The Day Trader (21 page)

“The smell of the grass, the taste of a hot dog, the crack of the bat,” Roger continues. “There’s nothing like it on a summer evening.”

“Let’s get going,” I say quickly, trying to usher Vincent to the door. But he doesn’t budge.

“How long has it been?” Vincent asks.

Roger looks up. “How long has what been?”

“How long since you’ve been to a baseball game?”

I try to push Vincent toward the door again, but again he resists.

Roger looks down at the carpet sheepishly. “Actually, I’ve never been,” he admits.

“Never?”
Vincent asks, astonished. “Didn’t your father ever take you?” He can’t believe any red-blooded American male could possibly reach adulthood without going to a major league baseball game.

“My father wasn’t around much when I was young.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Vincent glances over at me. “Let’s take him with us, Augustus. I’ve got an extra ticket.”

I knew it. Roger’s plan has worked perfectly. He’s probably laughing to himself. I never should have agreed to help him at all. I should have kept my distance. He’s a leech, one of those people who’s going to try to worm his way into my entire life. “I don’t know, Vincent. I don’t want the people you’re introducing me to tonight to be uncomfortable because Roger shows up unexpectedly.”

Vincent bows his head. “Sorry, pal,” he says quietly. “Turns out they couldn’t make it.”

My heart sinks. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about the high rollers. I should have known it was too good to be true. No reason to get the BMW now.

“That’s all right,” I say, my voice dropping.

Vincent nudges me. “They’re not coming because they’re already in, pal. They gave me the thumbs-up this afternoon,” he says, leaning toward me and lowering his voice so Roger can’t hear him. “I told them about the hundred grand profit you made on the other money. They want to start with ten million right away. Like we talked about. And if you do well, there might be even more.”

I gaze at Vincent and suddenly I want a drink to celebrate. “You prick,” I say, laughing loudly.

He smiles widely and points at me. “Gotcha.”

We’re going to have fun tonight and on Saturday morning I’ll be the first damn person inside the BMW dealership. Suddenly I don’t care that Roger has weaseled his way in. It doesn’t matter anymore. The deal is done.

I’ve never ridden in a limousine so I didn’t know what I was missing. Everybody should have the chance at least once. I feel like a rock star. It’s spacious inside and there’s everything I could want right at my fingertips. Stereo, TV, phone, food, drink—even a fax machine. All the creature comforts as I lounge on soft, sweet-smelling leather seats. As I sit in cool comfort, I look out from behind tinted windows at the working-class stiffs sweating in their old wrecks, afraid to use their air-conditioning for fear that their engines will overheat in the hundred-degree heat of the slow-moving rush-hour traffic clogging the Capital Beltway. They gnash their teeth and lean on their horns while I drink a scotch and Vincent tosses back gin and tonics like water. I see them wondering who’s behind the tinted windows, and I know they’re jealous. I would be.

The only creature comfort the limousine doesn’t have is a bathroom, and halfway to Baltimore, Roger has to go. He’s had only three beers, but he’s desperate, clutching his midsection as if he’s been shot. Vincent finds the situation amusing and won’t have the driver pull off the interstate into a rest area until Roger threatens to go out the window. Roger bursts from the door before the limousine even comes to a full stop, shoving people out of his way as he races up the steps of the rest area toward the bathrooms.

Vincent turns his glass upside down to get to that last sip of gin and a few ice cubes tumble past his mouth and onto the leather seat, but he hardly notices because he’s already half in the bag. “Roger’s a funny guy,” he says, pouring himself another drink. “Sarcastic, but I like him.”

“He’s all right.”

Vincent chuckles as he stirs his fresh drink. “I don’t like his toupee, though. That thing’s got to go. Men who wear rugs are kidding themselves if they think the rest of us don’t notice.”

It never even occurred to me that the mop on Roger’s head might not be real. I suppose I give people too much credit, or maybe I just don’t like to think they’re so pitiful. A toupee. Jesus.

Vincent presses a button and the partition between the driver and us rises. “I almost forgot,” he says when it’s all the way up. “You said you were going to pay off that loan tonight. The five grand.”

