you got the guts to be rich? Does it scare you to make real money? I'm offering you a chance to get out of that rut you're in. Do you want to live like a man or do you want to play kids' games all your life?'
Invariably he closed the deal.
Manny Suarez loved the place, couldn't wait to get to work in the morning. It was eight to twelve hours of noisy action, right up his alley. Coe assigned him one of the few vacant desks, gave him a script and sucker list, and turned him loose. Manny imitated the other yaks, with a few significant changes.
He picked out the Hispanic names on his list, and although he made the pitch rapidly in Spanish, he never shouted. Instead, his voice was warm, friendly. Their health? The health of their family? And how did they like the United Sta'? Then, after a few moments of his intimate chitchat, he launched into the spiel.
He discovered he had a real talent for bamboozling. He closed the deal on almost half his calls, a percentage that rivaled that of the most experienced yaks. And during the second day he was on the job, he sold $25,000 of nonexistent platinum to a mooch in Los Angeles, a coup that impelled Sid Coe to give him a $500 bonus on the spot.
Payday was Saturday afternoon. The yaks filed into the ground-floor office, one by one, and were paid their commissions in cash from a big stack of bills on Coe's desk, alongside a brutal.45 automatic. For his first week's work, Manuel Suarez earned over $900, including his five-yard bonus.
'You're doing real good,' Coe told him. 'You like the job?'
'It's hokay,' Manny said. 'But I need more Hispanic names.'
'You'll get them,' the boss promised. 'I buy our sucker lists from a guy in Chicago who supplies most of the boiler rooms in the country. I called him, and he's going to run his master list through a computer and pull every Spanish-sounding name for us. He says it's a great idea, and he's also going to get up an Italian list, a French list, and a Polish list. Apparently no one ever thought of ethnic sucker lists before. It could help the whole industry.'
Suarez pocketed his earnings and drove down to headquarters. It was then late Saturday afternoon, but Anthony Harker was still at his desk, working on a big chart that he covered up when Manny came into his office.
'Hey, man,' Suarez said, flashing a grin, 'I got a small problem.'
'Yeah?' Tony said. 'How small?'
'I just got paid at Coe's boiler room. Do I gotta turn in the moaney to this organization or what?'
'I asked Crockett. He says you'll have to turn in the money. Sorry.'
'Hokay,' Suarez said.
'By the way,' Harker said, 'how much did you make?'
'Almost three hundred,' Suarez said, and bopped out to his car, snapping his fingers and smiling at all the women he passed.
He stopped at a few stores before returning to the home of the Cuban lady where he was staying. She was nicely put together. And she seemed muy simpatica. Manny bought five pounds of barbecued ribs, a liter of light Puerto Rican rum, and drove homeward whistling 'Malaguena.'
On Monday morning there were new scripts on all the yaks' desks. They were no longer peddling platinum. Now they were to push shares of stock in something called the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. One dollar per share; 1,000 shares minimum. Suarez picked up his phone and went to work.
23
On his way to Birdie Winslow's condo, David Rathbone stopped at a florist on Atlantic Boulevard. The place was crowded, with two clerks trimming and wrapping flowers at a back counter.
Just inside the door was a display of lavender mums. They were bunched by the dozen with maidenhair, each bouquet held by a rubber band. The sign read: $20 per dozen. Glancing at the busy clerks to make certain he was unobserved, Rathbone selected a bouquet, then slipped a single mum from another bunch and added it to his selection. He took the thirteen flowers to the desk, had them wrapped in green tissue, paid the $20 plus tax, and was on his way.
Mrs. Winslow met him at the door of her apartment clad in a paisley muumuu that hid her lumpish body. David proffered his bouquet.
'A dozen mums!' she cried. 'How divineV
'Baker's dozen,' he said, smiling. 'About an eight-point-four percent return on investment.'
'What?' she said, puzzled. 'Well, they're lovely, and I thank you for them. But you've been a naughty, naughty boy. You haven't called me once, and I thought you had just forgotten little old me.'
'No chance of that,' he said, touching her cheek.
'But I've been to Europe since I saw you last and came home to a deskful of work.'
She motioned toward the couch, then took the mums into the kitchen. She returned with the flowers in a crystal vase half-filled with water.
'Don't they look divine?' she said. 'Lavender is one of my favorite colors. Now where shall I put them?'
He glanced around. He couldn't blame her for the way the apartment was furnished since it was a rented condo, but the decoration was really horrendous, the upholstery and wallpaper all fuchsia poppies and bilious green palm fronds.
'Perhaps on top of the TV set,' he suggested.
She placed the vase there and stood back to admire the effect. 'Sooo pretty,' she murmured. Then: 'I made a pitcher of your favorite-vodka gimlets.'
'Just what I was hoping for.'
She brought him a warm drink in a small glass with one lone ice cube. He sipped and decided it had to be the worst vodka gimlet he had ever tasted, so limey that it puckered his lips.
'Delicious,' he said. 'Aren't you having any?'
'A diet cola for me,' she caroled. 'I've been trying so hard to lose weight.'
'Oh Birdie,' he said, 'you're not too heavy. You're like my gimlet-just right.'
'Thank you, kind sir,' she simpered, brought her drink and sat close to him on the couch.
He lifted his glass in a toast. 'Here's to health and wealth,' he said.
'And love,' Mrs. Winslow said, looking at him through her false lashes. 'Don't forget love.'
He set his drink on the glass-topped cocktail table.
'Birdie, I hope you've been getting your statements regularly.'
'Yes, I have, and that's something I want to talk to you about.'
'Is anything wrong?'
'Well, my next-door neighbor has an account with Merrill Lynch, and he says that every time he buys something or sells something he gets a confirmation slip. Should I be getting confirmation slips, David?'
'None of my clients ask for them, but you can certainly have them if you wish. I just didn't want to flood you with a lot of unnecessary paper. After all, the purchases and sales I make on your behalf show up every month on your statement.'
'That's true. So you don't think I need confirmations?'
'Not really. Just more paper to file away and forget.'
'I suppose you're right. I can't tell you how pleased I am with the way my money has grown.'
'And it's going to do even better,' he said. 'Why, just this morning I got a tip from a friend on Wall Street about a new commodity trading fund that's being organized. If we get in on the ground floor, I can practically guarantee a fifty-percent return.'
'Oh David, that is exciting!'
He finished his drink manfully. But it did him no good; she brought him another.
'Now let's forget about business for a while,' she said, 'and just relax. It's been so long since we've been together. I hope you don't have to rush off.'
'Not immediately,' he said. 'But I do have an appointment in about an hour.'
'Plenty of time,' she assured him. She rose, held her hand out to him. 'I bought a new clock-radio for the bedroom,' she said. 'Would you like to see it?'
