The Merchants of Zion (11 page)

"The company I was working for at the time was dealt almost exclusively in MI-ABS,” he paused, noticing the look of utter confusion on my face. “That is, machine intelligence asset-backed securities. Basically, we traded in the massive loans all these robotics companies were taking out to finance their operations. A lot of Terminus because yeah, they were the biggest, but we were long on a bunch of the little guys too. Now, with each and every one of them staring down potentially multi-trillion dollar lawsuits, all our prudent investments were suddenly worthless. So what did we do? We did what any sane investor would do and dumped our inventory on anyone who would take it, sold off any stocks we had in these companies, the works. 

"Of course, anyone smarter than a cucumber—so everyone but the big mutual funds—did the same thing, which made it even worse. Boom! Pandemonium in the stock market. Credit crunch. Old-fashioned bank runs. You couldn't borrow ten bucks from your granny, and the government pretended it was helpless. The biggest financial crisis in the history of mankind and that's the moment they get rectally curious? Who the fuck cares about deficits when the entire country is falling apart? You might convince me the ATE was an accident to begin with, but there's no way in hell they didn't orchestrate everything after that.”

“Who is they, exactly? The government?”

“I'm certain the court consulted with the sovereign wealth funds, probably some of the bigger hedge funds. The people who run Liberty Bell, basically. They engineered a catastrophe so gargantuan that it wouldn't just bring down the economy, it would take the government with it. And now, like how Harvard or Princeton are hedge funds with universities on the side, we have a hedge fund that happens to run a nation.”

“So you're reading these books to piece together a globe-spanning conspiracy of how a conglomerate of shadowy, international financiers engineered the Panic so they could take over the government?” I asked. “And even if it's true—a galactic if—what's it matter to you? Are you going to make your founder's million by writing about it, exposing the conspiracy? What happened to real estate?”

His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin—a considered response to a serious question. He either didn't know I was mocking him, was mocking me back, or didn't care. Or it was some combination of the three, and his response possessed levels of subtlety of which I didn't think he was capable.

“I can't prove it, and if I could they'd scoop me. There's a good chance they'd take you too. But if I can figure out their plan I can make some money. The savvy investor knows he's Odysseus, not Aeolus. You don't try to direct the market, you sail with it.”

“What's that have to do with your real estate thingy?”

“Not much. Real estate is dead. I need the cash I have tied up in it though, so I can move on to something bigger and better. When that project starts moving I'm selling my share to some sucker. Interested?”

I ignored him. “And the list you gave to Ruth? You don't really need their help to get those licenses?”

“No I do,” he protested. “I'm laying a foundation. A little thing now, nothing more than a favor here and there really, for a small payout. Give them a taste, then I have the contact and some trust. It's about networking now so I don't have to play catch-up later. If you had an ounce of business sense you'd understand.”

“Look I have to get ready for work,” I said, frustrated. James was sowing magic beans, every green shoot a new scam. His plans were grandiose, the imagined payoffs enormous, all the while requiring from him the barest amount of work. Because he couldn't stay grounded, his belief in this conspiracy would inevitably entail some harebrained scheme, which would inevitably fail, which would inevitably end with him bankrupt and eking out one more month of free lodging—promising his next plan would be the one that worked. He thought life was a movie starring James Newsom, the heroic individual who would Figure It Out and Uncover the Truth, Changing the Course of History while Striking It Rich.

“Before you go,” he said. “What're you up to this afternoon?”

“I'm taking Elly to a museum.”

“You think maybe I could come?”

“Why?”

“I haven't got shit going on.”

Was he up to something? I tried to keep my personal life, little that I had, away from Elly. But he was staring at me with wide-open, hopeful eyes, and I was awash with pity. “Fine. We're going to the Natural History Museum.”

“We leaving right now?”

“You're not picking her up with me.”

“Fine. What time?”

“I'll text you.”

“Dude, you know I don't have a phone.”

“Hang out at the entrance and wait for us. I don't care.”

