The Day Trader (3 page)

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Did she find someone else?”

“Russell.”

“Sometimes it helps to talk about these things.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.”

As usual, Russell relaxes into the chair on the other side of my desk without being asked. “What will you do about living arrangements? Will you stay in the house with her until the divorce is final?”

A familiar lump builds in my throat as I think about how I’m being evicted from my own home. Frank Taylor has stolen my wife. Worse, she has let him. “No, I’m going to look for an apartment at lunch.” Melanie never admitted that Taylor was really driving all of this, but I know the truth.

“Close to the office?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need some time off?”

“No.” That would give me more time to brood, and nothing good would come of that. Besides, Russell might use my time away from the company as an excuse to demote me.

“So Melanie will get the house to herself.”

“Yes.” I stare at him, wondering what perverted things are on his mind.

After a long pause he says, “I was on a conference call with senior management this morning. The June numbers are in.”

“So?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, especially at such a tough time, but sales in your region were down again last month. Senior management is very concerned, particularly in light of the fact that sales in other areas of the country are doing so well.”

“We’ve been over this a hundred times, Russell,” I remind him, exasperated. “The major competitors in my region are running big discount programs right now. There’s nothing I can do to jump-start sales until we lower prices. But you won’t let me do that.”

“Senior management doesn’t want excuses.”

“Screw senior management.”

There’s another long pause. “Unicom did very well yesterday,” Russell finally says.

“Let’s talk about that later. I’ve got calls to make.”

“I checked the share price on the Internet before I came in here,” he continues. “It’s up to almost a hundred and eighty bucks.”

“I sold everything this morning at one seventy-five.”

“That’s fine,” he says, head bobbing as he stands up and moves toward the door. “I agree with that strategy. There’s no need for us to be greedy in our first venture together.” He hesitates, hand on the doorknob. “Now get on that computer and get us into another lottery. Do you hear me?”

This afternoon, with her blond hair falling seductively down onto her shoulders to frame her angelic face, Melanie looks as pretty to me as she ever has. She wears a short dress and high heels, accentuating her long, perfect legs. From the beginning our friends said we made an appealing contrast. Melanie blond, me dark. Her eyes light blue, mine dark green. As she stands before me in the secluded courtyard of a small park a few miles from my office, her hands clasped in front of her, I’m overcome by her beauty. We’re cut off from the world here, surrounded by tall hedges on all sides, and, suddenly, all I want to do is kiss her.

“What do you want?” she asks quietly.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, not answering. I pleaded with her an hour ago on the phone to meet me here, not knowing what I’d say if she agreed to come because I didn’t think she would. On the short drive over I planned my speech, but now, as I look at her, I’m finding it hard to focus. “Thanks,” I mumble again.

She takes a step closer. “I know this whole thing is a shock to you, Augustus, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t feel good about myself right now. I’m hurting too.”

“Somehow I have a hard time believing that.” Her expression turns grim, and I wish I hadn’t said that. “We can work things out, Mel. I know we can.” Her gaze drops to the gray slate beneath us. “We can’t give up on each other,” I continue, my voice intensifying. “We’re too good together.” Her perfume drifts to my nostrils, and it drives me crazy to think she might be wearing it for Frank Taylor. Perhaps he even bought it for her. But I can get past all the jealousy and rage if she’ll just come back. I could even get past the bruises on her wrists. “We’ve been together so long. We can’t let it end like this.” Tears build in her eyes and I press, sensing that this might be my best chance to change her mind. “We promised ourselves we’d never let this happen. Remember?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“We need to rededicate ourselves to each other and to our relationship. We need to work at this thing.” I take another deep breath and nod solemnly, implying that I am accepting my share of the blame. “I’ve been paying too much attention to all of my stock charts lately, and not enough attention to you. I apologize for that. I promise not to take you or us for granted ever again.”

“Sometimes I think you care more about the
Wall Street Journal
than you do about me.”

“I need to work harder at our marriage,” I agree firmly. “Nothing can be more important.”

She lets her head fall back slowly and looks to the sky, our future balanced precariously on her next words. “Augustus, I just can’t. . . .”

