The Day Trader Read online

  “I can’t count on you anymore, Augustus. You tell me you’re going to do one thing, but then you do something else. You told me you’d be home by six and here it is after eleven.”

  “You said you had to stay late at the office again tonight, so I thought you wouldn’t care if I went out.” My smile fades. “And you’ve been working later and later over the past few months. I wasn’t sure you’d come home tonight at all.”

  “I don’t appreciate that,” she snaps.

  Melanie is an executive assistant for a Washington, D.C., divorce attorney named Frank Taylor, and I’ve always suspected that he has more than just a professional interest in her. During the past few months she’s been wearing lots of perfume—sometimes heavier when she gets home at night than when she leaves in the morning. She’s been dressing more provocatively too and working late several nights a week, sometimes until one or two in the morning. Even a few Friday and Saturday nights recently. I finally tried talking to her about it last week, but she flew into a rage right away, then accused me of silly macho jealousy and stalked off. But it occurred to me later that she never actually denied anything.

  Melanie won’t look at me. “I have to talk to you.”

  Her eyes are puffy, as though she’s been crying. “What about, sweetheart?” I move forward to comfort her but she takes a quick step back and buries her face in her hands. “What is it, Mel?”

  “Oh, Augustus,” she murmurs sadly.

  I wrap my arms around her and hold on tightly, even as she struggles to turn away. I work out almost every day in the makeshift gym I’ve set up in our basement, and at six-four and over two hundred twenty pounds, I easily control her slender frame. “Easy, honey.”

  “Let me go, Augustus.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Let me go!” she yells, her arms starting to flail.

  Suddenly her fingernails rake the side of my neck. I’ve never seen her like this before. “Calm down, Mel.”

  “Get your hands off of me!”

  “Stop it.”

  “You don’t understand me!”

  “Of course I do. You’ve had a long day and you’re exhausted,” I say sympathetically, controlling my anger despite the fact that my neck feels like it’s on fire where she scratched me. “And you’re sick of me telling you that we can’t afford anything.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” she says, her tantrum easing. “I smell scotch on your breath.”

  “I had a few drinks with a friend. That’s all.”

  “A female friend, I’m sure.”

  Melanie has never accused me of cheating before. In fact, I didn’t think she cared anymore. “I was with Vincent.” Vincent Carlucci and I have been friends since I was ten years old.

  “I’ve seen how women look at you, Augustus,” she says, wiping tears and smudged mascara from her face, “and how you look back.”

  “I’ve always been faithful to you, Melanie.”

  She slumps against me like a rag doll, arms dangling at her sides, face pressed to my chest. “I can’t do this anymore,” she sobs.

  “You’re right. You can’t keep up this pace,” I agree, slipping my palms against her soft, damp cheeks and tilting her head back until she’s looking up at me. I smile down at her confidently, feeling better than I have in years. I’ve scored big in the stock market and she’s going to be impressed. “I want you to stop working, Melanie. I want you to sleep late in the mornings and pamper yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, grimacing as she glances at my neck.

  “You don’t have to work any longer. It’s as simple as that.”

  “We can barely make ends meet as it is. From what you’ve told me, sometimes we don’t. How could we possibly survive without my salary?”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  She stares at me for a few moments, then closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Did you think I was talking about my job when I said I couldn’t do ‘this’ anymore?” she asks softly.

  “Of course.” In that awful moment I understand what she really needed to talk to me about tonight. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you mean?” My voice is hollow, almost inaudible.

  She covers her mouth with her hand. She says nothing, but she doesn’t have to. The look in her eyes says it all.

  The first few moments of lost love are terrible. I gaze at her helplessly, and it’s crushing to see how sorry she feels for me—pity is such a useless emotion, only making matters worse for both of us. Melanie wants to be with someone else. Over the years I’ve heard the whispers from her family and friends that I’m a disappointment to her. Now she’s finally listened to those whispers and given in to her desire to be with another. “Melanie?”

  “We don’t have any children, Augustus,” she sobs, “and so little money. It won’t be hard to split things up.”

