The Day Trader (16 page)

Melanie never performed an actual striptease for me with music and lights and all—as Reggie Dorsey asked. But one time she led me by the hand down to our basement, where no one outside the house could possibly see, had me sit on an old sofa in one corner near my free weights and punching bag, and slowly took off all of her clothes. Right down to a new lacy white thong she bought for her performance. Seemed like that thing could have fit in a thimble. The whole show was incredibly erotic.

When she had slipped out of the thong and was completely naked, she knelt down on the couch and straddled me, kissing me deeply while she begged me to touch her all over. She kept whispering that she wanted me to watch her disrobe for a room full of strangers, how incredible that would be for both of us. When she finally took me deep inside her, I agreed with a moan.

Later, when we were upstairs, I reassured her that I hadn’t been serious about wanting to watch her undress in front of other men. That I’d just been caught up in the heat of the moment, as I assumed she had been too. She smiled and kissed me, and I never heard another word about it.

She did other things for me too. Things that are hard to think about now that she’s gone.

“Why are you here so early?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the memory of that last performance. “It’s only seven o’clock.”

“I wanted to make certain I got to thank you right away for the Teletekk tip,” she explains gratefully, “and I had a few companies I wanted to look over as possible investments before I go visit my psychic.” She winks at me. “Thanks to you I have quite a bit more money to invest today, and I wanted to put it to work as soon as possible. I hate leaving my money in cash. That’s so boring.” She stops rooting through her purse and looks up. “I sold out of Teletekk yesterday before I left. I would have died if the price had cratered overnight and I’d left so much money on the table. I hope you don’t mind,” she says apologetically, as if because I told her when to buy Teletekk, I ought to tell her when to sell it too.

“It’s none of my business what you do with your portfolio. That’s between you and your psychic. But it did go up another four bucks a share in the overnight market. I’m surprised your psychic didn’t tell you that was going to happen.”

Mary sticks her tongue out at me playfully. “I’ve learned my lesson about being greedy,” she says, moving to the cubicle partition and leaning into my space. “I don’t know how you got your information about Teletekk, and I guess I don’t care. I do know that it was nice to enjoy a big win for a change. My confidence needed that. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and I got my information the old-fashioned way. I did my research.” I don’t want her thinking I’ve got some kind of intelligence network out there that’s going to slide her that kind of tip every day. “One thing, Mary.”

“Yes?”

“I heard you got pretty excited when the stock popped yesterday.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice instantly takes on the same cool quality it did when I told her at lunch yesterday that she should have dumped MicroPlan as soon as its price started to tank.

“I heard you were jumping up and down at your desk, celebrating.” I laugh a little and try to make light of something I’m obviously not happy about. “I heard the judges gave you a perfect ten for your cartwheels.”

“Who told you that?” she snaps.

“A couple of people.”

“It was Roger, wasn’t it?”

“Doesn’t matter who it was. I just don’t want Slammer going nuclear on me because I didn’t give him the same tip. That guy’s a nutcase. I bet he really does have a gun in that damn briefcase of his.”

Mary gives me a withering look, then turns away and sits down so I can’t see her anymore.

“I’m not angry,” I say contritely, standing up and moving to my side of the partition so I can see her. “It’s just that I made it very clear at lunch yesterday that I wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Why did you want to keep it so quiet?” She’s typing, her carefully manicured fingertips working the keyboard the way they worked my shoulders a few minutes ago. I wish they were still there. “Should I be worried after all?”

“About what?”

“That the SEC might take a keen interest in how I knew to buy the stock just a few minutes before it popped.”

“Of course not. That was just coincidence.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Mary’s voice is turning colder by the second, and I hate it. I want her to like me—more and more all the time. I admire the way she goes after what she wants, and I want to find out about that past she mentioned. “I was hoping that the information would stay just between the two of us. I don’t want everybody pestering me. That’s all.”

“Mmm.” Mary’s fingers pause as she stops to inspect something on her computer screen.

“Come on, don’t be angry with me.” I spot Slammer coming through the swinging doors at the far end of the trading floor, briefcase in hand. “Please.”

