Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (3 page)

The sound of the phone interrupted his calculations.

"Loring Weatherby speaking," he said
without taking his eyes off the screen.

His sister's voice, tearful. "Why do you hate
me? What have I ever done to you to make you — ?"

"I don't hate you, you know that," he said,
trying to keep his eye on the screen.

"All you ever think about is yourself. I ask you
to come to my wedding and you're too busy. . ."

She was wrong. He had tried to explain before but she
could never seem to understand. You were fine, but you were connected
to them, too, and I hated that. I had to shut you out, too . . .

"No, Karen, you know that . . ." he said.

She paid no attention, and on the screen disaster
struck. Someone had had the same idea and beat him to it, splitting
the bid and asked on Armstrong Communications at a half. Now the
three-quarters asked was a memory. He punched in at a half to sell
too, but it wasn’t accepted. He backed off to three-eighths, but
still nothing.

And Karen still going on about "the most special
day of my life, I wanted my family together, the four of us, you and
me and mom and dad — "

"
Don't call him that," he heard himself say
as he watched the screen.

"
Why do you always have to act like this? He's
been a good father ever since daddy's death . . ."

Defending them, like always, he thought. On the
screen new sales figures were showing. Not as good as he had hoped
but something. No bid was showing. He punched in a quarter. It was
not accepted.

Then he remembered Federal Telephone & Telegraph.
In the turmoil of Karen’s call and Armstrong Communications decline
he had forgotten it. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and
yelled to Paul to check Federal Telephone for him. Paul yelled back
that it was still up a half but the two points had gone. Everything
was crumbling. He’d had two winners in hand and had missed the
beat, he'd missed the rhythm. Karen’s fault. He took his defeat,
punched in even for the Armstrong. It was accepted, and for the day
he got out up three-quarters, but he still felt he had failed. He
punched in the symbol for Federal Telephone, made the sale order and
took his lumps there, too. This time it was flat, no profit at all.

He turned from the screen. Karen was still there . .
. "Loring, the other day I was going through my bureau and I
found a picture that you drew. It was from the year daddy died. It
was a picture of a picnic. Do you remember it?" He didn’t
answer. "You drew the three of us, you and me and mommy sitting
on a blanket that looked like one of mom’s tapestries. The sun was
shining. Everyone was smiling. Wolf was with us and playing with his
ball. Over in the corner you drew an ant carrying off a sandwich on
his back and he was smiling. Do you remember?"

Loring kept still. He saw the picture in his mind,
and it was enough.

"And do you remember how when you went to St.
Ignatius, before we moved to Chicago, I would come and visit you
every Thursday, and how Father Mike would let us go into Villanova?
We would walk around looking in all the stores and have hamburgers .
. ."

"I remember," he said into the mouthpiece,
his voice raspy now.

"I want you at my wedding, I need you there . .
."

He knew it would be a mistake. No good would come of
it. It would be a retreat to the past, to dredge up the moments he'd
spent years trying to forget. But he could not bring himself to say
no again, to hurt her. He said he would come but wouldn't stay with
them, his mother and stepfather. At least she seemed appeased some
and he escaped the phone.

When he looked up Milt Lewis was passing his desk.
"You okay, Loring?"

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"Hey, you look sort of strung out. It's been a
bad day all around. Take it easy."

The market continued
downward until closing. There was nothing to do but watch. The final
total showed fourteen hundred points down since the crash began.

* * *

Loring didn't stay for the cleanup. As he pulled on
his Burberry he looked at his calendar. The only note that remained
was for him to pick up a suit that was ready at Treadwell &
Company.

Should he put it off? No, the time is now. Do it and
get it over with.

As he headed for the elevator Paul Shelby joined.
him. They had an easy closeness without much socializing. It had to
be that way. They were too different. As Paul, who bore a startling
resemblance to Henry VIII, was fond of saying about their
relationship, "Loring, you’re Catholic with a capital C. I’m
a Hedonist with a capital H, a man born with a silver spoon up my
nose."

As they walked across the lobby Paul said, "Did
you get the two points on Federal Telephone?"

Loring thought about lying and saying that he had.
"No, I was in East Berlin."

"What? What the hell do you mean by that?"

Loring walked through the lobby's glass doors and
into the afternoon coolness. He looked around. It was still cloudy
but no rain. A block away at City Hall, scaffolding surrounded the
statue of William Penn on top of the building. A citizen's group was
trying to raise money to finish the project, and a young woman
approached him, offering to sell him a button attesting to this fact.
He gave her three dollars but did not take the button.

Paul shook his head as they walked west on Market.
"You're a soft touch, fella . . . Anyway, how come you missed
the two points on Federal Telephone? That’s not like you — and
what's this East Berlin business?"

Loring paused at the corner. "The Communists had
me. The points were in West Berlin. There was a wall between us and I
couldn't get over it today . . . It's a game. Sometimes I go over,
sometimes I tunnel under, sometimes I go around, and sometimes I
don't get through at all. That’s when they find me hanging from the
barbed wire."

Paul laughed. "God, isn’t that just like you
to turn the market into a damn Cold War video game. You’re right,
though. That’s about as close as it comes to reality sometimes. But
what put you on the other side of the wall today?"

They started up Sixteenth Street. Loring didn’t
want to talk about it but he knew Paul wouldn’t leave it alone.

"My sister's wedding. . . she called. We had
some words and it messed up my timing on the sale."

"Hey, it's not the end of the world . . . you at
least got out even, didn’t you? That puts — no pun intended —
you ahead of the game."

Loring knew Paul didn’t understand. He didn’t
understand the market. He didn’t understand the jungle. What
happened was very important. Time and timing. Timing was the
pulsebeat between the "T" and "E" in time. When
that got out of rhythm confusion reigned, and everyone lost.

