Manhattan Voyagers

By Thomas Quealy

The resourceful patrons of a Wall Street area tavern must contend with serious issues -- stock scams, sexual taboos, old age, terrorists, unemployment, the Russian Mafia, cancer, murder, alcoholism, the Digital Revolution, and starting a new business -- in today's turbulent times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456608965

Thomas Quealy

Thomas Quealy has written three novels and several screenplays. He is a Manhattan real estate broker and lives in New York City with his wife and cat.

Book preview

voyage.

Pier 11

The coastal seabird was perched atop a wood piling at the end of Pier 11 on Manhattan’s East River, its wings spread at awkward angles, sunning in the bright light of a pleasant day. It had dark plumage and a long bill, sharply hooked, with webbed feet and four toes. A yellow helicopter passed noisily overhead as it circled to make a landing at the Wall Street Heliport located a hundred yards south of the pier.

The bird shrieked at it. As soon as that helicopter set down on the small patch of tarmac a blue one took off and the whirling rotor blades made a grinding sound as its powerful engine strained to gain altitude. The bird looked up again and shrieked at it as well.

In the distance, more helicopters formed a disciplined line in the sky as they approached to make their scheduled landings. Some of these planes had been hired by tourists at $130 per passenger to take fifteen-minute sightseeing rides over the harbor – the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island (formerly called Oyster Island) being the main attractions -- however, most were utilized by brokerage house and investment bank personnel for making quick $150 trips to the JFK and Newark airports. The forty-minute ride to East Hampton cost only $500 and was very popular with senior executives seeking to avoid the hoi polloi on the ever-jammed Long Island Expressway as they escaped to their summerhouses at the beach for the weekend. For local residents this convenience came at a high price and a steady stream of daily noise complaints were placed to the city’s 311 hotline.

Pier 11, with its bollards and cleats, also operated as a working ferry terminal. NY Waterway boats constantly dropped off and picked up business commuters, transporting them to Hoboken, Weehawken, Atlantic Highlands, Glen Cove, and Jersey City. During the summer, day-trippers were also able to take boats to the Rockaway beaches to escape New York’s humid weather. Shoppers could also take a ferry to the IKEA store in Red Hook, Brooklyn, for a fare of $5.00 that was subsequently credited against any purchases they made there.

Jutting out like a slender finger into the strong current, the pier hosted a motley crew of habitues. In the mornings, solitary old men, their liver spotted hands resting on canes or clutching paper coffee cups, occupied most of the benches. They stared sphinx-like out at the water, mesmerized and hypnotized by it, though not actually seeing it, their mind’s eyes focused instead on events from their distant pasts: of family disputes and amends never made, of tender words left unspoken, of grievous errors in judgment, of close friends who had been forsaken, of painful regrets that still woke them up in the middle of the night, and of infidelities and binges that destroyed loved ones. But mostly they thought about the paths not taken in life; the great opportunities missed, and the youthful dreams never realized.

A fortunate few had come to terms with the past, or at least made an uneasy peace with it, and were able to let it go. More yearned for a chance to start over again so they could do things differently the second time around; to rectify the ancient wrongs; to make wiser decisions; to communicate better with loved ones and share their inner-most feelings; to take back the many recriminations uttered in fear or in jealousy; and to be the solid, upstanding, dependable husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons they had always meant to be.

Others were all too aware that life didn’t have a REBOOT button, and more importantly, a DELETE button. They were weary and worn down by its daily struggles; already had one foot in the grave, were in chronic pain, or worse, in abject despair, lonely and forgotten, or merely ignored; barely making ends meet by eating just one meal a day; earning a few bucks by collecting bottles and cans from the trash for the five cents deposit or by wearing sandwich boards hawking Cash-For-Gold ads on busy thoroughfares while fervently praying to a merciful God for the sublime Afterlife to begin, where all transgressions, great and small, were forgiven and they were welcomed with open arms and the jubilant sound of trumpets into the never-ending joy that is Heaven.

Before noon on weekdays, the office workers of the historic Financial District claimed the seats from the old men and they basked in the warm sunlight by the river; watching the passing boat traffic, working on their tans, listening to music on their iPods, eating their tossed salads, burgers, and falafels, smoking their cigars and cigarettes, gossiping and boasting on their smartphones, or digitally flirting with each other and finagling for a date to go for a few drinks at the end of the workday, that might, if they got lucky, lead to a one-night-stand of casual, totally meaningless sex.

