Rubenstein's Augur Page 9
“That’s correct.”
“We understand that you have the right to take on additional partners, but we’d like
you to inform us prior to your allowing others to join the partnership.”
“I’ll report any sincere interest.”
“Good, Sam.” Hazlett extended his hand. “Make us a great deal of money.”
July 29
Next morning Bank Southeast called Larson. One million dollars had been credited
to the account of Monarch Georgia Limited Partnership.
Hs first call was to his former sales assistant.
“But what about being a manager of managers?”
“That’s on hold. Maybe for good.”
“But—”
“It’s tougher than I thought, Rose. The managers with money want to know how
much I’m ready to bring and the managers without want to talk about how great things are going to be. This new opportunity is a lot more promising.” July 30
Larson was drumming his fingers on his desk when Sheila Rubenstein called. He
wrote the two numbers and the letter d in his notebook, made the percentage investment
calculation, and called his new broker at Hennegan, Howard.
October 15
The day following a particularly successful day in the market, Larson called Hazlett. “Given my performance so far, Norm, I was wondering if you might have an interest
in adding to your assets under my management? ”
“We’re pleased with your performance, Sam, but you should understand that at this
juncture our interest in your investment technique is more scientific in nature than one of
profitability. We’re running almost ten billion dollars here, so whether we have profit
from one million or two million is not very significant.”
“Of course.”
“Continue what you’re doing. If all goes well, your time will come.” “I understand.”
“And your call is not a problem. If you didn’t have ambition, where would you be?”
November 4
Hazlett called after reviewing the October thirtyfirst results. “We’ve seen your
October performance. We’re wondering if—”
Larson laughed. “Yes, indeed.”
“Yes, indeed? Yes, indeed what?”
“When Bev called yesterday to ask me to FedEx the October statements by close of
business, I found a certain delight in her voice and, well, I—”
Hazlett chuckled. “Have to plug that leak. Anyway, will you take an additional
million?”
“With pleasure.”
“Fax us a list of accounts for distribution.”
Yes, sir.”
“And I FedExed a letter to you authorizing you to debit your fee from Forney’s
Bank.”
“Great, Norm. Thank you.”
“Now, be advised you’re still in scientific curiosity status here.”
“I understand. I’m glad to have any status at all.”
Later that day, Rubenstein and Cooper were already seated at The Midtown Club when Larson arrived. Cooper was having a second Bloody Mary, while Rubenstein was nursing a Diet Coke.
Rubenstein shook Larson’s hand. “My congratulations to you. An outstanding accomplishment.”
“Thank you, Aaron, but you and I know I’m handling the easy part.”
Cooper held out his hand. “When do we see cash?”
“In a day or two.”
“What’s our side?”
Larson showed him a spreadsheet.
“My cut is three grand! That’s parking meter money, goddamn it!”
Rubenstein was aghast. “I’ll advance you the money this afternoon, Tom.”
“That ain’t much help, boys! I need—”
“I’m afraid that’s it, T.C,” Larson said, “and that’s more than you made some quarters at Mathewson, Barber.”
“Goddamn it, Larson!”
“You’re repeating yourself, Cooper.”
“I want more money now!”
Rubenstein raised his hand. “Could Tom help you look for new money?”
“Theoretically, but not practically. I would have to make him an officer of Larson Interests—a step I’m not willing to take.”
“Now, Larson!” Cooper smashed his fist on the table. “Cash now!”
“Cooper, your having brought me and Aaron together is of value and you’ll be paid, but it’ll be according to our agreement, not on your demand.” There was no reply. “Did you tell him about the additional million?”
Rubenstein nodded.
“If all goes well, you should earn twice as much next quarter. I recommend you be calm. Maybe even get a job.”
Cooper raised the middle finger of his right hand, then left.
Rubenstein shook his head. “I find it difficult to follow his thinking.”
“It’s easy. Equal measures of sloth and greed.”
November 10
Three days later it became evident that Cooper was trying to expand his income
stream.
Larson took the call.
“Good morning, sir, my name is Fred Butterworth. I’m with New Concepts.” “I don’t—”
“We’re an NASD broker/dealer in Lake Charles. We have a mutual acquaintance,
Tom Cooper. T.C. told me I should—”
“Mr. Butterworth, we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“But T.C. told me you’re on to something really—”
“Nothing at all to talk about, Mr. Butterworth. Goodbye.”
“Mr. Lar—”
Chapter 11
Elizabeth Harbor, Georgetown, Bahamas, December 31 The Peace & Plenty was crowded with New Years Eve celebrants. The dress varied from Larson’s white dinner jacket and Elizabeth’s long evening dress to scanty bathing suits.
Larson and Elizabeth sat in lounge chairs at the edge of the swimming pool. “One of my favorite places,” he said. “The owners have three places now, but this is the original. I come here as often as I can. They’re relaxed most of the time, but able to do it right for the big times—as you’ll see tonight.”