  “It’s your boss, isn’t it?” My rage erupts. An awful, mind-numbing fury that spreads like wildfire from my brain to my eyes to my chest. I’ve tried to be understanding about the late hours, the new wardrobe full of short dresses and lacy blouses, the matchbooks from expensive Washington restaurants on her dresser, even the hang-up telephone calls I endure on weekends. Her indifference to me. But no more. “It’s Frank Taylor!” I shout. “You’re having an affair with your goddamn boss. I knew it! Taylor’s made you all kinds of ridiculous promises and you’ve decided to take a chance.”

  “This has nothing to do with Frank!” she shouts back. “It has to do with me. I need a fresh start, Augustus. I’m drowning in our life. I have to save myself. If I don’t do it now, I never will.”

  “He’s tempting you with houses, cars, and jewelry. I know it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be awful if he was?” she snaps.

  “You bi—”

  “It’s not true!” she snaps. “But do you blame me for wanting those things?”

  “Melanie, come to your senses,” I beg, swallowing my pride. “It’s going to be much better for us from now on. I promise.”

  “You’ve been saying that for eleven years. I’m not willing to wait any longer.” Tears stream down her face, but they are tears of rage, not sadness or compassion. “I’m sick and tired of being married to a man who accepts being ordinary,” she says, gesturing angrily over her shoulder at the inside of our modest home. “I want someone who needs success as much as I do.”

  “Let’s not kid ourselves. You want money. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

  Her eyes fill with tears again. “How can you say that to me?”

  “Because it’s true, and you know it.”

  She drops her face into her hands. “Let’s just end it,” she pleads pitifully. “Please.”

  I stare at her, wishing I could take back those words, even if they are true. “Mel, come on.”

  “I’m sorry, Augustus. I’m so sorry, but I want a divorce.”

  “This is crazy,” I say, taking her gently by the arms. “Stop it.”

  “Let me go.”

  My heart sinks as I realize that this is not a passing drama. She’s serious. “Oh, God,” I mutter, looking down. Both of Melanie’s wrists are marked by painful-looking purple bruises. “What have you done to yourself?” I murmur, looking up into her beautiful, anguished face.

  She yanks her arms from my grasp and runs away down the short hall without answering.

  “Wait, Mel. I hit it big today in the—” But the slam of our bedroom door cuts me off.

  For five minutes I stand in our foyer, unable to comprehend what has just happened, my emotions ricocheting from dejection to rage. Finally I stumble to the kitchen and ease into a chair at the scarred wooden table where Melanie and I have eaten so many meals together. My eyes come to rest on a notepad lying beside the sugar bowl and a stack of unpaid bills. In Melanie’s looping script I see that Russell Lake has telephoned four times this evening. I’m supposed to call him back n
o matter how late it is.

  I touch my neck where Melanie scratched me, then bring my hand in front of my face. My fingertips are stained with blood.

  CHAPTER 2

  I’m not a greedy man, so my decision to sell is an easy one.

  At four o’clock yesterday afternoon Unicom closed its first trading session on the Nasdaq at $139 a share, up $119 from the $20 IPO price. In the overnight “casino” market it spiked another $36, to $175 a share, where it opened this morning. So, after plowing my entire inheritance into this one investment, my ten thousand dollars has turned into nearly ninety thousand. I’ve made almost two years’ salary in less than twenty-four hours. That, in a nutshell, is the allure of the stock market.

  As I stare at my computer screen, I can’t help wondering how Melanie would react if she knew about this. I never got a chance to tell her last night. Never got a chance to explain how we could afford to let her quit working. And she had already left this morning when I woke up on the living room sofa, cradling an empty scotch bottle.

  A soft knock on my office door distracts me from some very ugly thoughts. “Who is it?”

  “Russell.”

  I expected to see him as soon as I walked in this morning, but it’s after ten and this is his first appearance.

  “Open up,” he demands.

  He couldn’t sneak up on me today because I closed and locked my door when I got in. “What do you want?” I ask, grudgingly allowing him to enter.

  “Don’t sound so happy to see me,” he says, checking out the dark red marks on my neck. “God, you look awful.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I admit, easing back into my desk chair with a loud groan.