In the late evening hours a very different, disheveled crew showed up -- the homeless – their pilfered supermarket shopping carts filled with all their worldly goods, vying to set up makeshift beds on those coveted benches that were shielded from the weather by the elevated structure of the FDR Drive. Some were barefoot and stunk to high heaven from not bathing for weeks on end. Many were grifters and petty thieves with rap sheets for minor offenses; a few major losers amongst them were wanted for long-ago felonies committed in faraway jurisdictions where the record-keeping was haphazard and the authorities lost track of them. And more than a few spoke in tongues and lacked the mental capacity to regret any past actions, their minds crammed instead with psychotic delusions as they shuffled slowly, but inexorably, down the treacherous path to oblivion.

Pier 11 was also an excellent spot for visitors to Downtown New York to snap photos of the Brooklyn Bridge and of the Atlantic Clipper Ships that were permanently docked as floating museums at the South Street Seaport. Just such a middle-aged couple walked out onto the pier and the seabird aggressively flapped its wings, sensing the duo intended to encroach on his territory.

The Botox-injected bleached blonde wore an expensive linen dress and a wide-brimmed hat to shade her milky white skin from the destructive rays of the sun. A $425 pair of sunglasses dangled from a silver chain round her neck. In her hands she held the latest model digital camera and her eyes scanned the maritime landscape for the best photo opportunities so she could show the pictures to Mildred and Gloria at the country club back home, and also to her 972 Facebook friends, 961 of whom she’d never met in person.

The man sauntered a few deferential paces behind her and puffed leisurely on a cigar. He had a domelike head atop a pear shaped body and stood a few inches shorter than his wife, dressed in shirtsleeves and a pair of worn jeans.

Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Her camera panned in a 270 degree arc to take in the country greenery of Governors Island, the orange patina of the Staten Island Ferry as it neared the terminal, the giant steel gantry cranes unloading a containership on the opposite shore of the river, the aggressive seagulls pestering the commuters for food, and a red and black tugboat pushing a scow filled to the brim with scrap metal towards the Lower Bay.

This is such a magnificent vista, Harvey, it reminds me when we were in Antwerp on the Scheldt River. Don’t you agree?

Her husband wasn’t paying attention to the surroundings; he seemed preoccupied with the bird that was now eying the couple warily. Silhouetted against the sky as it was, the bird reminded him of a painting he’d seen at a museum somewhere in their world travels, perhaps in Alexandria or in Prague, he couldn’t recall.

Harvey, did you hear what I said?

Uh-huh, I heard, I heard.

Well?

He quickly glanced up and down the river. I guess you’re right.

Of course, I’m right. I remember every place we’ve ever vacationed. Not like you, Harvey, you don’t remember anything. I swear, sometimes I think you have early on-set dementia.

He winked at the bird and mumbled under his breath. "Sometimes I wish I had dementia."

What did you say?

Nothing, dear.

Another helicopter roared above as it descended to land at the heliport and the bird shrieked angrily up at it.

The woman was startled and jumped away from the railing, almost dropping her expensive camera into the water. That bird is dangerous, it frightened the living daylights out of me.

He hates helicopters, Gladys. They’ve probably killed quite a few of his buddies over the years.

Just look at it, the bird is absolutely filthy, possibly even rabid.

That’s not dirt or soot, Gladys, it’s his natural color.

I bet it carries all sorts of nasty infectious diseases, the kind that could kill a person.

The bird swiveled its head and shrieked wildly at her.

She instinctively clutched at her throat and hastily retreated a few more steps. It’s going to attack me, Harvey, do something!

Her husband chuckled. Be careful what you say, Gladys, he seems to understand English.

Call the police, they can shoot it.

Don’t be silly, it’s a Cormorant. They’re ancient birds and smart as a whip. In China and Japan, the fishermen even train them to catch fish.

I don’t care, it seems dangerous to me.

You’ll be surprised to learn this little guy can dive more than 125 feet underwater to search for fish. Imagine that, Gladys, it’s an amazing feat.

The bird’s chest appeared to puff out with pride at the man’s flattering remark.

