Storms Of Fortune

By David Addleman

Prosperity gives us friends, adversity proves them.

Jason Mathews started with nothing and became the wealthy CEO of the most prestigious investment house on Wall Street.

Lauren Wheaton had everything and threw it all away to go out on her own. As Lauren Charles she went from K-Mart clerk and to become an Academy candidate with brilliant performances in "Winds of Olympus" and "Ballroom Dreams."

A Wall Street Mogul; a Hollywood Star. Both are at the peak of their chosen fields. How did it all come about?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Addleman
• Release date: Mar 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458048066

David Addleman

David R. Addleman has sold over 120 short stories and 8 novels. He was a charter member of the Fairwood Writers Group in Kent, Washington, and taught fiction writing at Renton College. He competes in masters swimming and holds a black belt in Uechi Ryu karate. He writes from Menifee, CA., where he lives with his wife, Deborah. Their son, Paul, works at UCLA in Westwood, CA.

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STORMS OF FORTUNE

by

David R. Addleman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * *

PUBLISHED BY:

David R. Addleman on Smashwords

Cover Art by Laura Shinn

Fortune's Child

Copyright © 2011 by David R. Addleman

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * *

Diligence is the mother of good fortune.

--Benjamin Disraeli

Chapter One

Jason Mathews hesitated at the entrance of the M&P building, listening to the mingled street noises of racing taxi engines, screeching tires, and honking. Sounds of Manhattan. Footsteps and muted conversations of passersby provided a closer, softer counterpoint. Sunlight, what there was of it on such a wintry day, was mostly blocked by skyscrapers, creating long shadows across the sidewalk. Inhaling the acrid exhaust-filled air, Jason wrinkled his nose at the hint of garbage wafting in from downtown. He took a deep breath, coughing at the sudden burning in the back of his throat, and entered somber bronzed doors.

Inside the sepulchral lobby sat a uniformed guard behind a raised desk studying three TV monitors. Big and black, he looked more like a professional wrestler than a guard. Jason walked towards him, conscious of his leather-soled footsteps echoing off the marbled walls.

The guard turned to follow Jason's approach across the granite floor. Yes?

Melrose and Pounder?

You're not a client. A deep-voiced statement.

Nope. I'm nothing yet; soon to be a gopher.

The big face wrinkled into a questioning expression. Gopher?

Yeah. I've been offered a job as an account executive, but first I'll have to endure the break-in period. 'Hey, Mathews, go for this.' 'Jason, go for that.' You know, a go-for.

The guard grinned. Mathews, you aren't stuffy enough to work up there.

That's what the break-in period if for.

The man stood up and came around from behind the desk. He held out a hand. Maybe the desk wasn't raised after all, since he stood at least six-six. Johnny T. Brunner.

Jason shook the huge hand. "Not the Johnny T. Brunner? The linebacker for the Jets?"

His face split into a wide smile. Ex. Old age and a couple of younger kids showed up to beat me out of my position. So, at thirty-four, I have a new career — ferocious security guard. He grimaced and growled an NFL-linebacker's greeting to an opposing quarterback, then relaxed and laughed pleasantly.

Jason shook his head. You got me psyched. This skinny six-footer would lie down and protect the ball before trying to run past you.

Street noise blasted in as someone entered the lobby, and Johnny T. became all business as he pointed to the nearest elevator. Take the express to the main offices on the nineteenth floor, Sir. Winking, he added, Catch you later. He walked back behind the desk. M&P main offices are on the top floor.

Jason nodded as he entered the elevator. Johnny T. lifted a palm.

On the 30th floor elevator doors opened directly into a wide hallway. Opposite were double mahogany doors with a small plaque stating Melrose and Pounder in discreet lettering.

A middle-aged secretary looked up from her desk and greeted Jason with a warm smile. Surprised by her display of friendliness, he grinned back. The name on her desk plaque was Helen Overstreet, and she looked like a well-groomed schoolteacher.

I'm Jason Mathews, here to see Mr. Hutcheson.

Her eyes twinkled. Since you're the first new hire we've had in years, I was fairly sure who you were. Standing up, she motioned him to follow her to a door with the name Paul Hutcheson in shiny brass letters. Underneath the name was the title: Vice President, Personnel. She knocked twice and opened the door.

Mr. Mathews to see you, Sir.

Thank you, Miss Overstreet, came the gruff reply.

Ah, thanks, Miss Overstreet, Jason whispered.

She winked and closed the door.

Hutcheson was a broad man in his fifties who seemed engrossed in whatever he was reading. He looked up finally with a scowl that left vertical wrinkles above his nose. No smile for this new hire, Jason thought.

