Lights Out

“What time is it?”

“Late. Sorry.”

“No problem. Did you sort out whatever it was?”

“Partly.”

The red light began moving again, back and forth.

“Do you live here, Jack?”

“It’s where I lay my weary head.” No mention of Aspen or Connecticut.

Eddie sat up. The smell was irresistible. “Got another cigarette?”

“You smoke?”

“Trying to quit. It’s prong one of my three-pronged plan.”

There was a soft smack on the coffee table-the cigarette pack; and a softer one-the matches. Eddie lit up.

“I give up,” said Jack.

“About what?”

“Prongs two and three.”

“Steam bath, which I haven’t had yet. And take nothing with me.”

“Did you?”

“I took my sneakers,” Eddie said. But he knew the break hadn’t been as clean as that. There was El Rojo’s hundred dollars, for starters. That had led to Sookray and Senor Paz. Then there was Prof’s charcoal drawing. That had led to Tiffany, who was in contact with Sookray. He hadn’t made a clean break at all; his old community reached out for him.

“Still wear a ten?” Jack asked.

“Yeah.”

“There’re boxes of tens around here somewhere. Jogging, tennis, loafers, Christ knows what else. I’ve got this personal shopper, don’t ask me why. Take what you want.”

The red-tip glow kept moving, back and forth.

Eddie said: “You got rich.”

Jack made a sound, half laughter, half choking on cigarette smoke. “Rich? What’s rich?”

“This place. Boxes of shoes. Personal shopper, whatever that is.” A check for $230,000 left in a jacket on the floor.

“That’s not rich, Eddie. Rich is never having to worry about money. Never having to think about it. Just living in it, like the air you breathe.”

“Is Bobby rich?”

“Bobby?”

“Falardeau. He says he’s set for life.”

The red light stopped, brightened, moved on.

“You went home?”

“Yeah.”

“Saw Bobby?”

“And Vic.”

“What made you do that?”

“Bobby I ran into. Vic … I don’t know.”

“He’s a pathetic drunk.”

“The whole town’s kind of pathetic now.”

“It was always pathetic. How about a drink?”

“What’s BCC?”

“Mining and metals.”

“They fired Vic.”

“That’s such a loaded word,” Jack said. “I wish people would stop using it. Firing’s just an expression of socioeconomic forces. You can’t fight forces like that. All you can do is get on their backs and ride them.”

“I’ll tell Vic that the next time I see him.”

Jack laughed again, this time without choking. “How about that drink?”

“Okay.”

The red light went out. Then came bumping sounds and clinking sounds.

“You like Armagnac?”

“What is it?”

“Cognac, but snobbier.”

“That’s me.”

Jack appeared in the pool of pink-orange night glow, sat across the table with brandy snifters and a bottle. His half glasses were up on his forehead; there were deep pockets under his eyes, garish pits in the city light.

“Bobby’s set for life, all right,” said Jack as he poured, “but I wouldn’t call him rich. He could have been rich, but he didn’t have the balls.”

“Didn’t have the balls?”

“To hold out for what he could have gotten. I wasn’t surprised. You remember how he was in the pool.”

“I raced him yesterday. One-hundred free.”

“You’re kidding.”

“His problem was technique, not character.” But even as he said it, Eddie wasn’t sure.

“That means you beat him.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. Jack brought the snifters together with a ping, handed one to Eddie. “Bobby in good shape?”

“He still works out in the pool.”

“Maybe. But he must have had delusions. Look at you. I wouldn’t stand a chance either.”

“I never beat you, Jack. Not in the free.”

“Let’s leave it like that.” Jack raised his glass. “Here’s to you, bro.”

They drank. Eddie didn’t know about the snobby part. He just knew the Armagnac was good, and said so.

“A present from Karen, actually. She brought it back from Paris.”

Eddie thought of his French cafe dream right away. “She’s a client?”

“Right.”

“What does she do?”

“Manages a family trust.”

“Her family?”

“One half of it. The poor half. They came over with Peter Stuyvesant and split in two. Her half sat on their little acre for three hundred years. The other half started General Brands.”

“Is she good at it?”

Jack smiled. “Good enough to come to me.” He took another drink.

“What do you do, exactly?”

“Investment research. Analysis. Counseling.”

“You invest the money for them?”

“Some clients have commission accounts with me, yes. Others pay a straight fee, plus a percentage bonus if earnings targets are reached.”

“How did you learn all this stuff?”

“Picked it up on the fly. That’s how everyone does it. They may tell you different, but it’s the only way.”

“So you didn’t go back to school?”

“School?”

“After Galleon Beach.”

Jack’s eyes went to the papers scattered on the table; at least Eddie thought they did: the light wasn’t good enough for him to be sure.

“I did, in fact.”

“USC?”

Jack nodded. “But that’s not where I learned this business.”

“Did you swim?”

“Swim?”

“At USC.”

“No.” There was a silence. “I got bored with it. All those hours in the pool. I wasn’t really that good.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t going to get any better, then.”

I was.

Jack lit another cigarette. It glowed in the space between them.

“How did you manage?”