Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(26)



William asks, “Hey, Nick, what’s the deal with that guy Fred Cook who keeps coming around the office to talk with you? Guy looks like a real douche.”

I turn to William. “Watch it, twerp.”

“Doesn’t he work in the risk group?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s worried about all the crap you guys are slinging around?” Jack asks. Jack is a drunk but he also has a lot more sophistication about the markets than William or Woody.

“I suppose he is a little.”

“He should be. Mortgage market is overheated. Everyone has a story about their dog walker buying a mansion. And the credit default market is just creating more leverage. Getting so there’s more insurance on bonds than actual bonds.”

“That feels true. I’m mainly doing CDS trades instead of the bonds,” says William.

“We’re just moving this crap around and around and around. There’s no way this paper’s as good as where it’s priced. If the insurance ever actually gets pulled in, the whole thing is screwed.” Jack actually looks a little distressed.

“Careful, Jack, don’t put that in an email,” I say. “We’ve been warned about that. Verbally warned. Email is like signing, notarizing, and filing a statement with the SEC.”

William seems like he’s barely paying attention. “Things always wind up and then unwind, that’s just the way it goes.” He speaks like a kid who has never had anything catch up with him in his whole life yet.

Jack seems to recognize that he is not playing his usual role as the reckless one. “That’s an awfully long view of the world, four years out of college.” He takes another drink. “Maybe you’re right, though.” He seems to want to change the conversation, and so do I.

“That hostess looks good to me,” Jack says looking across the room with intent as though trying to read the lettering on a billboard that is just out of range. I hadn’t noticed on the way in, and the three of us turn in unison to see a hostess that is decidedly not hot. She’s a bit overweight but not so much that she won’t wear skintight pants and a tube top that accentuates her potbelly. Her hair is weirdly punked out, her nose is hooked, and she has layered on eye shadow that is one shade more heinous than interstate blue.

“Jack, what are you talking about?” Woody has genuine concern in his voice, like a relative at the bedside of a sick and delusional man.

“What do you mean? You would turn that down?”

“Yes, I would turn that down.”

“Come on. She’s sexy.”

“She has a big ass and an ugly face.”

“She has nice shoulders. You can see the muscle definition in her traps. Makes me want to rub them.” I’ve seen this before with Jack. He manages to find a single redeeming feature in an otherwise unattractive woman. It isn’t always the shoulders. It could be the chest, legs, or lips. He’ll lock on to that feature and want to sleep with the woman. There’s some flattery in there for women unaccustomed to it, but when I look at Jack’s glare, I know this makes him more greedy than generous.

“You need help, buddy.” Woody shakes his head, unable to generate any feeling of sexual attraction for the hostess.

William is also frowning and looking confused. “Jack, let’s get out to a strip club after dinner. We’ll go up to Scores. We need to recalibrate your settings.”

“Man, I got busted by my girlfriend a couple nights ago,” says Woody.

“For what?” Clearly it could have been any number of things.

“For going to Scores. She knows I go but she doesn’t like it so I usually don’t tell her. She thinks I go a couple times a year when I absolutely have to for work. I just tell her I’ve been out drinking.”

“How’d she bust you?” William sees an opportunity to learn from the mistakes of others.

“The stripper glitter.”

“Stripper glitter?”

“The what?” Jack and I get this out at the same time. We’ve been around a while and haven’t heard this one.

“You know. The lotion with the sparkles in it that they rub all over themselves. Makes them glitter when they dance around. I got home early enough that night that Beth was still up. I gave her a kiss and when I looked down she was glittering! At the same time she looked up and saw I was glittering. It was all over my face and neck and arms. Jig was up.”

Stripper glitter. Jack and I can add that to our vocabulary. A contribution from the next generation of lap dancees. The glitter lotion must be a new thing. I’m getting old.

“Right. That goddamn stripper glitter. It’s hard to get off.” William purses his lips, trying to solve the riddle.

“Nick, you haven’t been, you must be dying.” Jack tosses the white bag over the table and it lands on my fork.

“Thanks.” I shove it away in my pant pocket and head for the men’s room. I climb the spiral staircase feeling the coke like stones in my pocket. Closing the bathroom door behind me and locking in my solitude gives me a fleeting feeling of comfort and safety, until I pull out the bag and put it on the ledge of the sink. I lean over, hands braced on either side of the sink well the way a person does when he might throw up, and I stare down at the little white bag.

Ten years ago I did blow without thinking much about it. Just isolated moments that did no harm. Of course I knew it wasn’t great. You just need to hear yourself snorting to know something isn’t right. But I didn’t have the knowledge then that it isn’t an isolated moment, that there is a cumulative effect, that it can spread like a cancer through the rest of your life. I was innocent of that then. A kid having fun who didn’t know better, maybe shouldn’t know better. Now I do know better. Doing it now means more.

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