“Why not?” She looks up and I can see that we’re friends again by the sparkle in her eyes. “You yelled at me.” She pouts. “I hate being yelled at.”

“I’m sorry.” Slammer is staring at me as he strides down the aisle. I can tell he’s still pissed off about yesterday. About my giving the Teletekk tip only to Mary. “How can I make it up to you?” I want this conversation to be done by the time he gets to his desk.

Mary looks at me coyly for a few seconds. “Okay, I’ll tell you what you can do.”

“What?”

“Come with me while I visit my psychic,” she says excitedly. “That would make me happy. Her place is only a few miles away, over in Vienna. We’ll be back by nine o’clock. A half hour before the opening bell in New York. You won’t miss a minute of trading.”

“Good morning, Mary,” Slammer says in an uncharacteristically cordial tone as he places the tan briefcase in its customary position beside his computer monitor. He turns and glares at me. “Hey, dickhead.” Then he sits down and turns on his computer.

When I’m sure he’s not looking, I glance back at Mary and nod silently. This ought to be interesting.

Mary and I meet twenty minutes later in front of the shuttered entrance to the Grand. I don’t want Slammer seeing us walk out of the trading floor together. I slipped out into the empty Bedford lobby, called Mary from Anna’s desk, and told her to meet me downstairs. Meeting in front of the elevators didn’t work yesterday at lunch, so I was extra careful today. She didn’t seem to have a problem with that.

A few minutes later we’re in my Toyota, heading to the town of Vienna, which is a few miles south of McLean on Route 123. Mary had to take a taxi to Bedford this morning because the Jaguar she says Jacob left her when he died is having engine problems and had to go into the shop for repairs. I didn’t want to drive because I’m embarrassed about the Toyota’s torn seats and its bad muffler, but she doesn’t say anything.

I’ve got to buy a new car. There’s no reason now for me to be driving around in this piece of junk, and if Vincent can make Thursday night work out, I’m going to be managing wealthy people’s money. I’ll need to project the appropriate image. Nothing could be worse than for his friends to see me driving around northern Virginia in this heap after they’ve given me a pile of their money to invest. You get the warm and fuzzies about your banker or broker if you see a lot of dark wood, expensive furniture, and elegant antiques when you walk in to see them. All of that opulence translates into a feeling of stability and solid performance, and gives you comfort that decisions about your money are being made with prudence and wisdom. Not for one minute does it occur to you that all of those expensive items are being paid for by the interest or the fees your banker or broker is charging you.

I won’t feel at all guilty about using a portion of the insurance proceeds to purchase a nice ride.

“How long have you been visiting this woman?” I ask over the din of the Toyota’s rusted muffler.

“Since Christmas. Since Jacob died.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sasha.”

Mary seems anxious. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap and she leans forward, carefully keeping track of where we are. It’s as if she’s ticking off landmarks. Nodding to herself as we pass a 7-Eleven, then again as we go by a bank. “Do you really believe the dead can be contacted?” I ask at a red light.

She turns slowly in the seat and stares at me until the light turns green. “Absolutely.”

We don’t say anything else during the rest of the ten-minute drive. Our destination turns out to be a tiny basement room behind a door beneath a sign with an open human palm and the word “Tarot” painted on it. Mary gazes up at the sign for a moment, then leads me down the stairs.

“I hope you don’t mind, Sasha,” Mary says to a woman sitting behind a small desk in one corner of the basement room, “but I brought a friend along. This is Augustus.”

“Hello,” Sasha says in a husky voice, standing up and coming out from behind the desk.

She isn’t at all what I expected. She’s tall and thin with light brown hair, and she’s dressed in a white button-down blouse and linen pants that fit her figure so snugly they border on provocative. I had foolishly assumed that she’d be short and pudgy, with a red bandanna covering wild black hair and a string of colorful beads hanging around her neck. But as we were driving over, Mary told me that Sasha’s upscale clients include venture capitalists and attorneys, as well as the rock star twenty-somethings driving the technology mania of the area. I should have assumed she would dress appropriately for her upscale clientele.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. Sasha stares back at me with her large dark eyes, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I can’t explain it, but I instantly distrust this woman. And I can’t be certain, but the feeling seems mutual.

