terrain as the average Seattle taxi driver (is that Bengali they are speaking?) knows Ballard is beyond your mark.
Diamond is uncharacteristically quiet, even sullen, on the way home. Perhaps he is hypnotized by the thin, steady rain. Or else the purring of the Porsche is reminding him of the companionship he has forfeited by leaving the coffee shop. Well, you certainly have no intention of making it up to him, but in case he is suspicious that your Q-Jo story is a ruse, you swing into a service station a block before the bridge, where you suggest that the two of you try her number from the telephone booth.
Whats the matter with the car phone?
Doesnt work.
It looks mangled.
Yeah. Sort of does. How can you explain that your boyfriends pet monkey mistook it for a gymnastic device?
You let Diamond dial -the pair of you dangerously close in the booth-and when he gets a busy signal, he seems satisfied. Back in the Porsche, he is talkative again. So you came to the amphibian fair actually looking for Q-Jo?
Well, yes. Why else?
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
Does he mean that he wishes youd been looking for him? Or that he wishes you were on the pad? You decide not to pursue it. Arent you curious how I tracked you there?
Nothing surprises me anymore. But how did you track me there?
The Indian told me.
Oh. So youve met Twister.
Met may be an overstatement. Tell me, Mr. Diamond …
Larry.
Larry. Are you really in such straits that you have to live in the basement of a bowling alley?
He lacerates you with that terrible smile again. Gwendolyn, I lived there when I was still in the business. Ive lived there since eighty-six. Your ill-concealed perplexity amuses him further. You, you work in the financial markets for the material rewards. Thats okay. I suppose the market is as good a place as any to chase after that mirage of security that spellbinds this race of primates into which we erstwhile amphibians have devolved. But the money was never that important to me.
Oh, Jesus, you think. Dont tell me this guys just some hipper, weirder version of Belford Dunn? Way I hear it, you say, you cooked your career and just about cooked your disco going after bigger and bigger scores.
He chuckles -somewhat like a demon and somewhat like a little boy. If Id been interested in the jumbo juice, Id have gone into investment banking, he says. But I did push the envelope of equity brokering about as far as it could go. Yes. Yes, indeed. It was a game to me. And for a few years, it held the drama and romance of any well-played game. Then, it got boring. It was too easy. I was too good. Here I was in Seattle, Washington, putting Michael Jordan moves on the aces of Wall Street. That was part of the challenge, part of the charm. But it got dreary. Because no matter how sweet the scores, they never added up to anything. You know what I mean? He sighs. I suspect you dont.
You dont.
When legal squeezing ceased to be fun, I squeezed illegally. That restored the thrill, the romance. For a while. Then I guess that got boring, too. I set myself up so that if there was a crash, Id be naked. On October 19, 1987, the crash came. It was a huge relief.
What about the people you burned?
First, I never burned any small fry. No old folks, no struggling young couples, no boat people seduced by immigrant dreams. As for the bigger investors, I felt a twinge of remorse for them, I suppose. But, hey, they were playing a game, too, even if they were too blind or too hypocritical to admit it. Did they really think Mother Teresa was dealing the cards? How sympathetic can you be toward people who buy into the Lie, who cozy up to it, eat from its plate, kiss its ass, and then whine and snivel when the Lie betrays them? As sooner or later it always will.
You are not quite sure, but you think you like the tenor of these remarks. The defiant part, at any rate. As you pull into the Thunderbird parking lot, you ask, So in the end, you allowed yourself to be caught? Thats fascinating. You wanted out. But suppose somebody wanted to stay in? You fight to keep your mind a blur, lest he get into your thoughts.
You, for example?
Okay. Me. You realistically think I can arrange to stay in the business?
Yeah. Sure. If there is a business.
What do you mean?
I mean, this could be the Big One. The end of the Lie. It probably isnt, but it could be. We may be hearing the death rattle of financial America.
Your heart sinks like a roll of quarters in a wishing well. The pitch of your voice is that of a cartoon bunny who has just spotted Rodney Rabbit Hound between herself and the carrot patch. You really think so?
Here comes that grin. Could be, he says. Isnt it grand?