“Give it time, Mel.” I heard an awful finality creeping into her tone. “For God’s sake, give it time.”

She drops her head and catches a tear on her finger. “I’ve made my decision,” she says, her voice raspy.

But I hear a tiny bit of indecision. Like there might still be a sliver of a chance. “Mel, you’ve got to reconsider.”

“Don’t do this,” she pleads. “Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

“I can’t lose you, Mel. I can’t be without you.” I take her hand and she doesn’t pull away, which must be a good sign. I’m saying all the right things, despite how hard it is. After all, she’s the one asking for the divorce. “You’re the only woman I’ve—” Emotion suddenly strangles my words, and the brutal honesty causes her to glance up. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever made love to, Mel. I’ve never said that to you before, but it’s true.” I had chances, before and after we were married, but I’ve never strayed. And that night so long ago, in the fall of our senior year in high school, when she surrendered to me in the back of my parents’ old Chevy, was my first experience. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever
wanted
to make love to.”

A tear rolls down her cheek as she glances at my neck. “I know,” she whispers. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

“What?”

“Frank has volunteered to help me with my side of the divorce,” she announces, her demeanor turning professional. “Which is very nice of him. He says you need to retain an attorney right away, and he has several recommendations of people who can help if you don’t know anyone.”

“Does he now?” I ask, really feeling for the first time that the end of my marriage is at hand. My thoughts flash to a knife lying in the trunk of my Toyota. A knife I keep stashed in the folds of a red woolen hunting vest in case of trouble on the road.

“We have to move on, Augustus. I thought I made myself clear last night.”

I swallow several times, unable to believe what I’m thinking. “Are you? . . .” My voice trails off.

“What, Augustus?” she snaps, anticipating my question. But she’s going to make me say the words. “Am I what?”

Blood pounds in my brain and tiny spots flash before me. Iridescent spots that shoot across my retinas. I’m not certain I want to know the answer, but I can’t help myself. “Are you screwing Frank Taylor?”

For a long time she says nothing, then her eyes narrow. “Do you really care?”

“Yes,” I answer evenly. “I do.”

“Is everything all right, Melanie?”

Together, she and I look toward a narrow stone archway—the only entrance to the courtyard. Frank Taylor is standing there dressed in a gray suit and red tie.

“You okay?” he asks suspiciously, giving me a warning look.

She hurries to him and comfortably slips her arm into his, as though she’s done it many times before. “I’m fine, Frank.”

“Hello, Augustus,” he calls out in a trial-lawyer tone, like he’s about to cross-examine a hostile witness.

I’ve met Taylor several times at the Christmas parties he hosts for his employees and their spouses at his offices. Each year we’ve had nothing to say to each other after mumbling hello. It always irritated me the way he smiled at Melanie across the party every few minutes, even when he was talking to someone else.

“I told Augustus that he needs to hire an attorney,” Melanie informs him obediently.

Taylor pats her hand gently. “That’s right, Augustus,” he says, “get yourself a good lawyer. You’ll need one.”

“I made almost eighty thousand dollars in the stock market this morning,” I mutter, the lump in my throat suffocating my words.

They don’t hear me because they’re already walking away and my voice is so low. As I watch, Taylor’s hand comes to rest on the small of Melanie’s back, then slips lower just as they turn the corner and disappear.

“I thought you’d gone home.”

I look at Russell vacantly. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the last hour, staring at the wall, thinking about Frank Taylor’s hand on Melanie. The image is seared into my mind, and I’m still seething.

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

“What do you want?”

“I want my money,” Russell says calmly. “My share of the Unicom profits. The gain was almost eighty thousand, which means my share is forty grand.”

“Forget it.”

Russell steps into my office and slams the door. “I wasn’t kidding yesterday morning,” he hisses. “You pay me or I fire you. It’s as simple as that. You made that money using company assets on company time. You owe it to me.”