Sasha motions toward a circular table in the middle of the room. When we’re all seated around it, she reaches across the gray felt tablecloth and takes one of Mary’s hands in both of hers. There are no tarot cards—as the sign above the stairs led me to believe there would be. Simply silence as Sasha closes her eyes and concentrates. Finally her thin lips curl into an omniscient smile, and I see for the first time that she would have benefitted from braces as a child.

“This is very strange,” she finally says.

“What is?” Mary demands breathlessly.

“You aren’t focused on Jacob today.” She turns her head to the side without opening her eyes. “Are you, Mary?”

“No.”

“You want to talk about someone else,” Sasha says.

Mary looks down.

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And we will.” Sasha opens her eyes only long enough to glance quickly at Mary. “But first let’s discuss the money you’ve come into.”

My eyes race to Sasha, then to Mary, who breaks into a nervous smile. “Money?”

Sasha raises both eyebrows. “A great deal of money. Someone was very kind to you. Someone helped you make all of that money. Someone gave you information, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“He’s someone you care about.”

Mary nods.

“You must be careful with this money,” Sasha warns. “Be wise with it, not foolish as you’ve been in the past.”

“I will be, I promise.”

“Jacob is still watching out for you, but you must learn to look out for yourself.”

“I know,” Mary agrees meekly.

Sasha goes silent again for several minutes. “Let’s talk about that someone you’ve found, Mary,” she finally suggests. “It’s someone you were attracted to right away. That’s why you didn’t need to contact Jacob today. You’re finally coming out of the darkness that has surrounded you since his death.”

“Like you said I would when I was here last time,” Mary replies, glancing at me, then back at Sasha. “Is Jacob upset with me?” she asks timidly.

“No. He wants this for you.”

“Does this person care about me?” Mary asks anxiously. “Or will he reject me?”

“I believe he does care about you,” Sasha answers, opening her eyes to look at me. “He’s a strong man. A man who can take care of you.”

“But can I depend on him?” she persists.

“I can’t tell yet,” Sasha says after a pause during which her face contorts into expressions of mild anguish several times, as if she is trying to see down a dark hallway. “The images aren’t clear.” She hesitates. “The answer must wait for our next session,” she finally declares.

It’s absurd for Mary to listen to Sasha. She’s got nothing but money on her mind and can’t be trusted. I want to reach across the gray felt and wrench their hands apart. This is costing Mary a hundred bucks, and it’s obvious what Sasha is doing. She’s speaking in high-level platitudes about which she has a fifty-fifty shot at being right, maybe even higher on the gooey stuff because Mary wants so desperately to believe every word she’s being told. Like an irresponsible psychiatrist, Sasha has made Mary dependent on these visits, and ensures herself successive paydays by telling her poor client that the future isn’t clear at this time and that another visit is required. I can’t believe Mary falls for it.

Ten minutes later Sasha announces that the brief session is over because all has gone dark in front of her and she will be able to see no more today. Mary gushes her thanks despite the fact that no meaningful revelations have surfaced and that Sasha was dead wrong about a telephone call she claimed had been made to Mary last week by a relative or an old friend. Sasha covered herself when Mary said that no such call had occurred by convincing Mary that the call must have come while she was out and that the person didn’t leave a message on her answering machine. Sasha stated with conviction that the person would call again, and Mary bought the entire load of crap—hook, line, and sinker.

When their hands part, Sasha turns toward me and gives me a look of disdain. It’s as if she’s seen every roll of my eyes and smirk of disgust I made during the session despite the fact that her eyes were closed most of the time.

“Why don’t you give him a few minutes?” Mary suggests, pointing at me.

“No, no,” I respond quickly. I have no desire to be part of this charade. I only came here to appease Mary, not to be involved.

Sasha shakes her head. “People must be willing to believe, Mary. Augustus doesn’t believe. He thinks what I do here is fraud. That I might as well be stealing from you.”