  “What happened?”

  Russell should have been a CIA agent instead of a midlevel manager buried in corporate America. Ultimately he unearths everything, as he surely will in this case if I don’t tell him. There will be plenty of clues. I’ll have to change my address because Melanie wants me out of the house as soon as possible—she left that pleasant request in a short, unsigned note I found on my dresser this morning. Russell will be given that new address by the human resources department. And there will be a steady stream of e-mails bouncing back and forth between Melanie, the attorneys, and me as the divorce proceeds. E-mails Russell could read because he monitors the network. So it’s better to be up-front with him about what’s going on, rather than endure his nasty comments about being kept in the dark later on.

  “Melanie wants a divorce.”

  “That’s terrible.” For a moment Russell looks as if he truly feels sorry for me, but his tone lacks compassion. It’s as if he thought my divorce was inevitable and timing was the only question. “What was her reason?” he asks. Like most men who know Melanie, Russell is fascinated by her.

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Did she find someone else?”

  “Russell.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about these things.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

  As usual, Russell relaxes into the chair on the other side of my desk without being asked. “What will you do about living arrangements? Will you stay in the house with her until the divorce is final?”

  A familiar lump builds in my throat as I think about how I’m being evicted from my own home. Frank Taylor has stolen my wife. Worse, she has let him. “No, I’m going to look for an apartment at lunch.” Melanie never admitted that Taylor was really driving all of this, but I know the truth.

  “Close to the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need some time off?”

  “No.” That would give me more time to brood, and nothing good would come of that. Besides, Russell might use my time away from the company as an excuse to demote me.

  “So Melanie will get the house to herself.”

  “Yes.” I stare at him, wondering what perverted things are on his mind.

  After a long pause he says, “I was on a conference call with senior management this morning. The June numbers are in.”

  “So?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, especially at such a tough time, but sales in your region were down again last month. Senior management is very concerned, particularly in light of the fact that sales in other areas of the country are doing so well.”

  “We’ve been over this a hundred times, Russell,” I remind him, exasperated. “The major competitors in my region are running big discount programs right now. There’s nothing I can do to jump-start sales until we lower prices. But you won’t let me do that.”

  “Senior management doesn’t want excuses.”

  “Screw senior management.”

  There’s another long pause. “Unicom did very well yesterday,” Russell finally says.

  “Let’s talk about that later. I’ve got calls to make.”

  “I checked the share price on the Internet before I came in here,” he continues. “It’s up to almost a hundred and eighty bucks.”

  “I sold everything this morning at one seventy-five.”

  “That’s fine,” he says, head bobbing as he stands up and moves toward the door. “I agree with that strategy. There’s no need for us to be greedy in our first venture together.” He hesitates, hand on the doorknob. “Now get on that computer and get us into another lottery. Do you hear me?”

  This afternoon, with her blond hair falling seductively down onto her shoulders to frame her angelic face, Melanie looks as pretty to me as she ever has. She wears a short dress and high heels, accentuating her long, perfect legs. From the beginning our friends said we made an appealing contrast. Melanie blond, me dark. Her eyes light blue, mine dark green. As she stands before me in the secluded courtyard of a small park a few miles from my office, her hands clasped in front of her, I’m overcome by her beauty. We’re cut off from the world here, surrounded by tall hedges on all sides, and, suddenly, all I want to do is kiss her.

  “What do you want?” she asks quietly.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say, not answering. I pleaded with her an hour ago on the phone to meet me here, not knowing what I’d say if she agreed to come because I didn’t think she would. On the short drive over I planned my speech, but now, as I look at her, I’m finding it hard to focus. “Thanks,” I mumble again.

  She takes a step closer. “I know this whole thing is a shock to you, Augustus, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t feel good about myself right now. I’m hurting too.”

  “Somehow I have a hard time believing that.” Her expression turns grim, and I wish I hadn’t said that. “We can work things out, Mel. I know we can.” Her gaze drops to the gray slate beneath us. “We can’t give up on each other,” I continue, my voice intensifying. “We’re too good together.” