The Day Trader (2 page)

Elation rushes through my body. In a few hours my ten thousand could be worth fifty thousand, maybe even a hundred thousand.

“Augustus, I asked where you got ten thousand dollars,” Russell demands, irritated.

“Calm down. I haven’t saved that kind of money working at this place.” I know that’s what he’s worried about. “It’s my inheritance.”

On her deathbed last Christmas my mother instructed me to dig in the backyard beside the porch. There I would find something helpful, she said. I was skeptical because during her last few years my mother’s brain was ravaged by Alzheimer’s. But in the fading light of a cold December dusk I followed her instructions, and a few inches down into the icy soil, my shovel struck metal. Inside a shoe-box-sized container lay neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, flat and crisp, as though she’d individually ironed each one. I stood there in the cold for a long time, gazing at the money in the rays of a dim flashlight, overwhelmed. Apart from the money in the tin box, my mother had little else. The equity in the house barely covered her funeral.

My mother’s last request was that I not tell my wife what I found in the yard. That I use the “something helpful” for myself. Mother never liked Melanie.

I’ve kept this money in a very safe savings account since I dug it up, afraid that if I invested it in anything else I might lose it. I earned almost nothing in interest, which was frustrating, but now it looks like my patience has paid off.

“What does Unicom do?” Russell asks impatiently.

“It has developed a state-of-the-art wireless application,” I explain, eager to show how thoroughly I’ve done my research. I’ve tried to talk to Melanie about the market many times, but she doesn’t share my passion for it. In fact, she doesn’t share my passion for much of anything anymore. These days most of our conversations seem to dissolve into a predictable set of questions and answers. “And they’ve invented a codec, a compression-decompression device, that brings real-time interactive television to desktop computers regardless of a user’s hard drive capacity or Internet connection. Now people won’t need a server the size of a living room or a T-3 hookup to make two-way desktop television work. It’s revolutionary.”

Russell airmails me an irritated look. I know it annoys the hell out of him to think that I’m up to speed on concepts like byte compression, hard drive capacity, and bandwidth connections. Things he knows little about.

“You need to focus on why paper towel sales are down at the big supermarket chains in Maryland,” he warns, standing up. “Not on technologies that have nothing to do with your job.” He turns back when he reaches the door. “Listen and listen to me good, Augustus. I want half of everything you make on that Unicom stock today, and I want it in cash by the end of the week. Otherwise you’re out of here.”

When I get home Melanie is waiting for me in the small foyer of our cookie-cutter three-bedroom ranch house, arms folded tightly across her ample chest, one shoe tapping an impatient rhythm on the scuffed wooden floor.

“Where have you been?” she demands before I’ve even shut the door.

“The Arthur Murray school of dancing. I know how you’ve always wanted to learn that ballroom stuff, and I was going to surprise you for your birthday, but—”

“Augustus!”

My attempt at humor isn’t going over well. “Mel, I—”

“Dammit, Augustus, it’s late and I’m in no mood for this.”

At thirty-three—the same age as me—my wife remains a beautiful creature. The same long-legged blonde I fell for in eleventh grade. The same girl I followed to Roanoke College and married a month after graduation with a few family members and friends looking on. To me, she’s still every bit as pretty as she was the day of our wedding. “Something came up at the last minute.” I smile mysteriously, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t count on you anymore, Augustus. You tell me you’re going to do one thing, but then you do something else. You told me you’d be home by six and here it is after eleven.”

“You said you had to stay late at the office again tonight, so I thought you wouldn’t care if I went out.” My smile fades. “And you’ve been working later and later over the past few months. I wasn’t sure you’d come home tonight at all.”

“I don’t appreciate that,” she snaps.

Melanie is an executive assistant for a Washington, D.C., divorce attorney named Frank Taylor, and I’ve always suspected that he has more than just a professional interest in her. During the past few months she’s been wearing lots of perfume—sometimes heavier when she gets home at night than when she leaves in the morning. She’s been dressing more provocatively too and working late several nights a week, sometimes until one or two in the morning. Even a few Friday and Saturday nights recently. I finally tried talking to her about it last week, but she flew into a rage right away, then accused me of silly macho jealousy and stalked off. But it occurred to me later that she never actually denied anything.

