Wolfman - Art Bourgeau Read online

  "Loring, are we boring you?" William Blanchard said.

  Several of the partners were looking at him now. Financial wizards, one and all. This morning he saw them for what they were. No wizards. No Merlins, Beelzebubs or Asmodeuses. Gray, gray cattle.

  "No," he said.

  "Then perhaps you'd share some of your thoughts on the market with us."

  He waited. One beat, two, three. He was no longer part of the hurricane, he was past the winds, he was the eye.

  "Each of you seems afraid to confront the truth. The market is pure. It is nature. It is jungle. A struggle of good against evil. What it boils down to is — you can't take losing."

  "If we're the losers, who are the winners?" asked Paul Shelby, the next youngest partner and Loring’s only real friend in the firm.

  "The people who made all the money that everyone else lost last week." He paused to savor the crystal clarity of his thoughts. "We all know it's out there. It's up to us to go out there and bring it back."

  The puzzled looks did not surprise him. They were weak on concept, they needed specifics to act.

  "Toward this purpose, I think communications stocks will be the first to turn around. They were hit hard on Thursday, but those stocks are now more undervalued than much of the rest of the market. They will rebound quickly."

  He stood. "If you'll excuse me, I’ll get to work. I want to get on the phone to my people and let them know what’s happening. This is like a Christmas sale, and I don’t want to miss out on the bargains."

  * * *

  The market opened stable. For the first hour of trading it held its own. Then around ten o’clock it started to move up slightly, and everyone in the office began to breathe a bit easier.

  Loring's phone was quiet. He had executed all his trades for the moment, and used the lull to catch up on some financial reports. He opened one of the lower drawers of his desk. There, resting on top of the financial reports, was his sister Karen's letter.

  He picked it up and looked at it carefully. How did it get there? He turned it over. It had been opened. Not by him, he was sure. If he had he would remember it. Then by someone else, but why? He took the letter out of the envelope and began to read it. It was written on blue notepaper with a small spray of gold flowers in the corner, and it covered some six or eight pages. It was a typical happy letter from a young woman about to be married. Why would anyone here want to tamper with it, he thought as he slipped the letter back into the envelope. Then he noticed the address. It had not been sent to the office. The envelope bore his home address.

  Fear fluttered inside him. Something was wrong here. Suddenly the office no longer seemed friendly. He left his desk and went to the men’s room. It was empty but he made a pretense of washing his hands in case anyone should come in . . . If the letter had come to the office it could have gone to the wrong mailbox. Simple as that. And whoever opened it would have realized the mistake and slipped it in his desk without calling undue attention to himself. But the home address put it in a very different light. Was someone at the office having his mail intercepted? Someone curious about how he developed his stock ideas?

  He shook his head. "You give your ideas to whoever needs them. Nobody’s tampering with your mail. You just blocked it out of your mind after you read it because you didn't want to go, and you knew there would be hard feelings over it. That’s all."

  He chuckled softly like a man who had just told a funny story on himself, and turned the water off. As he dried his hands he felt better. Today was going to be fine. Walking down the hall to the office he thought about the Caribbean. He could hardly wait. If he had ever needed a vacation it was now.

  * * *

  At 10:48 the market rally ended. Prices began to fall. Not at the rate of the previous Thursday and Friday, but by 11:15, not quite thirty minutes later, it was down over twenty-five points. If it kept on at that rate by closing it could be down as much as two or three hundred more points. The office began to hum with the tension.

  Loring forgot about the letter. His phone began to ring almost continually. He reassured, cajoled, begged, wheedled and pleaded with client after client. Anything that would keep them from panicking and making the worst decisions of their lives.

  Between calls he recognized what had happened. The money managers who he knew had precipitated the crisis in the first place were in a strong cash position, having gotten out early and high, and the short rally was due to them doing a little bargain hunting. Now they were finished for the day, and without them the market was collapsing again.

