The Perfect Martini

By Mario Gomez

From master of the universe to the want ads in twelve months. Caricatured by The New Yorker as the biggest crook since Madoff, and a sure contender for most unpopular in a city that breeds crooks like Hollywood fame. As a former one per-center Michael Martini lives off the remnants of his former glories, waiting for the blow that evicts him from what remains of his sanity.

Michael’s only friend is an escaped convict; his only family, a compulsive liar; and his arch nemesis sleeps in the next room. Indifferent to living under a shadow of perpetual death threats, cold shoulders, the impending doom of insolvency and ruin, and under constant scrutiny from his neighbors, the FEDS, the banks, his dentist, and his past, he rolls loaded dice for redemption.

A satirical tale laced with spite...dog lovers beware!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mario Gomez
• Release date: Oct 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9780983654759

Mario Gomez

The author was born and formally educated in the Southwestern United States, but his home will forever be Mexico City, Mexico. His first published novel, The Consigliere, accounts for more than seven years of research into the obdurate underworlds of North America. Professionally he has maintained careers in Brokerage Finance, Corporate Management, Tourism, and Telecommunications, throughout Mexico and the United States. The convergence of his research, both professional and otherwise, has inculcated him with a formidable fluency in the non-divergent dominions of despotism, prestige, and survival; a culmination of experience he hopes readers will appreciate.

Book preview

The Perfect Martini

A Novella

Mario El Gecko Gómez

This is a work of fiction. Some of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed within are either products of the author;s imagination or are used fictitiously; the rest is for spite.

The Perfect Martini (c) 2012 by Mario Gómez

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in cases of needed laughter, spite, or for quotations in articles or reviews. For information, contact the author at [e-mail]

www.geckogomez.com

Book Design: Carlos Herrera/Digital Forging Designs

library of congress cataloging-in-publication date

Gómez, Mario

The Perfect Martini, Novella, Mario Gómez. 1st Ed.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9836547-4-2

First Edition: October 2012

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Job Interview

The House Guest

The Real Interview

The Past Knocks

A Taste of What Was

God Hates Me

Almost Lucky

Pomeranian Sex Appeal

Trading Places

Serendipity

Back On Track

The Proposition

Eye of the Tiger

Coincidences Don’t Exist

Man’s Best Friend

Buyer’s Remorse

Revolving Doors

Defending Lies

The Perfect Martini

Now We’re Even

About The Author

Dedicated to the many facets of friendship

that have found their ways into my life

The Job Interview

I closed my eyes and my nostrils filled with men’s room, sweat and bleach, from frayed nerves and the recently mopped floor where I stood before a mirror I still hadn’t confronted. On the ceiling, moths tested fate on the dull gray light tubes running the length of the four stall restroom, and as I calmly exhaled I made out the papery flapping of their wings. I heard chatter in the hallway, muted laughter, testosterone-infused banter, and the ding of the elevator that brought to life another round in the ring of life. I opened my eyes.

Looking back at me was a weathered, athletic forty-five-year-old version of me with black, salted hair that still managed to fall into a permanent windswept tuft across the forehead. The strong chin and blue eyes were real enough, but the carefree mannerisms of a man at the top of his game now looked feigned, no longer exuding the confidence of just a year ago.

I pulled some paper towels from the dispenser to dab my forehand, deciding to forgo the pep talk that hadn’t helped me for the previous seventeen interviews. If there was such a thing as lucky eighteen I hadn’t heard of it. Instead, I just stared at the man I barely knew, the seconds plodding by, each separated from the next by a litany of likely questions that I’d already rehearsed any number of times on the cab ride here. The air grew heavy—added to the bleach and sweat was a dangerous combination of fear and anticipation. I glanced at my watch—a relic from another life—two minutes early, right on time.

I found my way back into the hallway, adjusted the slip knot around my neck, knowing already that the windsor was perfect. For the first time in my life I felt overdressed for an interview—the powder blue crêpe de chine silk necktie from Charvet in Paris might have been a little much. But back at the reception area the warm smile that awaited from the receptionist with those thick, rose tinted glasses, enlarging her dark eyes, was encouraging.

Mr. Martini, she said as soon as I appeared, Mr. Rosen called and said that you’re welcome to head down to his office. She pointed out the way and cut me loose. End of the hall, then left, first door. Not an encouraging sign, that my old college chum couldn’t find it in himself to meet me in the lobby, maybe treat me to the conference room. After all, for Jersey the building wasn’t half bad—nine floors, maybe ten, good parking—I could get used to this.

I passed a few open doors, every office like a matchbox crammed with the bare essentials. Nobody looked familiar; and being in another state now, maybe they had no idea who I was either.

I rounded the corner.

Excuse you! snapped a mousy woman who strongly resembled a caricature I’d recently seen of two legs and breasts. I stumbled to the side, as there was no way my extra hundred pounds could compete against her attitude.