Before he’s even finished I pull a check from my shirt pocket and hand it to him. “Here you go. I made it out this morning so I wouldn’t forget. I really appreciate your arranging that for me, Vincent. That money helped Melanie and me through a tough stretch.”

Vincent smiles as he stashes the check away. “No problem. I’m always willing to help my best friend.”

A long silence follows. I feel like it’s my turn to tell him he’s my best friend too. I want to, but the words don’t come right away and it becomes harder and harder to say anything.

I’m finally about to speak but then the door swings open and Roger tumbles inside the limousine, falling on the backseat in a heap against Vincent, laughing hysterically. Roger starts telling us about how there was a crazy woman chasing a runaway beagle through the men’s bathroom, and the awkward moment passes. Vincent’s laughing now too, the combination of alcohol and the image of a woman chasing a dog past a row of shocked men holding themselves causing tears to come to his eyes. As I watch, I can see he’s right about Roger’s toupee. It’s not even a good one. How could I have missed that?

Forty-five minutes later we’re in our seats at Camden Yards, watching the Orioles take the field in their home whites to a smattering of applause from the half-full stadium. The Birds aren’t winning much this year and tonight they’re playing the California Angels. Hardly a hot rival. Certainly not the Yankees or the Red Sox, so there isn’t all that much for the home crowd to cheer about. Especially when the Angels score five runs in the top of the first.

Vincent was right about the seats. They’re fantastic. Just ten rows up from the Orioles’ dugout on the first base side. So close I can see the pained expression on the starting pitcher’s face as he heads off the mound when the manager yanks him in disgust. But I’m not too concerned about the Orioles. I’ve always been an Atlanta Braves fan. The Braves’ Triple A farm team played in Richmond, so I’ve always cheered for Atlanta because I recognize some of the guys who had been through Richmond.

Tonight I probably wouldn’t care about how badly the Birds are getting beat even if I were a fan. It’s a beautiful evening, I’ve had a few drinks, I’ve got a million dollars coming to me soon, and I’m going to be managing ten million more. Life is good. And it’ll be even better after I get my Beamer. As long as I don’t let myself think about Melanie, I can coast along in a state that feels like happiness.

In the second inning Vincent starts wagering on anything and everything. He bets a buck that the next batter will get a hit or walk or strike out. Batter after batter, dollar after dollar, and he’s good at it. Before I know it, I’m into him for thirty bucks. Then he starts betting on every pitch. This one will be a ball, a strike, or a foul. He bets an over and under with me on the game’s attendance right before it’s announced on the public address system. He bets on how many minutes an inning will take to complete.

I call it quits when I’m in the hole fifty dollars, and Roger does the same a few minutes later. Vincent complains bitterly—it’s only the sixth inning and he doesn’t want to stop. He tries to make us feel guilty by reminding us of the fact that he’s paid for everything tonight, but neither of us cave in so he convinces two women sitting behind us to take the other side of his wagers. By the end of the game he’s gotten their money—and their telephone numbers.

The Orioles end up losing 12–1.

On the ride back to Washington, Vincent keeps guzzling gin. He’s wound up tighter than a rubber band on one of those old balsa wood airplanes. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this.

As we near the city, Vincent flicks on the limo’s interior lights, grabs the near-empty gin bottle, and pours what’s left into his glass. Then he points at Roger and chuckles. “Look at him.”

Roger is curled up in one corner of the backseat, knees to his chest, head on his hands, fast asleep. He had quite a few beers at the game, buying rounds for the two women sitting behind us each time he bought one for himself. He tried to get their attention, and I think he was irritated that they kept accepting the drinks but showed no other interest in him whatsoever. They were interested in Vincent, and that was that. “He’s sleeping like a baby,” I say.

Vincent leans over and pulls up the back of Roger’s toupee. “See? Bald as a newborn baby under there.”

“You were right,” I agree, placing my glass of scotch down on the console beside me and letting my head ease back against the seat. I poured the drink as soon as we got in the limo after the game, but I haven’t had a sip. I stopped drinking halfway through the game. I wasn’t drunk, just tired. I’ve been working hard this week.