I’m not impressed, not one iota.

"And in Melville’s Paradise Lost, Satan disguised himself as a Cormorant so he could sneak into the Garden of Eden in order to tempt Eve."

She glared at the rear of her spouse’s skull. You store away the most useless pieces of information in that brain of yours, Harvey, stuff nobody else cares about. But when it comes to practical things, such as how to fix a leak in the kitchen sink, you haven’t got a clue.

Maybe I should’ve been a college professor instead of an insurance adjustor.

Maybe you should’ve been born with a little common sense.

An inaudible sigh was his only retort.

Come on, it’s time to go. We’ve got plenty of other sights to see before we go home to Denver tomorrow. She trod determinedly towards land.

The bird fluttered its wings and flew the short distance from the piling to a position on the railing directly in front of him.

He reached out with a tentative finger and stroked the bird’s long neck.

The Cormorant made a smooshing sound.

Then he suddenly remembered where he’d seen the bird image before -- at the Vatican Museum in Rome – flying high above the fray in a gigantic 15th. Century oil painting of the apocalyptic Battle of Armageddon, the climactic struggle for ultimate domination between the forces of Good and Evil in the world. The museum docent, a retired and cantankerous professor of Art History at the University of Florence, had referred to it as The Sentinel, that ancient guard from mythology who was responsible for keeping the world safe from harm.

Are you coming or not? his wife yelled impatiently, already more than fifty feet away

Don’t fall asleep on the job, he whispered to the bird, we’re all counting on you. Then he scurried after his wife.

*

Wall Street Blues

Tucker ‘Tuck’ Hobbs, 58, a potbellied man with flinty blue eyes, an incipient double-chin, and salt and pepper hair rapped the bar at Harry’s Bar in India House on Hanover Square for emphasis to his lunchtime drinking buddies. The USA has lost its AAA credit rating; this is a watershed event, a defining moment in our country’s history.

A tipsy pal swayed precariously. The spin-doctors are trying to put a happy face on it, however, it’s another nail in the coffin, another sign that America is in decline.

I blame it on the clowns in Congress.

According to the latest poll, Tuck, 91% of the American people disapprove of the job Congress is doing.

I’m one of them.

Me, too.

The Dow dropped 635 points yesterday and it’s down 220 so far today.

Do you think it’s time to buy?

Forget it, Jocko, you’d be trying to catch a falling knife.

Here we go again, Tuck, it’s beginning to smell like 2008 all over again.

Don’t remind me, most of my clients lost 40% of their portfolios when the stock market cratered because of all those sub-prime mortgages going bad.

The tipsy man belched. That doesn’t say very much about your skills as a stockbroker.

Hey, the economic gurus Greenspan and Bernanke never saw the Great Recession coming. Give me a break for Crissakes.

So what are you telling your clients to do with their money now? the horsy brunette with tortoise shell glasses asked.

I feed them my firm’s standard party line, he replied, the same message we’ve been broadcasting since 1946: buy our diversified mutual funds, adopt a long-term horizon, don’t sweat the daily ups and downs of the market.

She sneered at his advice. Do you really believe that horseshit you’re peddling?

He shook his head vigorously from side to side. No, Janet, of course, I don’t, I’m not a total jackass. Investing in the stock market today is akin to gambling in a casino; speculators are driving wild swings in prices. Anything-goes and the little guy is at a big disadvantage.

Correct.

There aren’t any long-term investments anymore, everything is a trade now. Long–term means hours -- you buy a stock in the morning and you sell it in the afternoon or the next day, at the very latest. We’re all dead in the long run.

So why don’t you be honest, Tuck, and tell your clients the truth?

His eyes scrunched downward. Because if I did, they’d pull their money out of the market and I wouldn’t earn any commissions.

I guess that makes you a hypocrite.

Yeah, Janet, but I’m a hypocrite who still has a fucking job and can make his fucking alimony payments.

Point taken.

In the old days, buy-and-hold was the strategy. We told our clients to purchase blue-chip names like GM, CIT, Pacific Gas & Electric, Texaco, or Eastman Kodak and then to forget about it for the next twenty-five years. When it came time to hang up the spurs, there’d be a pile of cash waiting for them.

All those companies have filed for bankruptcy.

