Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“I know, I know. Don’t tell me. I’ve been kicking myself.”

“You’re making money. You bought five hundred — that’s five grand.”

“Yeah, but if only I’d really trusted your judgment. I’m not trusting enough! You get so fucked around in my business, everything’s so — uh, uh, compromised.”

“Well, you know the old saying about Wall Street. All we’ve got is our word. If there’s no trust, there’s no trading.”

Sammy swung his chair to face Eric and began to masturbate an invisible penis in the air. His hand moved in long strokes and he made a mocking face of an ecstatic expression. Eric smiled at Sammy, but Joe, his face reddening, whispered furiously: “How dare you! Do your work, instead of making fun.”

Meanwhile, Fred was almost shouting in Eric’s ear. “I know, I know, that’s the way it is in the real world. Just my crazy business. Anyway, why don’t we buy some more? Say five thousand shares.”

“Whoa! That’s almost a hundred thousand dollars.”

Fred sounded firm, manly. “Well, no risk, no gain.”

“That’s no pain, no gain. And this could be painful. Stock drops five points and you’re out twenty-five grand.”

“I thought you liked this stock.”

“I liked the stock at nine. It’s more than doubled.”

Joe looked, somewhat fiercely, at Eric. Joe waved off Irene, who was indicating she had a call for him. “Don’t you think it’s going up more?” Fred said, innocent confusion in his voice.

Eric said, “Could you hang on for a second?”

“For my favorite broker, you bet.”

Eric covered the receiver and said to Joe. “What?”

“He wants to buy, let him buy,” Joe said.

“We’re looking to get out,” Eric said. “I’m ready to close out half the Winningham account if it gets to twenty.”

“That’s five thousand shares,” Joe said. “This is a thin stock. His order could get it up to twenty. Then you get the Winningham account out.”

“What’s the point? If Fred ends up losing.”

“We don’t get an incentive fee with Mr. Tatter. We get commissions. He trades on and off. He’s small fish. You protect your own. Winningham is family.” Joe, evidently convinced he had closed the subject, took his phone call.

“He’s big family!” Sammy said, rubbing his fingers together to indicate money.

Eric returned to the phone. “Fred, can I call you right back?”

“Uh, well, I want to make the trade at the opening.”

“I’ll get back to you in five minutes.” Once off, Eric sat and waited for Joe to finish his call.

Sammy watched Eric waiting. After a minute of this silence, he said, “You’re too nice.”

“What’s nice? It’s not good business. I’m making money for Fred—”

“ We’re making money for Fred,” Sammy lectured.

“No!” Eric shouted.

Joe frowned at him and said to the phone, “I have to call you back.”

Eric continued at Sammy: “I’m making money. New Systems was the first decent gainer he’s had. I gave it to Fred because I thought he was getting fed up with us. He needed a big winner. To turn it into a loss is stupid.”

“I see,” Sammy said. “You make the bold move of getting your father-in-law to invest and now you’re an expert on keeping clients.”

“I can’t have this kind of disruption in the office!” Joe shouted. “What did you tell Mr. Tatter?”

“I said I’d call him back,” Eric answered. “I’m satisfied with the gains in New Systems. I bought it on the basis of their accounting software for IBM. They’ve won that market. We’ve had a hundred percent gain. I don’t want to go in deeper.”

“You’re not trading for Mr. Tatter. He’s making the decision. You don’t have to work that hard for him. You warned him it’s risky. That fulfills your obligation.”

“I don’t know,” Eric said, doubt creeping in. Joe understood these matters. He had built up a remarkably loyal list of investors, most of whom had given him discretion, didn’t complain when they were churned, hung on during lean or flat times, and were grateful when there were gains.

“That’s right!” Sammy shouted. “You don’t know! Do what you’re told!”

“Samuel!” Joe pressed so hard on the desk that he partially lifted himself up. “Apologize immediately! What is this? We’re partners,” Joe said, gesturing to Eric. “Eric is free to tell his client what he wants. I was merely advising him.”

“Oh, please, Papa!” Sammy swung his head from side to side, almost moaning. “Please stop the bullshit. You don’t have to put on this act. Eric doesn’t have the guts to leave.”

Eric felt a shock, his fingers electric, the comfortable chair vibrating him out of his comfort, back to the hard and lumpy world of dissatisfaction.

Irene and the other secretary, Carol, both looked away. Sammy sat panting, his thin body pointed forward. Joe’s owlish square body and big head became still. Only Joe’s eyes blinked, flashers on a stalled car.

Eric tried to speak, but he croaked instead. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t even bother to answer him,” Joe said softly.

But Eric managed to find his voice. “I’ll walk out right now,” he said to Sammy. “If that’s what you really believe.”

“Yeah,” Sammy said, shaking his head. He glanced at the ticker. “Market’s open.”

“Either apologize to Eric,” Joe said, “or get out.”

“No, no,” Eric said, and tried to wave Joe off, but he could barely lift his arm. His muscles were unstrung, limp in the chair. “If you believe it, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Do you believe it?”

“ I know it’s nonsense,” Joe said.

Sammy had kept his eye on the ticker. “You were right, Papa. The oils are getting a play.”

“I want an apology,” Joe said. “I’m not as nice as Eric. You accused me of being a hypocrite.”

Sammy kept his eyes on the restless stream of numbers. “I’m not afraid. I will leave.”

“Sammy,” Irene said, low, an oboe playing beneath the melody.

“Then please do so,” Joe said. He glanced at Irene. “Who’s on hold?”

“Mr. French,” she said. “Sammy,” she repeated.

Joe picked up the phone. “How are you today, Mr. French?”

“Are you serious!” Sammy screamed without warning, twisting his body away from the stock quotes, leaning forward across the table, his face thrust at Joe.

Joe swiveled, giving his back to Sammy, and continued to the phone, “I can’t recommend it on the basis of what I know. What did your friend say was going on?”

“I’m only going to ask you once!” Sammy screamed. His volume tore up the words’ coherence, ripping them to pieces. “Are you serious!”

“Pardon me,” Joe said, and put his hand over the phone. He turned to face Sammy. “Yes.” Then he swiveled back. “I’m sorry, go on.”

Sammy slammed his hand on the table. Irene jumped back. Eric, horrified, got up and pleaded, “Sammy, forget it.”

“Get out of my face!” Sammy said, slapping at Eric’s outstretched hand. “You stupid fool! Errand boy! I could stand you when you were just a nice schmuck, but Eric the Great Stock Adviser is just too much bullshit.”

He walked out. Eric looked stupidly at the door and, after a few moments, turned back to check on Joe’s reaction. Joe pretended nothing had happened. The owl was still on his perch, talking in a pompous mumble, apparently unmoved.

Sammy and Joe had had many terrible fights. Eric and Sammy had often screamed at each other. But no one ever walked out, or was asked to, for that matter. Sammy spoke his contempt for Eric with thorough conviction. He hadn’t meant his words simply to hurt; he believed them.