“What a loser,” Vincent snickers. “I mean, why wear that thing? Is he trying to fool me?” Vincent asks, his tone turning surly. “Does he really think I’m that stupid? Does he think I won’t notice?”

I shrug my shoulders, thinking about how
I
didn’t notice. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s hard for us to understand what it’s like to be Roger.”

Vincent lets go of Roger’s hairpiece and settles back onto the seat. “You’re a good guy, Augustus,” he says, the hard edge in his voice fading. “You know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Me, I figure the guy’s trying to get over by wearing that stupid thing, and it irritates me. I take it personally, but you try to see it from his perspective. You have compassion. That’s why I like you so much.”

There’s another pause, just as there was on the way to the game when I didn’t respond. “Do you ever think about that night we won the state championship?” I finally ask, avoiding the issue of our friendship a second time.

Vincent gazes out the window into the darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’ve reached the Capital Beltway. “Sometimes,” he says quietly.

“It was great, wasn’t it? We were awesome.”

“Yeah, sure we were,” he agrees halfheartedly.

“That was one of the best nights of my life.”

“Mmm.”

I take a deep breath, frustrated at the way he won’t reminisce about the game. “Why don’t you like to talk about that night?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Vincent?”

“You can’t dwell on the past, Augustus. It doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“I’m not dwelling on it. It was a great night, that’s all. I felt really good about myself for a few hours during a time when I wasn’t happy a whole lot. A time when I didn’t like myself much. Being a teenager was hard.”

“It was just a damn high school football game,” Vincent snaps. “You can’t get caught up in those kind of trivial things.”

I glance out the window and notice that, after a very short distance on the Beltway, we’ve exited the highway and are heading toward downtown Washington. I assumed Vincent was going to drop me off at Bedford so I could pick up my car. In that case we should have stayed on the Beltway around the city’s north side and headed across the Potomac River to Virginia.

“What would be meaningful to you?” I ask.

“Not that.”

“Well, it was to me.”

“Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe that’s always been your problem.”

I glance up. I have to remember that he’s drunk and he might say things he’ll regret in the morning—like we all do once in a while. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You figure it out.”

“No, tell me.”

But Vincent doesn’t have a chance because Roger wakes up with a start, complaining about his bladder, and we have to stop right away. We pull into a seedy-looking all-night gas station on New York Avenue so he can relieve himself. We sit in silence while he’s gone, and then he’s back and we’re off again.

“Where are we going?” Roger asks, bleary-eyed.

“I have a surprise for you guys.” Vincent grins at me, as if the uncomfortable exchange of a few minutes ago never took place. “I told you there was going to be a surprise at the end of the night, Augustus.”

“Surprise? What do you mean?” Roger demands, suddenly wide awake.

“You’ll find out,” Vincent says mysteriously, sipping on what’s left of his drink. “This is gonna be fun.”

Roger nudges me and nods expectantly.

Fifteen minutes later our driver turns down a dark side street, then whips into what looks like an empty warehouse parking lot.

“We’re here,” Vincent announces, putting his drink down and rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go.” He’s out of the limousine quickly and heading across the dark parking lot toward a door of the large building, Roger right on his heels.

I follow, reluctantly. It’s late and I’m tired.

Vincent waits for me to catch up, then raps on the door of the building. It swings open and instantly I’m hit by pulsing music and blue light. Two guys bigger than Vincent stand on either side of the doorway, arms folded across their broad chests. They’re dressed all in black and are wearing dark sunglasses, and I wonder how they can see anything at all. They nod respectfully to Vincent, like he’s a big wheel around here.

He turns and motions us in. “Come on guys.”

“Wait a minute,” Roger says, peering hesitantly around the corner of the door. “What is this place?”

Vincent’s grin widens. “Welcome to one of Washington, D.C.,’s finest gentlemen’s clubs. I’ve arranged for us to enjoy first-class treatment tonight. Get ready to have some fun. This is the Two O’Clock Club.”

Roger shrinks from the blue light like a vampire from dawn. “The Two O’Clock Club?”

“Yeah. The main entrance is around the other side of the building, but that’s for the cattle. We’re VIPs.”

“I’m not going in,” Roger says firmly. “I gotta get home to my wife.”