Excuse me, I said to her retreating back.

She stopped and slowly turned, revealing herself as none other than the small, fierce Sicilian woman with the green eyes who had spearheaded the SEC’s investigation against yours truly.

Ms. Rossi, I said. I tried to add a disarming smile, but the daggers I got from her congealed it right in the middle of my face, revealing my discomfort. What a surprise.

Is it, Mr. Martini, is it really? she shot back, taking two steps forward. She talked faster than anybody I had ever known. Her rich accent forever imprinted like lashes on my mind—reading accusations aloud to my demise. I always thought Italian was mellifluous; her voice sounded and felt like rocks tumbling down a chute.

Good day, Ms. Rossi, I said, finally getting that smile chiseled loose.

She spun on her heel, undoubtedly pinning for my head to have been under it. A good day, Mr. Martini, she said as a parting blow to my already fragile ego, is when you’re behind bars.

I didn’t take the bait, instead I turned and stepped to my college chum’s door and tapped twice. I was told to come in.

Martini! you old dog, how the hell are you? burst a round-bellied man I hadn’t laid eyes on in about a decade. His plump face and polished head reminded me of a snow globe. But there beneath it all was the friend I’d introduced to his wife. Whoa! I see you’re still the big man from Wall Street. What did that suit set you back? Six…eight grand? What is that, a Rolex? Whoooa! Life’s been good, I’d say.

It was, I said, trying to push myself out of an awkward moment. But not all is as it seems.

So I hear, Bernie Rosen said, motioning me into a seat in front of his desk. His seventh floor office at Met Life was capacious and comfortable. Behind his desk was a credenza adorned with the usual framed photographs of spouse, children, and parents. I noticed the navy blazer hanging from the coat tree in the corner. But from the looks of his discomfort in a necktie, that must have only been for important meetings. Which, of course, this was not. It’s a shame really.

Yeah, well, you know what they say, I tried, one door shuts, another opens.

Is that what they say?

How’s Debra and the kids? I asked with a tinge of guilt from having been an absent godfather.

The twins are in Boy Scouts, soccer, and playing in the orchestra…the wife…well, she’s decided to try her luck with a twenty-eight-year-old newly minted lawyer in the city.

Divorce?

Bernie shrugged. Whenever she gets around to it. She comes home most nights to be with the kids, you know, but that’s for them not me. His face suddenly looked longer and narrower than before. I guess it’s to be expected, really. Look at her and look at me, he said, reaching behind to snatch their wedding photo from a top of the credenza. She’s an angel and I’m a goddamn boil—needing to be lanced off. It was only a matter of time. Everyone knew it. What was it that you told me at my bachelor party?

I don’t remember, I lied.

You said, enjoy it while it lasts, pal. I give it six months before she realizes that she sold short.

I was drunk, I said with a commiserating laugh. And wrong. It’s been more than fifteen years.

Maybe so. But lover lawyer boy isn’t the first—more like the fifteenth. If there’s a prize for unfaithful wife, Deb’s got it.

I’m sorry to hear it, Bernie, I said, desperately wanting out of the conversation. With all that’s going on I appreciate you considering me for a position.

His beady button eyes met mine, firm and steady. The wrinkles around his eyes didn’t move. There was suddenly no emotion as he returned my inquisitive stare, my lame gesture at moving beyond the personal to something closer to what we were actually here for, apparent.

You said on the phone that you wanted to apply for an agent position, he said, the open ended nature of his statement a question.

I swallowed what remained of my pride. Well, I have all the required licenses, from securities to insurance. And with my experience in financial planning and asset management I’m sure I’d have no problem making the adjustment.

Have you ever sold an insurance policy?

No, but like I said, I have the required licenses, acquired from my cfp accreditation.

Certified Financial Planner, is that right? Bernie asked as he fished my resume from a folder on his desk. It says here that you got your mba from NYU. That’s a lot of letters behind your name. Just out of curiosity, Martini, what did you clear your last year with Legacy Financial?

I hesitated, not wanting to lie, but feeling that I should.

Between friends, Bernie added. I’m just curious.

I netted one point six. I said, sounding mortified, as though having confessed a dirty little secret.

Bernie raised an eyebrow as he let out a whistle. One point six million, that must have been some toll you were charging those A+ clients. Your assets under management must’ve been in the hundreds of millions. And you want to sell insurance? You’d be lucky to make six figures.

I could be an asset.

I agree, you could be, Bernie conceded, slipping my resume back into its folder. And really, when you called, I wanted to help. I know I probably wasn’t the first on your list, but I’m honored that someone with your qualifications would even consider taking such a large leap downward. The problem—

There is no problem, I interrupted, having anticipated what was to come. You’ve known me since I had pimples on my face. I didn’t defraud anyone—you know it.