Yeah, Janet, it only goes to show you how times have changed.

And change doesn’t happen gradually now, Tuck, it comes at the speed of light.

He nodded. I’m overwhelmed by it; the world is moving too fast and I feel as if I’m on a merry-go-round. I’m running scared and I don’t know where I’m supposed to be running to.

There are no safe havens anymore, everybody is scared.

The tipsy man sighed. Going to work for a major corporation after you graduated college used to be a sure ticket to a secure, prosperous life. That’s certainly not the case these days.

No, it isn’t, Tuck agreed. My brother-in-law was let go by Citigroup and has been out of work for almost two years. A 99-weeker, he’s exhausted all his unemployment insurance benefits. Nobody will hire him and the guy’s got an MBA from the prestigious Wharton School of Business."

If your brother-in-law had a degree in a useful field such as engineering or computer science, Tuck, he’d have his choice of jobs at Google, Intel, or Oracle. An MBA means he was just another over-paid, paper-pusher packaging crappy mortgages like all the other scam artists at banks.

Hmm.

Tell him to burn his Brooks Brothers suits on the Barbecue grill and enroll in a vocational school to study plumbing or cesspool cleaning, a trade that’s practical.

Egad!

If he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, Tuck, he can go to Barber College.

Barber College!

That’s right. He’d make a fortune giving $5 haircuts to down-and-out Wall Street guys who have to look respectable for their next job interview but can’t afford the $160 cuts they used to get when they were flush.

My sister would get hysterical, Jocko, they’re members of the snooty Scarsdale Country Club.

All he’d require is a folding chair, a mirror, a comb, scissors and a nice smock. He could set up shop in the parking lot of the Scarsdale railroad station and clip the city-bound commuters before they boarded the train in the morning.

What the hell have you been smoking?

Duh! It’s called thinking-outside-the-box, Tuck.

You’re fucking nuts!

A bartender interrupted. Keep it civil, guys, or take it outside.

Sorry, Tuck apologized, we’ll tone down the rhetoric.

Jocko shrugged as though he didn’t care whether they were tossed out of the bar or not. My final suggestion is that your brother-in-law go to Bodyguard School. The gap between the rich and poor in this country is getting so wide that soon you’re going to see a rash of kidnappings for ransom like what goes on in Mexico and South America.

You’re depressing me, Jocko, let somebody else have a word.

I feel sorry the most for retired people, Janet said, they’re sitting on top of a ticking financial time bomb. Many of them behaved responsibly -- they worked hard; didn’t overextend themselves by buying fancy houses, boats, airplanes, cars or taking vacations they couldn’t afford; they saved their money and were expecting to live off the interest on their savings the same as their parents had done -- but, with the Federal Reserve forcing interest rates down to almost zero, this elderly group has taken a big pay cut and is totally screwed.

Yeah and Social Security is going broke on top of it. In a way, it’s good my folks are dead and not here to see all the bad shit coming our way.

It’s a recipe for disaster, Tuck, most of our 55 million seniors will end up broke long before they die. Our society is going to be confronting a massive poverty problem.

I’ll tell you one thing, Janet, my objective is to spend my last dollar on the day I die.

Jocko exhaled noisily. A longer life expectancy has turned out to be a curse instead of a blessing. The glitch is we’re not dying fast enough; the Government is going to have to start knocking people off once they get to be 73 or so.

That’s such a horrible thing to say.

I don’t see any other way.

Tuck took another sip of whisky and smacked his lips. We’re facing a death spiral: the too-big-to-fail Zombie banks will only lend to big corporations who don’t need the funds; small businesses built this country but they can’t get loans to expand because the community banks are tapped out; house prices continue to decline while qualified home buyers can’t get mortgages to buy homes standing vacant; and the true unemployment figure is probably closer to 20 %.

I was watching CNBC the other day, Janet said, and they had an economist on who estimated the U.S. national debt, including entitlements for Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid, at over $120 trillion. I’m not a scaredy-cat, Tuck, but that’s an upsetting number.

Refresh my memory, Janet, is a trillion a thousand-million?

No, a trillion is a million-million, it’s got twelve zeroes.

Now that’s what I call serious dough.

The day of reckoning is coming, she continued, the national credit card is almost maxed out.

Tuck nodded. This country may already be technically bankrupt.