Melanie won’t look at me. “I have to talk to you.”

Her eyes are puffy, as though she’s been crying. “What about, sweetheart?” I move forward to comfort her but she takes a quick step back and buries her face in her hands. “What is it, Mel?”

“Oh, Augustus,” she murmurs sadly.

I wrap my arms around her and hold on tightly, even as she struggles to turn away. I work out almost every day in the makeshift gym I’ve set up in our basement, and at six-four and over two hundred twenty pounds, I easily control her slender frame. “Easy, honey.”

“Let me go, Augustus.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Let me go!” she yells, her arms starting to flail.

Suddenly her fingernails rake the side of my neck. I’ve never seen her like this before. “Calm down, Mel.”

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Stop it.”

“You don’t understand me!”

“Of course I do. You’ve had a long day and you’re exhausted,” I say sympathetically, controlling my anger despite the fact that my neck feels like it’s on fire where she scratched me. “And you’re sick of me telling you that we can’t afford anything.”

“You’ve been drinking,” she says, her tantrum easing. “I smell scotch on your breath.”

“I had a few drinks with a friend. That’s all.”

“A female friend, I’m sure.”

Melanie has never accused me of cheating before. In fact, I didn’t think she cared anymore. “I was with Vincent.” Vincent Carlucci and I have been friends since I was ten years old.

“I’ve seen how women look at you, Augustus,” she says, wiping tears and smudged mascara from her face, “and how you look back.”

“I’ve always been faithful to you, Melanie.”

She slumps against me like a rag doll, arms dangling at her sides, face pressed to my chest. “I can’t do this anymore,” she sobs.

“You’re right. You can’t keep up this pace,” I agree, slipping my palms against her soft, damp cheeks and tilting her head back until she’s looking up at me. I smile down at her confidently, feeling better than I have in years. I’ve scored big in the stock market and she’s going to be impressed. “I want you to stop working, Melanie. I want you to sleep late in the mornings and pamper yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, grimacing as she glances at my neck.

“You don’t have to work any longer. It’s as simple as that.”

“We can barely make ends meet as it is. From what you’ve told me, sometimes we don’t. How could we possibly survive without my salary?”

“You let me worry about that.”

She stares at me for a few moments, then closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Did you think I was talking about my job when I said I couldn’t do ‘this’ anymore?” she asks softly.

“Of course.” In that awful moment I understand what she really needed to talk to me about tonight. “Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“Then what did you mean?” My voice is hollow, almost inaudible.

She covers her mouth with her hand. She says nothing, but she doesn’t have to. The look in her eyes says it all.

The first few moments of lost love are terrible. I gaze at her helplessly, and it’s crushing to see how sorry she feels for me—pity is such a useless emotion, only making matters worse for both of us. Melanie wants to be with someone else. Over the years I’ve heard the whispers from her family and friends that I’m a disappointment to her. Now she’s finally listened to those whispers and given in to her desire to be with another. “Melanie?”

“We don’t have any children, Augustus,” she sobs, “and so little money. It won’t be hard to split things up.”

“It’s your boss, isn’t it?” My rage erupts. An awful, mind-numbing fury that spreads like wildfire from my brain to my eyes to my chest. I’ve tried to be understanding about the late hours, the new wardrobe full of short dresses and lacy blouses, the matchbooks from expensive Washington restaurants on her dresser, even the hang-up telephone calls I endure on weekends. Her indifference to me. But no more. “It’s Frank Taylor!” I shout. “You’re having an affair with your goddamn boss. I knew it! Taylor’s made you all kinds of ridiculous promises and you’ve decided to take a chance.”

“This has nothing to do with Frank!” she shouts back. “It has to do with me. I need a fresh start, Augustus. I’m drowning in our life. I have to save myself. If I don’t do it now, I never will.”

“He’s tempting you with houses, cars, and jewelry. I know it.”

“Wouldn’t that be awful if he was?” she snaps.

“You bi—”

“It’s not true!” she snaps. “But do you blame me for wanting those things?”