Bernie rubbed his chin. Yeah, well, if you’re sitting all the way in Jersey, in front of my desk, about as far as you can get from Wall Street and still be in the tri-state area, then you recognize the problem.

The problem being that I was implicated and later tried in the largest Ponzi scheme, come unhinged, the world has seen.

For chrissakes, Martini, you were taken to trial for having defrauded thousands of clients for billions of dollars. You and your partner—

He wasn’t my partner he was my boss, and I had nothing to do with it!

Maybe so—

There’s nothing ‘maybe’ about it, Bernie. I was acquitted, I said, sliding forward on my chair, all interview etiquette out the window, right alongside my chances of further employment in the financial sector.

You were taken to trial for having defrauded thousands of clients, Bernie repeated, barely moving his lips. His hands were folded and still, and for once his eyes did not blink.

Cartoonists featured you in The New Yorker, and not exactly in a complimentary light. Even in Jersey people will recognize the guy the Times coined as the ‘Perfect Martini—dirty, instead of straight up.’ Really, Martini, I wanted to help.

And to do that you give me an interview for a position you have no intention of giving me, I said, tone measured, words clipped.

To be honest I thought I could get you in without anyone being the wiser; at least, not for a couple of months. By that time you would’ve had some sales under your belt, and I would’ve been prepared to go to bat for you.

And now you don’t think I could do it, sell insurance that is?

It’s not that, Bernie said, his eyes now avoiding mine.

Who was it? I asked, knowing perfectly who he would say. He looked reluctant, so I helped him along. Ms. Rossi.

Bernie nodded but said nothing.

I fell back into the chair, looking about as defeated as I felt. It wasn’t so much that I wanted that job—I needed it. Things were—how should I say?— sticky, as my six hundred an hour lawyer had said.

Because by my assessment being incarcerated, investigated, tried before a jury of supposed peers, for a crime I had nothing to do with, was, to my five senses, much like going through a mulcher. The before and after photos of me would attest to as much: a year ago I could have doubled for a cologne model, a man who walked to his own beat; today, I looked like a cancer victim who had given up on chemo. Then again, my life could be worse. I could still be at the Metropolitan Federal Detention Center in a six by ten-foot cell with a two-bit con artist named Leonard, instead of semi-existing in my 5,500 square foot, Upper West Side apartment with a beautiful view of the Park. So how bad could my life really be? Well, after having gone through the mulching process for my implicit involvement in the biggest Ponzi scheme, corruption case the world had known; that I was actually still under investigation by the FBI and the SEC; that despite having a stellar résumé of excellence I was unemployable; all added to the bleak reality brought to life by my most recent tax return—indelible proof that I was bankrupt; going a long way to explain why I received regular calls of concern from American Express and Visa.

I wish I could do more, Martini. I really do.

I stood and gathered what remained of my dignity.

I’ll be in touch if things change, Bernie added apologetically. Don’t be a stranger. The boys often ask about their godfather.

I swallowed my frustrations. Give them by best. Maybe you could invite me to one of their games sometime.

Sure thing, Martini. I’ll hold you to that. And maybe in return you could invite me out for a night on the town.

The House Guest

I opened my eyes to what sounded like a careless burglar in the kitchen, then shut them, then opened them, finally managing to keep them open. The fur on my tongue a bitter reminder of another lost bout with my thoughts. I was tempted to go back to sleep, if only to postpone reality, but instead pushed the button to open the electric blinds, letting light into my tattered world. Besides, the burglar was really my unwanted houseguest—the sum total of my social life. I hadn’t been stranded in such a sexual desert since I was six. I was reduced to flirting with waitpersons, and even they turned a cold shoulder. They’d seen my type: broken, broke, and bitter. My life felt like a party that I’d stepped away from to use the restroom and got locked out. The party continued, people were still having a good time; only, right at the moment, I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know which was worse, a past I couldn’t regain or a present that would destroy me if I looked at it too closely. Typical of late, teetering on a ledge of fate between the past and future, of what was and what might never again be.

I pushed myself from bed, against my better judgement, as today I would say farewell to what remained of my sanity and figured I should be vertical, maybe even sober.

As it turns out, being undesirable has its perks. I would be saying good-bye to the impeccably reliable housekeeping services of Juana, my fifty-three year old Puerto Rican angel, who over the past four-and-a-half years had been more adored aunt than employee. My other employee would be leaving me today as well. Who, although we’d never actually spoken for longer than forty-five seconds, at any one time, I was nonetheless convinced that not having this twenty-two year old student of art (or something otherwise useless in the real world), was going to be the coup de grâce to finish me off. Because now I’d be the sole caregiver for my two-year houseguest, who had not only overstayed his welcome, but to this day refused to leave. He didn’t work, contributed absolutely nothing to the household,