THREETWENTY-FIVE P.M.
You stop the car at the top of the ramp. For several minutes, you sit in silence. You are unable to speak, Diamond chooses not to. The rain taps its cereal fingers against the windshield. Whenever the door to the Thunderbird is opened, rumblings and crashes spill out.
Eventually, he grasps the door handle. The peripheral vision you have perfected in office politics tells you this. Thanks for the lift, he says. When you finish scolding Miss Huffington for the worry shes caused you, ask her why she ran out on me. Id like to know.
Then, just before he slides out into the weather, he leans over with mongoose speed-and ever so briefly, but with electrifying pressure, kisses you on the mouth.
THREE THIRTY-FIVE P.M.
George Washingtons teeth: were they hardwood or soft? Mahogany for strength or spruce for warmth and luster? Painted, varnished, or raw lumber? Carved from a single block or an assemblage of various small pieces? If the latter, were they glued, nailed, or simply notched and fitted together? Rot? Splinters? Woodworms? Did cherries stain them red, mustard turn them yellow? In use, would they clack and knock aesthetically like the clacking and knocking in traditional Japanese music, or would they have sounded more like a woodpecker in a sycamore? Accidentally dropped while crossing the Delaware, would they have sunk, or floated like a toy boat? During lovemaking, were they in or out? What marks might they have left on Marthas nape? By candleshine in an eighteenth-century dining room, what shadows did they cast upon the walls?
All the way home, you think about George Washingtons teeth. Your mother told you that whenever a person is confused and overwrought and not thinking straight, they should pause for a few moments and contemplate something from history. You have tried this many times, but the only thing from your history classes that seems to have stuck in your mind, aside from the Great Depression, which you simply refuse to ponder, is George Washingtons teeth.
Whatever calming effect, if any, the image of the heroic dentures might have on your mind, it does not carry over into your driving, which is erratic, to put it mildly. You go very fast-too fast for the wet streets-and then you go very slow. Fast and slow, fast and slow. An Italian automobile might understand mood swings of this magni
tude, but the Germanic sensibility of the Porsche is sorely tested. Its probably going to require a tune-up.
On the one hand, you are frantic to get back and find out what has been going on with Q-Jo. On the other, you want to drift along, allowing the waves of conflicting emotions that Larry Diamond has precipitated to break over you. You have fresh optimism, you have new fears. You have an electrifying tingle that surely ought to be unplugged.
So you drive too fast. You drive too slow. And you think: Were the Father of our Country a careless smoker, might he have set his teeth on fire?
THREE FIFTY-NINE P.M.
Q-Jo! Hello. Q-Jo?
When Q-Jo did not answer her door, you let yourself into her apartment. It was instantly apparent that she-or someone-had recently been there. The place hadnt exactly been ransacked, as though by thieves or cops, but it was in a state of mild disarray. Now, an eerie sensation climbs your spine as you move warily from living room to bedroom to bathroom, calling her name. Q-Jo? There is no response. The unit is empty.
In vain, you search for signs that might indicate that she had come home and left again. Her multicolored shawl is not in the closet, her oversized handbag is not on the dresser, there is no evidence of newly purchased groceries (rarely does the Huff come home without food), the tarot deck is still spread on the table. You turn the cards over rapidly, holding your breath until the doctored Star card shows up. You forgot to ask Larry Diamond about that card. There were several things you forgot to ask Larry Diamond.
It is while picking up scattered sprigs of dried larkspur from the nubby sofa and returning them to their dime-store vase that you notice that the telephone receiver is off its cradle. The eerie sensation intensifies, although indications are that the receiver was carelessly knocked askew rather than deliberately removed. In any event, you replace it, then hurry down the hall to your own apartment.
Somebody has been in your flat, too!
Jesus Dow Jones Christ! You very nearly turn and sprint. As you are backing out the door, however, the mystery abruptly clears. It is not so much the overturned Dale Chihuly fruit bowl (the scattered pieces of orange peel, the bits of apple) as it is the open freezer door that identifies the intruder. Oh, yes. The logic is plain. There was a time when that freezing compartment had been a treasure chest of banana Popsicles.