“Hence the nice dinner jacket?” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, but white may have been a mistake.”
She frowned.
“I was torn. It’s many months beyond the season for white at home, but on the other hand we’re in the tropics.”
“Subtropics.”
“Whatever.”
“A puzzlement for you, I can see, but I approve.”
“And I approve of your dress.”
“Thank you. It didn’t handle packing as well I had hoped. Still—”
He chuckled. “My concern when I saw you dressing was that you’d hadn’t put it on quite far enough.”
She pulled the dress higher on her chest and shook her head. “Sam, Sam.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Very nice of them to name their harbor after me.”
“No more than you deserve.”
She watched the lights of a yacht trying to make port. “This is the fifth New Year’s Eve in a row we’ve spent together. Are we in a rut? Spending New Year’s Eve together—and only playing tennis together in between.”
“Seems okay to me. I’m always open on New Year’s Eve and you seem to be. And I enjoy your company.”
She paused for a sip of rum. “Ready for a test.”
“Ready.”
“Where have we spent the last four New Year’s Eves?”
“Not much of a challenge. Last year we were at Vail.”
“Correct.”
“December 31, 2001, we were on this very same sailboat, but in Miami.”
“Correct. By the way, where’s Humberto this year?”
“I don’t know. He told me El Cisne Blanco was here and we were welcome to use it.”
“You’re still friends.”
“And my old sales assistant continues to do well for him.”
“Good. How about New Year’s Eve, 2000?”
“Easy. We were at the Plaza in New York. We got dressed for the party downstairs, but didn’t quite make it.”
“Ours was better.”
Larson ruffled her hair. “Agreed.”
“And—for the finale—December 31, 1999. Be careful, this one is tricky.” “Okay. Ninety-nine.” He frowned. “Okay—okay, I give up.”
“We missed it.”
“Missed it? How could we have—oh, I remember. On Japan Airlines, at the International Date Line. One minute it was the thirty-first and the next it was the second of January. Very disappointing.”
“You made it up to me.”
Larson smiled.
“Three out of four—not bad.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, tell me about your expectations for the next year.”
“The year two thousand and four? Well—well, I’m hoping for a good year for that California vineyard I invested in. Also, I’m expecting that you and I will again devastate Atlanta’s more mature mixed doubles tennis players. I think I’ll make more money than I could ever have imagined. And,” he said as he turned her face for a kiss, “I think you and I will again spend New Year’s Eve together in a place too exotic to imagine now.”
2004
January 29
Hazlett called a month later. “Just out of trustees’ meeting. Three million more?” “Yes, sir! Thank you and please thank Richard for me.”
“Tap Riker’s Bank in Mobile.”
“Okay.”
“Your fee computations?”
“I’ll have them to you by the end of the day.”
“Fine. Oh, how’s your marketing coming along?”
“On hold while I make certain that operations are perfect.”
“Good.”
February 2
At noon three days later Larson and Rubenstein took a booth at Venezia. “Nice place,” Rubenstein said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m looking forward to some lasagna.”
Cooper, looking as if he were ill, arrived a few moments later.
“Are you all right, Tom?” Rubenstein said.
“Couple of drinks’ll fix me up. Get me a Scotch, Sam.”
Larson didn’t move.
Cooper leaned forward so that his face was inches from Larson’s.“Call one of these
goddamned dagos over here and get me a drink!”
Larson leaned back and handed a spreadsheet to Rubenstein. “Pretty good quarter,
Aaron. One hundred forty-nine thousand. Seventyfive to you.”
“What’s that give me?” Cooper said.
Larson ignored him. “I’ll send the check to you by courier, Aaron. Tuesday morning
at the latest.”
February 19
Larson was pacing. It was after ten, Maggie had the day off, he had orders to place,
and he was playing on the indoor courts at Atlanta Athletic Club at eleven. The telephone rang. “Sam Larson. You’re late.”
“One hundred fifty-five and four.”
“One hundred fifty-five and four.”
“Confirmed.”
“Thank you.”
Larson was replacing his handset, when the voice continued. “Professor Rubenstein
will be away at a convention all next week.”
“No predictions?”
“Correct.”
“You can’t make the—”
“No.”
“Sheila? Doctor Rubenstein?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to put a face with your voice sometime.”
“For what reason, Mr. Larson?”
“No reason. I just thought we—”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Larson.”
May 3
“Sam Larson.”
“Bettyann, in Norm Hazlett’s office.”
“Good morning. Do you bring tidings of great joy?”
“How did you know?”
“Just hoping.”
“You were right. Can you take five million more?”
“With more pleasure than you can imagine.”
“Fax me your distribution orders. We’re transferring from Forney’s. I’ll be ready to
execute by noon, your time.”
Larson telephoned Rubenstein with the good news. May 5
A fax arrived authorizing Larson to pay Larson Interests three hundred fifteen
thousand, four hundred ninety-four dollars.
