Megan Abbott - Wall Street Noir

Their relationship was rocky from the start. At first, Ellis had tried to be the teacher’s pet — solicitous and deferential to the point of obsequious. Then he’d tried to make himself her indispensable ally and coconspirator — always ready to share a confidence, always fishing for one in return, and always the latest in rumors, speculation, and snarky political gossip from across the firm. When neither approach had gotten him far, he’d taken a different — riskier — tack: coming on to Trisha at the golf outing last May. He’d kissed her hard on the mouth behind the pro shop at the country club in Armonk, and Trisha laughed in his face. On reflection, she realized she’d have done better to slap him. That was the peculiar thing about Ellis’s type: They’d eat dogshit to get ahead, but not if anyone was watching. Personal embarrassment was intolerable. From that ill-fated kiss forward, Ellis Quantrill had put Trisha Tanglewood in his crosshairs. She knew it, and he knew she knew it.

The factory was clean and modern. Most of the machinery was new, and what wasn’t, was perfectly maintained. The workers sat in neat rows, and they moved quickly. Still, the production area was terribly noisy. There were a lot of hand gestures and head shakes, and very little speaking. Near the end of the tour, Ellis tapped Trisha on the shoulder and shepherded her into an empty break room. Christ, she thought, what now? Some new ploy to curry favor? Was he going to profess his love this time? That would be a novel approach. They took off their ear protection.

“Noisy, isn’t it?” he said.

“What do you want, Ellis?” Trisha enjoyed being curt with him.

“Just a quick word about tonight.”

“What about tonight?”

“We’ve set up a thing this evening—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa — the only thing I’m doing tonight is getting in my bed by 8.”

Ellis grimaced in mock pain. “It’s set already. No clients — just you and the team, for drinks, dinner, more drinks — very casual. You know the drill.”

“Christ, Ellis, why the hell didn’t you run it by me first? I can barely keep my eyes open as it is; no way I’m going to—”

“I know you’re beat, but it’s important to them. I don’t care one way or the other myself, but these guys have been down here for weeks now, working sixteen-hour days. A night out with the new skipper — a chance to let their hair down, maybe collect a few attaboys — it’ll mean a lot to these kids.” Trisha shook her head, but Ellis was undeterred. “And it won’t hurt you, either, to build some support amongst the rank and file — a little grassroots loyalty.” She kept shaking her head, but more slowly. Ellis gave her one his ironic frat-boy grins, and a tone to match. “Come on, chief — don’t pussy out on me. Have another coffee, and be a man.”

Fucking Ellis , Trisha thought, and forced a thin smile in return. “I’m back at the hotel by midnight, or it’s your ass.”

Trisha had only the lowest expectations when it came to enforced camaraderie, but — while she wasn’t about to suckle Ellis Quantrill to her bosom — she had to admit that the evening wasn’t horrible, at least not to start with. The Paisley Shutter team that had worked so hard on the Mega-Mart — PriceStar project assembled in an Asian restaurant that featured a mix of Thai, Korean, and Japanese foods. A bizarre setting in the midst of northwest Honduras, to be sure, but just one more blur to set atop all the other blurs that had become Trisha’s over-caffeinated day. Someone — Ellis probably — knew that she rode, and the team presented Trisha with a miniature saddle, smaller than her cell phone, as a souvenir. It was an exquisite piece of local craftsmanship, and it was even Western-style. Saki and champagne and local beer flowed freely, and Ellis made a point of keeping his distance. Trisha caught just glimpses of him, and only now and then. She appreciated his restraint.

As things wound down, the men in the group did the Cuban cigar thing, while the women gathered around Trisha to give her the lowdown on shopping and restaurants back in Tegucigalpa. Trisha found herself engaged by the conversation and felt something like her old self again. It was the longest time she’d gone without thinking of her dad in months.

“But there’s one thing,” Pam Richter, a junior analyst, said, her voice turning suddenly serious. “When you’re in Teguz or anywhere in-country, you don’t want to—”

“Come on, Pammy, don’t spoil the evening with this shit,” chided Maggie Wilson, a five-year Paisley Shutter vet. “It’s nonsense and Trisha’s only going to be here a few days.”

Trisha waved away Maggie’s concern. “No, go ahead, Pam,” she said.

“It’s not safe for American women to walk the streets alone in certain parts of the cities, especially after dark.”

“Why only American women?” Trisha asked. “Baby thieves!” Pam blurted.

“What?”

“It’s a Central American urban legend. You know, like the one back home — about a couple who snatch a kid in Toys ‘R’ Us and change his clothes in the bathroom and dye his hair. The baby thieves myth is even bigger here, and in Guatemala too.”

“I’ve never heard that one,” Trisha said. “I only know about the poodle in the microwave.”

“Well, boss, here the myths and legends are a little more... um, radical. Here the story goes that rich American women fly down, pick out their babies, have the mothers executed, and ship the kids back to the States to raise as their own.”

“Jesus Christ,” Trisha breathed. “That’s... horrible.”

“It’s also a load of crap,” Maggie said. “Whenever the government feels threatened, or the economy takes a hit, they spread these rumors around. The good old U.S. of A. still makes one hell of a convenient scapegoat. And it’s not like our government hasn’t screwed with folks down here before. The trouble is, the rumors linger even after they’ve served their political purposes — and especially in the poorest areas.”

“That’s why it’s not safe,” Pam said, and then she read her boss’s face. “Shit, I freaked you out, didn’t I? I’m sorry to have mentioned it. I...”

Trisha managed a smile. “No, that’s okay — and I appreciate the heads-up. I’m just tired is all. Maybe we better call it a night.”

But it wasn’t all right. Pam’s story had somehow brought all of Trisha’s vertigo and sadness rushing back, and the alcohol had only made things worse. Trisha stared at the table, and at the tiny saddle she’d been given, nearly lost amidst the empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, and sodden napkins. At some point it had acquired a tiny rider — a stiff-limbed man made from skinny plastic straws. He was tilted and reeling, barely hanging on above a puddle of Scotch, and Trisha felt very much the same. She looked up and saw Ellis Quantrill standing ten feet away. He raised his cognac to her, a mischievous smile on his face. Had he been listening? No, she thought, it was just booze and paranoia.

Back at the hotel, she took a long hot bath. Her thoughts kept drifting to Pete Dutton, and after a while her fingers drifted to her pussy. She masturbated over and over again, imagining any number of ways Pete Dutton might have her, or she him. Her orgasms were as intense as if the sex was real, and it scared her a little. She found she liked being scared, that it heightened her climax and took away some of her sadness. She found his card in her purse and placed it on her bedside, but didn’t call the number.

She still hadn’t called thirty-six hours later, when a plane returned her to Tegucigalpa. Trisha had the driver take her straight to the hotel. The sky was turquoise blue and cloudless, but the streets of the capital city spread out before her in a muddy blur. She was exhausted and headachy. The traffic noise mixed with colors around her, the colors merged with indistinct shapes, and pretty soon the whole world was sliding away. She couldn’t focus on anything, and she found herself filled with... what... homesickness? She missed her old job; she missed her dad; she even missed Tommy Skilling, the first boy she’d let slip a hand into her panties, in a car on a roadside just north of Laramie. She hadn’t thought of him in years. She opened the door to her hotel suite and her world came back into focus.