  He closely watched the ups and downs of his morning picks. A little rally after breakfast, then it was over in time for lunch. Against the eroding market his communications stocks were performing well. Just before noon an announcement came over the wire hinting that the federal government was considering the licensing of several giant communication companies into the cable television business, and that they would be allowed to use the fiber optic capabilities of their existing telephone lines as the medium for bringing their product to market.

  Loring laughed when he saw it. He knew there was no truth in it. It was just the government's way of warning the television networks that they should steer any blame for this crisis away from the administration, unless they wanted hell to pay, but the market responded positively to it as the one good piece of news of the hour.

  Now was the crucial time. For the next few minutes — maybe a half-hour, maybe an hour — his stocks would start to move up, but he knew they wouldn't hold, probably not even past two o’clock. Like surfing, the trick was to get the most out of the wave and get off.

  He punched in the symbol for Federal Telephone & Telegraph. It was up a quarter on bid, a half on asked. Which was two on the day for a stock selling in the nineties. The symbol for Armstrong Communications, a conglomerate that owned a number of independent southern telephone companies, was slightly behind, selling up three-quarters on the day, but the bid was up three-eighths and the asked was up three-quarters. If he went in now and split the bid and asked, settling on a half, he could likely get out at one and a quarter up on stock selling in the forties. A handsome profit.

  The sound of the phone interrupted his calculations.

  "Loring Weatherby speaking," he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

  His sister's voice, tearful. "Why do you hate me? What have I ever done to you to make you — ?"

  "I don't hate you, you know that," he said, trying to keep his eye on the screen.

  "All you ever think about is yourself. I ask you to come to my wedding and you're too busy. . ."

  She was wrong. He had tried to explain before but she could never seem to understand. You were fine, but you were connected to them, too, and I hated that. I had to shut you out, too . . .

  "No, Karen, you know that . . ." he said.

  She paid no attention, and on the screen disaster struck. Someone had had the same idea and beat him to it, splitting the bid and asked on Armstrong Communications at a half. Now the three-quarters asked was a memory. He punched in at a half to sell too, but it wasn’t accepted. He backed off to three-eighths, but still nothing.

  And Karen still going on about "the most special day of my life, I wanted my family together, the four of us, you and me and mom and dad — "

  "Don't call him that," he heard himself say as he watched the screen.

  "Why do you always have to act like this? He's been a good father ever since daddy's death . . ."

  Defending them, like always, he thought. On the screen new sales figures were showing. Not as good as he had hoped but something. No bid was showing. He punched in a quarter. It was not accepted.

  Then he remembered Federal Telephone & Telegraph. In the turmoil of Karen’s call and Armstrong Communications decline he had forgotten it. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and yelled to Paul to check Federal Telephone for him. Paul yelled back that it was still up a half but the two points had gone. Everything was crumblin
g. He’d had two winners in hand and had missed the beat, he'd missed the rhythm. Karen’s fault. He took his defeat, punched in even for the Armstrong. It was accepted, and for the day he got out up three-quarters, but he still felt he had failed. He punched in the symbol for Federal Telephone, made the sale order and took his lumps there, too. This time it was flat, no profit at all.

  He turned from the screen. Karen was still there . . . "Loring, the other day I was going through my bureau and I found a picture that you drew. It was from the year daddy died. It was a picture of a picnic. Do you remember it?" He didn’t answer. "You drew the three of us, you and me and mommy sitting on a blanket that looked like one of mom’s tapestries. The sun was shining. Everyone was smiling. Wolf was with us and playing with his ball. Over in the corner you drew an ant carrying off a sandwich on his back and he was smiling. Do you remember?"

  Loring kept still. He saw the picture in his mind, and it was enough.

  "And do you remember how when you went to St. Ignatius, before we moved to Chicago, I would come and visit you every Thursday, and how Father Mike would let us go into Villanova? We would walk around looking in all the stores and have hamburgers . . ."

  "I remember," he said into the mouthpiece, his voice raspy now.

  "I want you at my wedding, I need you there . . ."