True, Jocko agreed, "plus the politicians in Washington are mostly anti-Wall Street; enacting strict new regulations designed to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. The Dodd – Frank Reform Act is 2,200 pages long and creates an alphabet soup of new agencies to oversee our business."

The Ten Commandments is only 179 words long.

Wall Street will never be the financial powerhouse it once was.

What hurts Wall Street hurts Main Street, Tuck said, don’t those Tea Party activists realize that?

No, they don’t; ignorance is a virtue in some parts of this country.

I can’t argue with you.

"Tough times require heroic leaders but our tone-deaf politicians are more interested in holding onto their jobs than doing their jobs. Instead of making the hard decisions and facing our problems head-on, they kick the can down the road to saddle the next generation with even bigger problems."

And they’re all crooks and betraying the public trust, Janet said, a day doesn’t go by without a politico being arrested for bribery or for sexting pictures of his pickle to college coeds.

That’s true.

We don’t live in a Democracy anymore, the USA has deteriorated into a KLEPTOCRACY where our elected officials are all on-the-make and robbing the country blind.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Jocko said.

Tuck chewed on an ice cube, trying not to gawp ravenously at the deep cleavage of a blonde standing nearby. His oral fixation created an overpowering tremor in his hands to reach out and stuff both her magnificent breasts into his mouth at the same time. I’m thinking if Wall Street publicly apologized to the American people for screwing things up, then Washington might go easier on us.

You mean like what the Japanese did when Toyota fucked up?

Exactly. Get the CEOs of the banks and investment firms to go in front of Congress and the TV cameras, make them bow solicitously and say they’re truly sorry for the awful mess they made of the American economy.

"It would help if a few of the bigwigs took out sharp knives and disemboweled themselves in public, Tuck, committing seppuku as Jap officials often did in World War II."

Boy, Jocko, that’d be a sight to behold in living 3-D color.

Yeah. The scalpers would have a field day.

Janet glowered. My son is graduating from Vanderbilt University next June and he asked me if he should come to Wall Street for a career.

What did you tell him?

I told him to forget it and go suck on the Government teat just as all the other freeloaders are doing in this country; to go work for the Post Office instead. He’d have more job security sorting mail and can retire in 20 years at 85% of his full pay.

Tuck took another sip of his whisky. My oldest daughter graduated from NYU last year with almost $80,000 in student loan debt; she still hasn’t been able to find a job and is living at home, driving her mother crazy, while waiting tables at a local diner in Short Hills for nickels and dimes. To make her loan payments, she’s been selling off her personal stuff on Craigslist.

Jocko belched again. I say the best thing to do is to live high on the hog and let the good times roll; borrow all you can, spend as if there’s no tomorrow; eat out at the best restaurants seven nights a week and dance your ass off at the trendy clubs; take luxurious trips to Asia and Europe, ski in Aspen, visit the spa in Baden-Baden, and lease a yacht to sail the Mediterranean in style.

But what happens when the bills come due? Tuck asked.

DEFAULT! You renounce your debts like Russia and Argentina did a few years ago; you walk away like all those homeowners are doing today in California, Michigan, Florida and Arizona; you file bankruptcy like GM and Chrysler did, there’s no social stigma anymore.

Your credit rating will be ruined?

Screw my credit rating! I’m not going to be buying any more houses or cars; I can’t even afford the ones I already own. Who needs a fucking credit rating?

Hmm.

A nerdy, young guy in a tie-dyed T-shirt with long greasy hair and a scraggly goatee strutted by the group and nodded at the potbellied man. Howdy Doody, Tuckeroo.

Tuck scowled at him as he passed.

Who’s the hippie? Jocko inquired.

"Fred or Ted, some such name; he’s a new hire at my firm, a Quant."

Another Rocket Scientist.

Yeah, he’s got a Ph.D. from MIT in Quantum Theory or String Theory, way-way-out shit. It’s all above my simple mind.

Me, I had trouble with fractions in school.

Apparently we’re paying him a gazillion dollars to create mathematical models that will predict the ups and downs in the stock market.

The black-box guys got their heads handed to them in 2008, Jocko said, their supercomputers and models failed miserably.

True, however, this kid is supposed to be another genius like Einstein.