“Aaron! What do you suppose I have in my hand?”
Rubenstein chuckled. “I’d guess it could be good news of some kind.” Larson gave him the amount.
“I’m very pleased—and happy for you. Will you please mail the check to my
house?”
“I will.”
Larson turned to Maggie. “Amazing.”
May 12
Larson was dividing his time between staring at his telephone and the digital clock
beside it. He was about to call Rubenstein’s office, when the telephone rang. “Sam Larson. I’d about given up on—”
“No prediction today, Mr. Larson. Aaron’s in the hospital.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Auto accident. A boy and a girl on a motorcycle. Ran a light and hit him as he was
opening his car door.”
“When?”
“On the way to the office this morning.”
“Where is he?”
“Central North.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Undetermined. I’m waiting.”
He looked at the clock. “Be there in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t think you need to come. He—”
Fifteen minutes later, he had convinced a traffic officer to defer the lecture on speeding and arrived at Central North Hospital.
He exuded his maximum charm at the information desk, then raced to the sixth floor.
“Rubenstein!” he yelled at the nurse on duty.
“607, but he already has a visitor. You’ll have to wait.”
Larson nodded.
The door to 607 was closed. He knocked a single time, then opened the door. Rubenstein was sitting up, sipping an orange liquid through a straw.
“Sam, you didn’t have—”
Larson grasped his hand. “How are you? Sheila said—”
“That you needn’t come.” The voice originated from behind Larson.
He turned. The figure was hidden inside a white spring coat. Frowning at him, framed in long, red-orange hair, was the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. “You’re Sheila?”
“I would have called with the examination results.”
“Which turns out that I have to spend two days in bed while I suffer with taped ribs.”
Larson frowned at Sheila. “I assumed from your tone of voice that he was critical.”
“An error, Mr. Larson.”
She touched her uncle’s cheek lightly. “I’ll stop by this evening.”
Larson watched her leave. “Doesn’t like me much, does she?”
“I don’t think she dislikes you, Sam. No offense, but I don’t suppose she thinks about you at all.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“She’s a very private person.”
Larson closed the car door and inserted the ignition key, but he proceeded no further. He sat, remembering the face. He had evaluated a thousand faces in his lifetime. This face was rounded, but not round. Soft was a better word, yet muscles had rippled when she remonstrated him for coming.
The eyes were emerald. No, perhaps pea colored. Nothing romantic about peas. Emerald, then. Easy to wax poetic about the color. And the shape. Irish, but was there a slight slant to the eyes? A Mongol ancestor among the Ashkenazi?
The hair. A beautiful orange-red. Long and thick. It might have been dyed, except that Aaron’s
hair had the same color and texture. Except hers was straight. But with a curl at the ends. Parted in the middle. A straight line in comparison to the current unkempt look. Good.
The eyelashes? Darker than the hair and eyebrows. A touch of Mascara there? Probably. They might have been invisible otherwise.
The forehead. Both wide and high. Room for all those brains.
The eyebrows. Natural. Too thick to be penciled. Orange-red, like the hair.
The lips. Full. What was the color? It was perfect, whatever it was. What shade of lipstick does one wear with orange hair?
He turned the key. The starting sound of the 911 Carrera always provided a surge of pleasure. He turned north on Peachtree Road.
The nose. Perhaps a little too short. No Semitic influence there.
The skin. White, very white. How many generations of Irish ancestors had been protected from the sun? And smooth and clear. Make-up? Possibly. The appearance of no make-up was his test of best make-up. He wondered.
Cheek bones? No more than normal. No false shadowing. Good jaw line. What about—
Horns blew behind him. The traffic light at Fourteenth Street was green and the automobiles behind him were indicating that it was time to move on. His departure was quick and noisy. Perhaps immature—he was not pleased to have his reverie disturbed.
Jaw line. Firm, but neither wide nor narrow.
The ears. Hidden in the long hair. Small. Lobes? He couldn’t remember the lobes. Maybe he hadn’t seen them. He hoped there weren’t any—he had aversion to long ear lobes.
He turned left onto Peachtree Battle, heading toward Northside Drive.
But what did the spring coat hide?
Larson called his old office number as soon as he got home. “Got a minute?” “Sam!” Rose said. “To what do I owe—something wrong? Customer complaint? Who? Joey hasn’t said anything to me! What is it?”
“Relax! I was just checking in.”
“Checking in? I haven’t even heard your name since I called about old Mr.
Masterson.” She paused. “What’s up?”
“I’ve fallen in love and I needed to tell someone. You were elected.” “In love? You? Preposterous!”
“It’s true.”
“Well, go ahead. Who is it?”
“Sheila Rubenstein.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“She’s a niece of a fellow I’m working with.”
“Describe her.”
“Unblemished white skin, green eyes, long, bright red hair. Just beautiful. Took this
old lecher’s heart away.”
“The body.”