I took a shower, then threw on a wrinkled, blue oxford shirt and a pair of designer jeans that had been nice when I'd bought them five years ago. For shoes, a pair of beaten-up brown loafers. They were the nicest clothes I owned, except for a suit I'd bought right after college. It had been a purchase of faith, a symbolic first step towards a professional career that never materialized. And it no longer fit.

* * *

I made it to the school at 9:56, four minutes before the ceremony began. The double doors were locked, but a tall black woman with thick braids—a nanny for a classmate of Elly's—let me in when saw me banging on the door. She had been using the restroom.

“Lucky for me,” I said. “I'm here to watch my sister graduate.”

We walked down the locker-lined corridor and into the school proper. A two-story pit of a room, it had once been the corporate headquarters of a print magazine, long-since deceased. A half-dozen tables were arranged in the style of a high school cafeteria at the room's center, parallel as open blinds and possessing the bland featurelessness of late 20
^th
 century industrial production. Here, the older children engaged in “free-learning,” which meant they completed lessons on their tablets without direct supervision. A balcony ran along three walls, from which descended glass stairways providing an aerial entrance to classrooms with floor-to-ceiling windows, where fresh college graduates led lessons for children between the ages of two and eight.

A slightly elevated platform protruded from the fourth wall. The Expert's office was embedded behind it, her desk facing outward toward the room. From her vantage point she could watch the actions of every single student and teacher in the building. She'd taken her inspiration from overbearing managers, replacing suits with polos, and briefcases with brightly colored backpacks.

Today her majesty's throne had been put into service as a makeshift-stage, and the students sat in front of it, pressed into an undifferentiated blob. The Expert stood at a podium, flanked by three assistant teachers. The other adults—mostly nannies, denoted by their varied ages and their black and brown skin—chatted, while a handful of white mothers between thirty-five and fifty huddled at the end of one table. I was the only male of any complexion who was over the age of twelve.

Elly was craning her neck looking for me. When I was half-way down the steps we made eye contact and the uncertainty on her face burst into a smile. She waved. I waved back, and the Expert's gaze flicked disapprovingly in my direction.

I thanked the woman who'd let me in for a second time and sat as close to Elly as I could. The Expert “hem-hemmed” and everyone shut up. She talked about the importance of education at an early age and about how lucky she was to have such wonderful students. I zoned her out. I'd been to Elly's graduation last year and the year before. She'd given the same speech both times, word for word.

The first year the tables had been full and I'd had to stand. The year after I'd squeezed onto the edge of a bench. This year's crop of adults was sparser still, and if the adult audience had been compressed three of the six tables would have sufficed. It may have taken a few years, but the Panic's malaise had risen to the economic tree line, and an elementary school with the tuition of a private university was becoming hard to justify, even in New York. It hadn't been the first thing to go. Through Helen, I knew these parents had given up new cars, vacations, and fancy dinners before paring back the accumulated privileges to which their children were entitled. But with all that and more cut and money still short, the parents had discovered some of the suburb's lost allure their grandparents had gone on about at such length. They certainly weren't sending their children to Manhattan's public schools.

The moms in attendance weren't trophy wives, but hereditary professionals who'd either taken the day off or had lost their jobs and were burning through their retirement savings to send their children here. Those moms—like Helen—whom the Panic had passed over and didn't have an afternoon to spare sent nannies.

When the Expert finished her speech she called out names alphabetically. The students filed across the stage and accepted their certificates while the adults took pictures.

“Elizabeth Felkins.” Elly marched across the stage, a red bow bouncing in her hair. She accepted her certificate. I fumbled with my phone, but by the time I'd activated the camera it was over. Oh well, there'd be plenty more graduations.

The crowd clapped politely after Joseph Zubrinsky sat down. Sixty-one names. Last year there had been over a hundred. The children dispersed to their nannies and adults, and Elly gave me a hug.

“Why hello, fifth circle Elly,” I said.

“Hi Cliff,” she said bashfully.

The Expert walked over to us and congratulated Elly. “You almost missed Elizabeth's graduation.”

“Made it with nary a second to spare.”