“Melanie, come to your senses,” I beg, swallowing my pride. “It’s going to be much better for us from now on. I promise.”

“You’ve been saying that for eleven years. I’m not willing to wait any longer.” Tears stream down her face, but they are tears of rage, not sadness or compassion. “I’m sick and tired of being married to a man who accepts being ordinary,” she says, gesturing angrily over her shoulder at the inside of our modest home. “I want someone who needs success as much as I do.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves. You want money. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Her eyes fill with tears again. “How can you say that to me?”

“Because it’s true, and you know it.”

She drops her face into her hands. “Let’s just end it,” she pleads pitifully. “Please.”

I stare at her, wishing I could take back those words, even if they are true. “Mel, come on.”

“I’m sorry, Augustus. I’m so sorry, but I want a divorce.”

“This is crazy,” I say, taking her gently by the arms. “Stop it.”

“Let me go.”

My heart sinks as I realize that this is not a passing drama. She’s serious. “Oh, God,” I mutter, looking down. Both of Melanie’s wrists are marked by painful-looking purple bruises. “What have you done to yourself?” I murmur, looking up into her beautiful, anguished face.

She yanks her arms from my grasp and runs away down the short hall without answering.

“Wait, Mel. I hit it big today in the—” But the slam of our bedroom door cuts me off.

For five minutes I stand in our foyer, unable to comprehend what has just happened, my emotions ricocheting from dejection to rage. Finally I stumble to the kitchen and ease into a chair at the scarred wooden table where Melanie and I have eaten so many meals together. My eyes come to rest on a notepad lying beside the sugar bowl and a stack of unpaid bills. In Melanie’s looping script I see that Russell Lake has telephoned four times this evening. I’m supposed to call him back no matter how late it is.

I touch my neck where Melanie scratched me, then bring my hand in front of my face. My fingertips are stained with blood.

CHAPTER 2

I’m not a greedy man, so my decision to sell is an easy one.

At four o’clock yesterday afternoon Unicom closed its first trading session on the Nasdaq at $139 a share, up $119 from the $20 IPO price. In the overnight “casino” market it spiked another $36, to $175 a share, where it opened this morning. So, after plowing my entire inheritance into this one investment, my ten thousand dollars has turned into nearly ninety thousand. I’ve made almost two years’ salary in less than twenty-four hours. That, in a nutshell, is the allure of the stock market.

As I stare at my computer screen, I can’t help wondering how Melanie would react if she knew about this. I never got a chance to tell her last night. Never got a chance to explain how we could afford to let her quit working. And she had already left this morning when I woke up on the living room sofa, cradling an empty scotch bottle.

A soft knock on my office door distracts me from some very ugly thoughts. “Who is it?”

“Russell.”

I expected to see him as soon as I walked in this morning, but it’s after ten and this is his first appearance.

“Open up,” he demands.

He couldn’t sneak up on me today because I closed and locked my door when I got in. “What do you want?” I ask, grudgingly allowing him to enter.

“Don’t sound so happy to see me,” he says, checking out the dark red marks on my neck. “God, you look awful.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I admit, easing back into my desk chair with a loud groan.

“What happened?”

Russell should have been a CIA agent instead of a midlevel manager buried in corporate America. Ultimately he unearths everything, as he surely will in this case if I don’t tell him. There will be plenty of clues. I’ll have to change my address because Melanie wants me out of the house as soon as possible—she left that pleasant request in a short, unsigned note I found on my dresser this morning. Russell will be given that new address by the human resources department. And there will be a steady stream of e-mails bouncing back and forth between Melanie, the attorneys, and me as the divorce proceeds. E-mails Russell could read because he monitors the network. So it’s better to be up-front with him about what’s going on, rather than endure his nasty comments about being kept in the dark later on.

“Melanie wants a divorce.”

“That’s terrible.” For a moment Russell looks as if he truly feels sorry for me, but his tone lacks compassion. It’s as if he thought my divorce was inevitable and timing was the only question. “What was her reason?” he asks. Like most men who know Melanie, Russell is fascinated by her.