Einstein lost money in the stock market when he was alive, Tuck, I read it in his biography.

Tell my Senior Managing Director to read that fucking book.

Jocko grimaced. You can’t apply scientific reasoning to fluctuations in the stock market because human behavior is impulsive and illogical.

You’re right.

The fallacy is that scientists think risk is a measurable uncertainty.

Well, Jocko, isn’t it?

"It is when you’re talking about known unknowns, Tuck, the risks we are all aware of."

Hmm.

"The difficulty arises with the unknown unknowns, the risks that we don’t even know exist."

I think I’d need another drink, Jocko, to understand what you’re trying to tell me.

Does this kid know a lot about the securities business?

Tuck made a face. "Nada; my cat knows more about it than him."

Then a clairvoyant with a deck of tarot cards would be of more use to your firm.

You betcha, Jocko, and much cheaper too.

It’s a case of the blind-leading-the-blind, Tuck, no wonder the country is in so much trouble.

Yeah.

The kid is a smart aleck, the tipsy man said, glaring in his direction, I’d like to cold-cock him and then kick him in the nuts while he’s down!

Tuck drummed his fingers on the bar, a sure sign that he was about to disclose awful news. Did you guys hear about what happened to poor Jimmy Donovan?

What? the others asked in unison, clutching their cocktail glasses more tightly as they sensed the news was going to be very bad indeed.

Let’s order another round before I tell you, Tuck suggested, it’s a grisly tale and a possible harbinger of things to come for all of us.

Make mine a double! Jocko shouted to the bartender before anyone else could react.

*

Frank & Claire

Frank Mills, 79, didn't look that old although he felt much older than he was.  A roly-poly, gravel-voiced man with a cherubic countenance, curmudgeonly disposition, crinkly hazel eyes, and thinning gray hair, he parked every afternoon on a bench in the courtyard of Trinity Church on lower Broadway. The Episcopal house of worship, the oldest public building in continuous use in New York, was originally built in 1698 and destroyed, the first time, in the big fires of 1776 when the British occupied the city and forced George Washington and the Continental Army to flee north to White Plains.

It stands opposite the landmarked Art Deco office building where he had worked for 44 years.  Coincidentally, the building and he were the same age; the ziggurat limestone skyscraper was erected in 1931, the year of his birth, and for the brief period of eleven days, it garnered the distinction of being the tallest structure in the world, until one 23 feet taller topped out on nearby Broad Street.

They didn't build buildings like it anymore.  The edifice had aged gracefully over the years and it remained as elegant and sturdy today as the day the cornerstone had been laid. The lobby was, and still is, an architectural marvel of inlaid wood, lofty marble columns, red and gold mosaic tiles, stainless steel, lacquer, frosted glass and sweeping curves; he loved that building.

 He, in contrast, hadn’t fared so well; arthritis deformed a few of his fingers, his posture was slightly stooped, and the lump under his armpit, the one he was going for the biopsy on next week, hurt more each day.

The company he worked for had been merged out of existence decades ago, a casualty of the first hostile takeover in the banking industry, however, its name still lived on in a fashion, chiseled into the soft stone above the building’s main entrance. The cost to remove it was, no doubt, considered to be an unnecessary expense by the current owner.

One of the things he missed most about his employer’s demise was the newsletter the bank had published. In addition to updating you on general corporate news, it contained an obituary section which enabled retirees to keep abreast of the deaths of former co-workers. As the situation stood now, he hadn’t the faintest idea who, amongst them, was still alive and who had passed away.

Frank realized that the people who worked on Wall Street now were reviled as a result of the financial crisis and the taxpayer funded bailouts of the banks. Millions of home mortgages had been made to unqualified buyers – called liar loans -- even dead people managed to obtain mortgages. Bankers bundled (securitized) this shitty paper and sold it to thousands of unsuspecting insurance companies and pension funds, making obscene profits.

And there was no accountability when the giant house of cards collapsed since the bankers had no skin in the game -- none of their own money was on the line – they placed huge bets using other peoples’ money. For them, it was an all reward–no risk strategy; they pocketed exorbitant bonuses and walked away very rich people, often landing lucrative jobs at other financial institutions despite their dismal track records, thanks to the Old Boy Network. Of course, mom and pop investors lost billions.