After taxes, my net proceeds from the Unicom trade should be about sixty thousand dollars, assuming I don’t hit it big on anything else this year and get pushed into a higher tax bracket. That’s a healthy chunk of change, and the thought of giving away so much of it makes me want to puke. I worked hard for that money, and now, like a hyena, he’s trying to scavenge my kill. “I’m not giving you one cent.”

“You damn well better!”

“Go to hell, you asshole.” God, that felt good. I’ve wanted to say that to him for so long.

If steam could actually rise from a man’s ears, it would be spewing from Russell’s as though from a hole in a high-pressure pipe. I’m sure he expected me to roll over on this thing to save my job. In fact, in his mind he’s probably already spent the money. But I’m not going to let him take advantage of me.

“I protected you this morning on that conference call with senior management!” he shouts. “Those pricks wanted to fire your ass, but I stuck up for you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be out of a job right now.” He wags a finger at me. “Don’t be stupid, Augustus. Give me the money.”

I rise from my chair and move to where he stands, towering over him. I’m tempted to pick him up and throw him against the wall. It would be so easy and feel so good. “I quit,” I snarl, somehow keeping my clenched fists at my side.

I’m sitting at my kitchen table in just boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The windows are wide open to the darkness, but even now, at midnight, the heat is still brutal. The air conditioner was broken when I finally made it home. I tried to get a breeze circulating through the house, but July in Washington is hot and stiflingly humid, and opening all the windows hasn’t helped much.

One more time I check the charts and graphs spread out all over the kitchen table. I’m trying to decide what to do with the money I made off Unicom, but it’s hard to concentrate with the heat and everything that’s happened today. Finally I head into the living room to stretch out on the sofa. I’ve had enough day trading for one night.

The knock at the front door startles me from a fitful sleep on the sofa. An old movie is playing quietly on the television, and for a second I wonder if the knock was real or part of the film. I turned the television on to distract myself from thoughts of Melanie and Frank Taylor. I couldn’t stop wondering how far she had gone for him. I couldn’t stop wondering about his red silk tie and those purple bruises on her wrists.

The knock comes again. It’s more urgent this time and I sit up and rub my eyes. Definitely not part of the movie. I check my watch in the glare from the television. It’s almost two in the morning.

Standing on the front stoop are two men wearing plain slacks and sport coats, the top buttons of their shirts undone and their ties pulled down. Both of them are sweating in the intense heat, and one mops his forehead with a white handkerchief.

“Augustus McKnight?” the nearer one asks, pulling a gold badge from his jacket and flashing it at me. He’s the older of the two, and he has a look in his eyes like he’s incapable of being surprised by anything.

“Yes.” I gaze at the badge. “That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Reggie Dorsey of the Washington, D.C., police department. I’m sorry to inform you,” he says without emotion, “but your wife is dead.”

CHAPTER 3

Melanie’s body was discovered facedown in a trash-strewn alley in a crime-ridden section of Washington less than a mile from the Capitol. Her pocketbook lay a few feet away containing several hundred dollars and all of her credit cards, so Detective Reggie Dorsey ruled out robbery as a motive for her murder right away.

Despite having already matched the photograph on her driver’s license to her blood-spattered face, Reggie requested that I come downtown with him immediately to make a positive identification. He said he had to have it at some point, and that I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. He said the longer I waited, the harder it would be. I figured he knew what he was talking about, so I agreed.

So here I stand beside the stainless steel gurney supporting my wife’s naked body. I’m shivering in the morgue’s cold, the odors of formaldehyde and death filling my nostrils. The images of toe tags and ashen fingers dangling from beneath sheets are fresh in my mind after I walked all the way through the place to get to this room. As I watch, an elderly man dressed in a long white lab coat slowly pulls one end of the shroud covering Melanie’s body down from her forehead to her chin. He holds it tightly to the pale skin of her cheeks with latex-encased fingers so I won’t see the horror of the hastily sutured ear-to-ear throat wound that, Reggie thoughtfully informed me, almost decapitated her. When I can no longer bear to look at Melanie’s face, I nod at Reggie and bow my head. Then I cry. As an adult I’ve never cried in front of anyone, but I can’t help it now. The thought that Melanie is gone forever overwhelms me—and I crumble.