He waved Jason to a chair. Sit down, he said crisply. Picking up a thin folder, he read for a long minute. Looking up suddenly as if trying to catch Jason's inattention, he added, You are a fortunate young man. We haven't hired an account executive in five years.

Jason hoped he looked impressed. I hadn't realized that, Sir.

No. Not only that, you're the first ever from UCLA. This pronouncement seemed of special significance. If not for Dean Brownell's recommendation, you wouldn't be here. The main branch of the Brownells, you know, live here in the city and have been our clients for over a hundred years. A Brownell's word carries a lot of weight.

Jason wasn't sure whether to shake or nod at this. He tried an earnest smile, while looking impressed.

What do you know about our firm?

Only what I read on the web after googling for Melrose and Pounder.

Did you learn that we've been in business since 1843 and that we've served mayors, governors, and presidents?

Ah—

Or that we serve exactly 400 clients?

I did read—

Hutcheson's scowl deepened. The only reason we ever lose a client is—

Death, Jason said. I did read that.

The older man seemed less than pleased by the interruption.

Sorry, sir, Jason said lamely.

Hutcheson's expression tightened into one of mourning over having hired a west-coast upstart who couldn't keep his mouth shut. He cleared his throat noisily. In any case, you start today. Mr. Lewis, our office manager, will process you into our firm. Hutcheson stopped talking and looked back down at the folder he'd been reading.

After a few minutes of silence, Jason realized he had been dismissed and scrambled to his feet. Uh, thank you, Sir.

Closing the door, he leaned against it and wondered if he'd missed something? Miss Overstreet regarded him with a hint of amusement in her expression.

You'll be wanting Mr. Lewis.

The office manager?

She nodded, then added, Don't worry, Mr. Mathews. You'll do just fine.

* * *

Walter Lewis was a short, overweight man with thinning blonde hair who wore a fixed smile that approached facial paralysis. Jason detected little warmth behind that smile. You'll like it here, Mathews. M&P has a great bunch of guys, all working together. Yes sir, we're one big team. When the shorter man spoke his eyes seemed to focus on Jason's chin, refusing to look up-hill.

Short-man syndrome, Jason thought.

Lewis's eyes lighted up with sudden inspiration. Did you know that M&P has been in continual existence since 1843?

Nodding, Jason said, Mr. Hutcheson told me.

Oh. Clearly defeated, Lewis' smile twitched before resuming its rictus.

Jason looked around. The carpeted room was full of men at their desks. He heard occasional beeps of computers, the muted rustling of paper, and soft men's voices spoken into mikes connected to headsets. The men were partially hidden behind large computer screens, in a bullpen arrangement of three rows comprising six desks each row. The desks faced a wall of windows. Seventeen occupied desks, with one vacancy. Was that one his?

Private offices lined two sides of the room, four across the back and three along the right wall. Where a left wall would have been, there was a long marble counter that effectively barricaded the room against any public that got past Johnny T.

The smiling Lewis led him between rows of desks. He pointed at or touched each man in passing while reeling off their names. Wheeler, ...Johnson, ...Murphy, ...Clements, and so forth. Each man wore a lightweight headset and microphone and seemed intent on his computer screen, talking earnestly and quietly or listening. Some nodded as Lewis called out their names; others ignored him completely. Did you ever see a more dedicated team?

From all appearances the team hadn't accepted Lewis as a member. If Lewis, an East Coaster, wasn't a member, how was he, the odd West Coaster, going to fare? Lewis stopped at the vacant desk and its iMac computer. Jason noted the keyboard, headset and mike. A small handset rested in its base. This is yours.

No wires anywhere, Jason said.

The smile grew broader. Blue-tooth.

* * *

During the next few weeks, Jason became a research gopher. The practice was for senior brokers to scribble out research requests and leave them in an out tray. His job was to pick up these slips of paper and look up the information requested. Not that he minded the actual research. Between Google and the dedicated financial sites, searching was quick and easy. Besides, he'd much rather research a firm's financial rating, figure its price-to-earnings ratio, or check a regulation, than fetch and carry coffee.

In the process he became familiar with regulations published by the New York Stock Exchange and the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as M&P rules, market trends, and forecasts prepared by M&P's research department. He learned what was and wasn't legal, strategies and tactics for both bullish and bearish markets, the art of selling a client on a transaction, and how to play the odds. It was fast becoming clear that he'd joined a high-stakes gambling casino and, as a broker, would be enjoying house odds.

Unfortunately, he also learned which prima donnas required the most fetching and carrying. Unwritten rules prevailed which tacitly stated that the brokers in private offices rated gopher services. Oliver Smithfield and Terrance Conner were his constant customers.

Smithfield, sixtyish, overweight, and fussy, smelled of lavender scent and spoke precisely. He'd step to the door of his small office and stand motionless until Jason looked up. Then, as imperious as an English schoolmaster, he'd raise a chubby hand and beckon. His most frequent requests were for the small pastries (accompanied by Starbucks coffee) from a Swiss bakery three blocks away.