If he were still working today, the public would despise him too; he’d be tarred with the same broad brush that tarnished the entire banking industry. But the man in the street would be wrong, he hadn’t been a fat cat investment banker. As a commercial banker he had financed business and industrial transactions -- the import and export of coffee, cocoa, talc, fertilizer, corn, sugar, spices, lumber, pistachios; he extended working capital loans to small companies so they could purchase raw materials and make payroll. It was nitty-gritty banking that supported the flow of international commerce and created jobs for people all over the world. No matter what others thought, his conscience was clear.

Claire Poole, 44, a petite, moon-faced woman with chestnut curls and lucent green eyes, sat down next to him on the bench, interrupting his reverie. She was attractive in a tomboyish sort of way and wore a conservative white blouse and a navy blue pants suit. Her immense purse was stuffed with business memos and tasty treats to eat.

"Buenas tardes, senor."

Hiya, Claire.

How’s the world treating you?

Ignoring me, as usual, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.

Hmm.

The days are beginning to run together.

What’s going on up in that noggin of yours?

My mind is a busy place, Claire, you’d be surprised at the thoughts percolating in my brain.

I’m sure I’d be alarmed. She held out a candy wrapper. Care for a Gummy Panda?

He took one and chewed on it. Delicious."

I also have Fig Newtons and crushed Oreos; want some?

No, thanks, I’ve got a sweet tooth but my doctor says I got to go easy on the sugar.

Then how about a delicious cookie sandwich with a bacon-chive-goat-cheese filling guaranteed to melt in your mouth?

It sounds wonderful but it’d be disastrous for my cholesterol.

Too bad, Frank, that just leaves more for me.

He shot her a sideways glance. How can a string-bean like yourself eat so much junk food and still be so thin?

My job is stressful, it burns away the excess calories quickly.

He sighed enviously. I wish my days were more hectic; I’ve got nothing more pressing to do than sit here on this bench.

Old people enjoy sitting on benches, Frank, you see them doing that all over the city.

Not me, I hate it.

I’m looking forward to retiring myself; I can’t wait.

I thought you enjoyed being a scalp-hunter at the SEC.

I love it but there are other things I’m chomping at the bit to do.

Such as?

Traveling; the world is filled with interesting places and I want to see them all.

Hmm.

Maybe even live in Asia for a few years as an ex-pat and teach English in Vietnam.

That’s not for me, he said, I’m a homebody, a city slicker with no outdoorsy inclinations whatsoever, highly allergic to poison ivy and immune to all of Nature’s other charms. I never had any interest in straying far from New York; I never even owned a car. Everything I want is located right here.

They say travel broadens the mind.

He nodded. So do vodka martinis, Claire, after downing three of them I have a definite mind-broadening experience. And I don’t have to be worried about bad weather delaying my flight, or being strip-searched at airports, or being stuffed into economy seats designed for anorexics.

Well, I’m made differently, I’ve definitely got a gypsy in my soul.

"My wife was of German descent; over there they call the travel bug wanderlust. Mary also had the urge to see faraway, exotic places."

It seems to me, Frank, you’re stuck in a rut; you’re don’t seem to be enjoying your golden years.

I detest retirement!

Hmm.

Work prevents us from getting older than we are. Having nothing to do from morning to night is debilitating, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

My late grandmother, a former nurse, used to say that in order to have a successful old age a person must keep a positive attitude and find a way to stay busy. She, for example, became an expert knitter as a retiree.

It’s different for men, Claire, men are defined by their jobs; we are what we do. When we’re put out to pasture we lose our reason for being, it’s all downhill from then on out for us.

Don’t you have any hobbies, Frank?

Not anymore, exploring the city with my wife was my sole hobby.

I realize you miss her. She clutched his arm affectionately.

"Mary and I got married and we lived happily-ever-after, Claire, just like it says in the fairy tale books. Only now in the real world, it’s after happily-ever-after time and I’m stranded here alone without her."

Hmm.

Congress needs to pass a law; when you’ve been married to someone for fifty years, you ought to have the right to die together with that person in the same hospital bed. The doctors should be allowed to give you a lethal injection if you demand one.

Life can have a Second Act, Frank.

He shrugged dismissively as if it wasn’t even a remote possibility.

Did you ever consider writing your memoirs?