  He knew it would be a mistake. No good would come of it. It would be a retreat to the past, to dredge up the moments he'd spent years trying to forget. But he could not bring himself to say no again, to hurt her. He said he would come but wouldn't stay with them, his mother and stepfather. At least she seemed appeased some and he escaped the phone.

  When he looked up Milt Lewis was passing his desk. "You okay, Loring?"

  "Yes, of course. Why?"

  "Hey, you look sort of strung out. It's been a bad day all around. Take it easy."

  The market continued downward until closing. There was nothing to do but watch. The final total showed fourteen hundred points down since the crash began.

  * * *

  Loring didn't stay for the cleanup. As he pulled on his Burberry he looked at his calendar. The only note that remained was for him to pick up a suit that was ready at Treadwell & Company.

  Should he put it off? No, the time is now. Do it and get it over with.

  As he headed for the elevator Paul Shelby joined. him. They had an easy closeness without much socializing. It had to be that way. They were too different. As Paul, who bore a startling resemblance to Henry VIII, was fond of saying about their relationship, "Loring, you’re Catholic with a capital C. I’m a Hedonist with a capital H, a man born with a silver spoon up my nose."

  As they walked across the lobby Paul said, "Did you get the two points on Federal Telephone?"

  Loring thought about lying and saying that he had. "No, I was in East Berlin."

  "What? What the hell do you mean by that?"

  Loring walked through the lobby's glass doors and into the afternoon coolness. He looked around. It was still cloudy but no rain. A block away at City Hall, scaffolding surrounded the statue of William Penn on top of the building. A citizen's group was trying to raise money to finish the project, and a young woman approached him, offering to sell him a button attesting to this fact. He gave her three dollars but did not take the button.

  Paul shook his head as they walked west on Market. "You're a soft touch, fella . . . Anyway, how come you missed the two points on Federal Telephone? That’s not like you — and what's this East Berlin business?"

  Loring paused at the corner. "The Communists had me. The points were in West Berlin. There was a wall between us and I couldn't get over it today . . . It's a game. Sometimes I go over, sometimes I tunnel under, sometimes I go around, and sometimes I don't get through at all. That’s when they find me hanging from the barbed wire."

  Paul laughed. "God, isn’t that just like you to turn the market into a damn Cold War video game. You’re right, though. That’s about as close as it comes to reality sometimes. But what put you on the other side of the wall today?"

  They started up Sixteenth Street. Loring didn’t want to talk about it but he knew Paul wouldn’t leave it alone.

  "My sister's wedding. . . she called. We had some words and it messed up my timing on the sale."

  "Hey, it's not the end of the world . . . you at least got out even, didn’t you? That puts — no pun intended — you ahead of the game."

  Loring knew Paul didn’t understand. He didn’t understand the market. He didn’t understand the jungle. What happened was very important. Time and timing. Timing was the pulsebeat between the "T" and "E" in time. When that got out of rhythm confusion reigned, and everyone lost.

  He heard Paul say, "I take it you don’t want to go to this wedding. . ."

  "You take it right," said Loring.

  They stopped at the corner of Sixteenth and Chestnut.

  There wasn’t much to look at there except a square block hole in the ground where another office tower was going up. Paul looked at his watch. "How about a shooter before the after-work crowds hit?"

  "I don’t think so," said Loring. "I’ve got to pick up a suit at Treadwell, then I’m going to head home."

  "That's crazy, by then it'll be rush hour and you know what a madhouse Kelly Drive is with the expressway tom up. Tell you what, I'll go with you to get your suit, and then we’ll go over to Mace’s Crossing for a couple of unwinders."

  All Loring wanted to do was to pick up his suit and head home, traffic or no traffic, but he heard himself say yes. As they turned onto Walnut Street Paul said, "None of my business, but why don’t you want to go to your sister's wedding? Bad blood between you?"

  Not that simple, thought Loring. "No, nothing like that, she just sprung it on me and I've got a boat chartered out of Barbados that week."

  Paul let it go.