Conner was different. A Rutgers University graduate, the short, thin man with the ruddy complexion and grating voice would bellow, Mathews! so loudly that other brokers would freeze in mid-sentence. Mostly he seemed to want others noticing his exercise of privileges. His communication skill was equally obnoxious, and Jason assumed he bullied his clients into parting with their money.

Jason would have dismissed the entire staff as snobs and dilettantes if it hadn't been for Grossvelt. If location meant anything, then by virtue of his corner office, Jeremiah Grossvelt was senior to them all. Completely at odds with the others, he didn't exercise any gopher prerogatives and seldom socialized. It seemed, in fact, that the others diligently pretended Grossvelt into nonexistence. From which one might suppose, Jason thought, that Jeremiah Grossvelt was the one person in the place worth watching.

Seeing Grossvelt that first time had startled Jason. The thin, stooped body with its oversized head and frizzled Einsteinian hair, struck him as incongruous. The cold, blue eyes had flicked across the room to settle electrically on Jason an instant before passing on. As quickly as that glance had been, Jason felt like he'd been disassembled, examined, and put back together.

Murphy at the adjoining desk was watching the man's progress across the room. Smiling Jack, Jason had dubbed him after noticing how his freeze-dried customer-smile turned on only when he was speaking to a customer. Perhaps Murphy was a distant relative of Lewis's.

Jason had asked, Is that Grossvelt?

In the flesh. HMCO. Seeing Jason's puzzled expression, he added, His Majesty of the Corner Office. The customer-only smile had evaporated. Acts like he's God's gift to Wall Street.

Is he?

No. He's got a few connections, is all. Murphy returned to work, his unhappy face awash in the pale glow from his computer screen. Subject closed.

Jason stifled a grin. Struck a nerve there, he thought.

Curious about Grossvelt, Jason stayed late that night, calling up the weekly summaries on his computer. Wondering if his findings were a fluke, Jason tried the monthlies, then the annuals. He checked back five years. Every week of each month for the last five years, J. Grossvelt had led the pack in securities sold and size of accounts handled. If that weren't enough, he also peaked out on the in-house ratio of hits versus misses. This last statistic tracked stock purchases and sell recommendations, coupled with the results. In most cases when Grossvelt said buy, the stock price rose, and when he said sell, the stock lost value.

No wonder the boys on the team don't like you, he said aloud. Glancing down the totals for the last month he saw that no one else was even close. The bastards are jealous.

The next day, Jason waited until Hutcheson was out before approaching Helen Overstreet. I need some help. He noticed how nice she smelled, but couldn't place the perfume.

Lewis is the office manager.

Lewis couldn't help me out of a chair. That brought a fleeting smile. Besides, this requires finesse.

Helen gave him an encouraging smile. Go on. You've got me interested.

Jason looked around conspiratorially, It's about Jeremiah Grossvelt.

Her smile vanished and her expression tightened. I don't want to hear any complaints about Grossvelt. The tone in her voice was menacing.

No complaint. It's just that I've discovered he's the only broker on the floor worth knowing. Can you think of a way I can do that.

She exhaled and gave him a soft smile. So. You haven't been wasting your time.

I don't think so. Last night I pored over brokers' track records. You can guess what I found.

Nodding, she asked, What made you suspect?

The intelligence in his eyes.

None of them ever noticed, she inclined her head towards the bullpen. All they see is an old man who somehow 'cheats' them out of clients.

They're too jealous to see the man, he said.

All but you, she said. A much more relaxed Helen Overstreet regarded him warmly. What is it you want to know?

The best way to get acquainted with him.

That may not be easy, she warned.

I'm willing to be patient.

From that day on, they were co-conspirators.

Jason began by intercepting all of Grossvelt's research slips, then staying as late as necessary to find the information requested. He'd slip the answer into Grossvelt's IN basket before leaving.

After a few weeks he added research of his own devising. Small things at first: An analysis of investor trends he noticed in the Wall Street Journal; a list of companies too small for notice by major brokerage houses, whose assets seemed unusually high for their earnings; and the reports of several congressional committees about bills-in-progress that he thought would affect the market. He knew Grossvelt was an expert, and that he apparently had many lines of information. It would be foolish and counterproductive to try impressing the senior broker in his own areas of knowledge. Jason's plan was to fill in the cracks, ferreting out data that might be overlooked by the guru in the corner office.

No small loss of sleep was involved in Jason's campaign. He stayed late at the office at first, then decided that if he wanted to retain anonymity he'd better find another place to work. The NYC Library was the answer. He used the computer at work for his daily chores, such