Nobody would be interested.

Why not?

I’ve not a marquee name, Claire, there’s no drama or spicy scandal to titillate a reader into buying my book.

You could write a fictionalized memoir and make up a little drama and scandal.

Phooey!

Well, at least you’ve got friends, Frank, I’ve seen you with them at the Bull & Bear.

Yes, I stop by there most nights for a couple of drinks and to listen to the war stories.

That’s healthy, you can’t be alone all the time; you’ve got to interact with other people.

He noticed her fingers fidgeting with the clasp on her purse, compulsively opening and closing it. "Claire, you and I do have one thing in common."

Oh, what?

Neither of us is a chatterbox and given to idle chit-chat. So tell me, why are you here now instead of slaving away back in your office like the workaholic you are, ferreting out stock market cheats?

You’re not as dumb as you look, old man.

He tapped his temple. I’ll be 80 next March and I’ve only got a few active brain cells left, but enough to know when I’m being flimflammed.

She nodded. Ok, let me ask you a direct question.

Go ahead.

Did you ever in your banking career have any dealings with law enforcement?

The NYPD?

No, Frank, I was thinking more along the lines of Federal Agencies.

He sat forward on the bench. A bunch of years ago a customer of mine in the freight-forwarding business got into financial difficulties. The owners tried to solve their cash flow problem by doing a little money laundering and currency smuggling on the side.

And you got wise to them?

I grew suspicious over wire transfers and foreign exchange transactions with companies in countries they didn’t do business with.

I see.

I alerted my bank’s Senior Credit Officer and he notified Treasury and Customs.

What happened?

He frowned. It ended badly for all concerned. My bank wrote-off a sizable loan when the company filed bankruptcy and the owners ended up in Federal prison for a long stretch.

That was very astute of you.

It just didn’t smell kosher, he said, touching his nose.

"I may be able to use your nose on a new case I’m working on.

His mouth fell open. Is this some kind of sick joke?

No, Frank, I’m serious. It involves insider-trading and that’s only the tip of the iceberg.

He sat up ramrod straight and sucked in his chin as soldiers do when at attention. If my country needs me, Claire, I can’t refuse the call.

She rolled her eyes. "If I had only remembered to bring an American flag with me, Frank, you could wrap yourself up in it and sing The Star-Spangled Banner."

There’s no denying that Frank Mills is a patriot.

So was Benedict Arnold, for a time.

Do I get to wear a badge?

No!

Can I carry a gun?

Certainly not!

When do I spring into action?

I’m bringing someone along with me to the Bull & Bear tomorrow night, Frank, perhaps you can have a drink and dinner with us.

Are you buying, Claire?

Uncle Sam is buying.

He grinned from ear to ear. In that case, count me in. I’d like to finally see some of my hard-earned tax dollars being spent wisely for a change.

She rose to her feet. We’ll be there at seven.

It’s a date, Claire.

And Frank, please don’t mention our chat today to any of your gossipy cronies.

He gave her a smart half-salute. Loose lips sink ships!

She sighed apprehensively. I hope I’m not making a grievous mistake in getting a simpleton like yourself involved in a major fraud case.

*

The Damn Computer

The weather outside had deteriorated sharply and the bar’s windows rattled when the rain blew horizontally. Everyone held fresh drinks in their hands and Tuck Hobbs allowed the Irish whisky to roll around an aching molar before commencing his tale of woe. Our buddy Jimmy Donovan was just fired despite working two decades at his firm. The poor guy got booted out on his ass like you’d throw away a beloved old suit that was no longer in style.

I can’t believe it! The tipsy man swayed precariously but steadied himself by gripping the edge of the bar. I thought Jimmy and his boss were as close as blood brothers.

"His boss didn’t fire him, Jocko, the computer fired Jimmy."

The computer?

That’s right. About six months ago the new CEO put a computer in charge of all hiring and firing at the firm. It is a management technique she learned about at her Harvard Business School reunion and is apparently all the rage today.

Jocko now had both hands firmly attached to the bar. I … I never heard of such a kooky, farcical, buffoonish notion!

How does it work exactly? Janet inquired.

Well, as I understand it, the computer works up a personal Profit & Loss statement on all traders every Friday after the markets close.

Hmm.

"It calculates exactly how much money each