He heard Paul say, "I take it you don’t want
to go to this wedding. . ."

"You take it right," said Loring.

They stopped at the corner of Sixteenth and Chestnut.

There wasn’t much to look at there except a square
block hole in the ground where another office tower was going up.
Paul looked at his watch. "How about a shooter before the
after-work crowds hit?"

"I don’t think so," said Loring. "I’ve
got to pick up a suit at Treadwell, then I’m going to head home."

"That's crazy, by then it'll be rush hour and
you know what a madhouse Kelly Drive is with the expressway tom up.
Tell you what, I'll go with you to get your suit, and then we’ll go
over to Mace’s Crossing for a couple of unwinders."

All Loring wanted to do was to pick up his suit and
head home, traffic or no traffic, but he heard himself say yes. As
they turned onto Walnut Street Paul said, "None of my business,
but why don’t you want to go to your sister's wedding? Bad blood
between you?"

Not that simple, thought Loring. "No, nothing
like that, she just sprung it on me and I've got a boat chartered out
of Barbados that week."

Paul let it go.

* * *

Treadwell & Company was in the same block with
Nan Duskin. Before it became a haberdashery the building had housed a
bank. That was in the 1870s. Since then it had guided "gentlemen"
for over a century in the proper way to dress. They marched through
the first floor, heels clicking on the marble floors, to the suits in
the rear of the store.

Claude, his regular salesman, looked up from The Wall
Street Journal. "Mr. Weatherby, nice to see you. You're here to
pick up your suit, I presume," he said. He pulled off his
glasses and stuck them in his pocket. "I've had it ready since
this morning. This way, please . . ."

As they crossed to the fitting room Claude continued,
"It’s been very quiet for us these past few days. The market
crash, you know. Many of our regular clients have been busy . . ."

Loring grunted noncommittally. Treadwell &
Company intimidated him. No matter what suit he was wearing when he
was in the store, it always seemed wrong and shabby. No matter how
neat his hair, it seemed to need a trim or a wash. Claude held back
the curtain as Loring and Paul entered the fitting room. Loring had
been there many times and had never given the room a second thought.
But today he stopped still and looked around with a growing sense of
fear and new awareness . . . The muted lighting. . . the mahogany
paneling . . . the heavy drapes . . . the hexagon of mirrors . . .
suddenly he felt like this was the room behind the door in a funeral
home. The one with "No Admittance" on it. The one where
they dressed the bodies.

The suit could wait. He turned to go but Paul was
there, smiling. Loring stopped, confused. Paul wouldn't be smiling if
anything was wrong.

Paul was speaking to Claude. ". . . just slip
him into it and give him the stick of chewing gum or whatever and let
us go. We want to get to Mace's Crossing while there’s still room
at the bar."

Claude managed a smile, but his eyes were cold. Which
made Loring more uneasy. About what, he wasn't sure, but the feeling
was there. More than unease. Fear . . . He looked around again. Take
stock of your surroundings, know the enemy. Enemy? Strange word to
pop into his head now. Guido, the tailor, was standing by. He had the
coat to Loring's suit in his hand. The pants were draped over his
arm. Around his neck dangled a tape measure. For some reason the
sight of the tape measure made Loring apprehensive. Why?

He took the trousers and went to the dressing
cubicle. "just get it over with," he told himself.

He willed his mind blank as he returned for the
tailor to check the fit. I’m not here, he thought, standing in
front of the mirrors. Guido knelt in front of him to check the cuffs
and Loring saw a pinprick of light moving like a shooting star
through darkness. He understood, though it was a hard-earned lesson.
His mind was the universe, and he was moving to a place where he was
safe. He felt Guido’s hands move up his leg to check the inseam.

"No, no," he muttered as he steeled
himself. The unwanted touch made him think of the morning and the
phone call. His  stepfather’s voice . . . The suit was wrong,
the wedding was wrong. . .

"I'm sorry. What was it you said?" asked
Claude.

Loring only looked at him.

"You were just mumbling something but we didn't
get it,"

Paul said, looking intently at him.

Loring felt himself blush. "Oh, that, I was just
thinking about the market today. I guess I was doing it aloud.
Sorry."

Paul smiled and turned to Claude. "That's my
boy," he said.

"Always working, always thinking. Actually he’s
the brains of the outfit. Without him I'd never make a dime. Now slip
that coat on him so we can get the hell out of here. I'm getting
drier by the minute."

Loring needed a moment to regain control. He went
back to the cubicle and took his time changing into his regular
trousers. Alone was the best way, the only way. When you're alone
there is no threat. All that’s there is time. Spend it wisely, as
St. Paul said. The thought comforted him.

He returned and took the jacket from Claude. Guido
helped him on with it and he allowed himself to be led into the
lighted area of mirrors.

He noticed the mirrors formed a hexagon around him.
Three in front. Three in the rear. Six by three. Three sixes . . .
the mark of the beast. No, he thought to himself as he stood on a
small platform about ten inches higher than the floor around him.
Forget about this business of sixes. Forget about everything. Just
get your suit fitted and get out of here. Don't stop downstairs to
pick out a tie. You can do that later. Just get the suit and then go
have a drink with Paul. Relax. That’s what you need. You need to
relax.

He heard Paul’s voice: "Looks good. Maybe you
ought to take it to your sister's wedding." He applied a smile,
looked at himself in the mirrors. Parts, angles, angles of parts
winked back, but something was wrong.

The coat didn't fit. It was too large for him. He
looked at the sleeves in the mirrors. Far too long. They needed to be
taken up at least an inch and a half. Maybe it’s the way I'm
wearing it, he thought, as he shrugged his shoulders and tugged at
the lapels to make sure it was correct.