  * * *

  Treadwell & Company was in the same block with Nan Duskin. Before it became a haberdashery the building had housed a bank. That was in the 1870s. Since then it had guided "gentlemen" for over a century in the proper way to dress. They marched through the first floor, heels clicking on the marble floors, to the suits in the rear of the store.

  Claude, his regular salesman, looked up from The Wall Street Journal. "Mr. Weatherby, nice to see you. You're here to pick up your suit, I presume," he said. He pulled off his glasses and stuck them in his pocket. "I've had it ready since this morning. This way, please . . ."

  As they crossed to the fitting room Claude continued, "It’s been very quiet for us these past few days. The market crash, you know. Many of our regular clients have been busy . . ."

  Loring grunted noncommittally. Treadwell & Company intimidated him. No matter what suit he was wearing when he was in the store, it always seemed wrong and shabby. No matter how neat his hair, it seemed to need a trim or a wash. Claude held back the curtain as Loring and Paul entered the fitting room. Loring had been there many times and had never given the room a second thought. But today he stopped still and looked around with a growing sense of fear and new awareness . . . The muted lighting. . . the mahogany paneling . . . the heavy drapes . . . the hexagon of mirrors . . . suddenly he felt like this was the room behind the door in a funeral home. The one with "No Admittance" on it. The one where they dressed the bodies.

  The suit could wait. He turned to go but Paul was there, smiling. Loring stopped, confused. Paul wouldn't be smiling if anything was wrong.

  Paul was speaking to Claude. ". . . just slip him into it and give him the stick of chewing gum or whatever and let us go. We want to get to Mace's Crossing while there’s still room at the bar."

  Claude managed a smile, but his eyes were cold. Which made Loring more uneasy. About what, he wasn't sure, but the feeling was there. More than unease. Fear . . . He looked around again. Take stock of your surroundings, know the enemy. Enemy? Strange word to pop into his head now. Guido, the tailor, was standing by. He had the coat to Loring's suit in his hand. The pants were draped ove
r his arm. Around his neck dangled a tape measure. For some reason the sight of the tape measure made Loring apprehensive. Why?

  He took the trousers and went to the dressing cubicle. "just get it over with," he told himself.

  He willed his mind blank as he returned for the tailor to check the fit. I’m not here, he thought, standing in front of the mirrors. Guido knelt in front of him to check the cuffs and Loring saw a pinprick of light moving like a shooting star through darkness. He understood, though it was a hard-earned lesson. His mind was the universe, and he was moving to a place where he was safe. He felt Guido’s hands move up his leg to check the inseam.

  "No, no," he muttered as he steeled himself. The unwanted touch made him think of the morning and the phone call. His stepfather’s voice . . . The suit was wrong, the wedding was wrong. . .

  "I'm sorry. What was it you said?" asked Claude.

  Loring only looked at him.

  "You were just mumbling something but we didn't get it,"

  Paul said, looking intently at him.

  Loring felt himself blush. "Oh, that, I was just thinking about the market today. I guess I was doing it aloud. Sorry."

  Paul smiled and turned to Claude. "That's my boy," he said.

  "Always working, always thinking. Actually he’s the brains of the outfit. Without him I'd never make a dime. Now slip that coat on him so we can get the hell out of here. I'm getting drier by the minute."

  Loring needed a moment to regain control. He went back to the cubicle and took his time changing into his regular trousers. Alone was the best way, the only way. When you're alone there is no threat. All that’s there is time. Spend it wisely, as St. Paul said. The thought comforted him.

  He returned and took the jacket from Claude. Guido helped him on with it and he allowed himself to be led into the lighted area of mirrors.

  He noticed the mirrors formed a hexagon around him. Three in front. Three in the rear. Six by three. Three sixes . . . the mark of the beast. No, he thought to himself as he stood on a small platform about ten inches higher than the floor around him. Forget about this business of sixes. Forget about everything. Just get your suit fitted and get out of here. Don't stop downstairs to pick out a tie. You can do that later. Just get the suit and then go have a drink with Paul. Relax. That’s what you need. You need to relax.