“The invitation said parents and guardians were to arrive by 9:45. And I locked the doors myself.”

“I was using the restroom. It was an... uh, emergency.”

“I'm sure. I 
also
 noticed you didn't take any pictures while she walked.”

“Yeah...”

“Luckily for her parents, One of my assistants photographs every student. For our records. Talk to her and we'll arrange for Helen and Robert to receive a copy.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“No need for thanks. Some of us have a sense of professional responsibility. At the very least you could make an effort to dress like you do.” Her superiority asserted and need to nag satisfied, she walked over to the mothers and congratulated them in a bubbly, sycophantic voice.

“Let's blow this joint,” Elly said.

“Getting pretty good with that slang, Miss Felkins. But first, your pictures.”

The Expert's assistant teacher and designated photographer was a birchly woman, tall and slim and with skin the hue of resume paper. She was an education major at Barnard, and worked for class credit.

“Hi, excuse me,” I said. “I need a copy of the graduation pictures of Elizabeth Felkins.”

“Of course,” she said. “What's the address?”

I gave it to her. She wrinkled her nose. “Is that a public account?”

I told her it was.

“We don't interface with public mail.”

“But you know I'm not a ghost. I'm right here. In the flesh and blood.”

“I'm sorry, sir. It's against school policy.”

“The same company runs the whole network. It's a meaningless prejudice,” I explained, exasperated. This wasn't the first time I'd run into this issue, and I doubted it would be the last. Well-educated people, who really should know better, immediately assumed you were some deviant spammer if you refused, either from principle or poverty, to spring for a gold-plated mail service.

“A private address really isn't that expensive. It'd be worth it just to save you the hassle.”

I was stumped. If I had the pictures sent to Helen it would be one more byte in an unending string of minor disappointments trumped up by the Expert and Robert into evidence of my incompetence. I could do nothing and Helen might not notice, but I was certain the Expert would follow up. Anything to embarrass me.

“How about... hey can you send them to this address?” I gave her Ruth's.

“Like the reporter?”

“You know her?”

“Everyone's seen Puppies and Politicians.”

“Right. Well, she's my girlfriend.”

“No kidding? Is, ah, Elly Felkins your daughter?”

“What? No.” How old did she think I was? “She's my god daughter. Her mother runs Le Flaneur.”

“Oh! I see. That makes much more sense. I'll send the pictures, but really, it's not hard to set up a private address, sir. I'm sure you could find someone younger to help you.”

“I'll look into it.” Obstacle overcome, I took Elly by the hand. As we climbed the stairs we passed the woman who'd let me in earlier. I gave her a warm smile, which she returned. She was older than me, but not 
that
 much older.

We fetched Elly's backpack from her locker. The scattered drizzle from earlier had turned to a downpour and Elly took out a tiny umbrella emblazoned with ladybugs. I'd forgotten my umbrella and had no choice but to soak it up.

I asked if she was hungry. She was, and she wanted pizza. We went to a place nearby and bought three slices.

“Do you know what's on the schedule today, Ells Bells?”

“Zoo?”

“No. Museum.”

“I hate art,” she sulked.

“It's not an art museum. We're going to the Liberty Bell Museum of Natural History.”

Deep-thought. “Hmm.” She was dubious.

“You'll like it, I promise.”

* * *

James wasn't waiting for us when we arrived at the museum, which suited me fine.

A skeletal t-rex dominated the building's entrance hall, it's frozen maw agape and threatening. Elly asked if she could look at it while I bought our tickets. I said she could, if the security guard would let her through.

“It's fine,” he grunted.

She passed through the metal detector and ran over to the tyrannosaurus, straining her neck looking up. Two years ago I'd bought her a dinosaur encyclopedia for her birthday. Each entry contained a paragraph of text and an image that changed with a tap between a rendition of the creature's skeleton and an artist's conception of what it would have looked like alive. The book had triggered a dinosaur phase for Elly, and for a while she wanted to be a paleontologist. Her intensity of interest faded after a year or so, but her obvious glee made it clear that the book had left a permanent mark on her psyche.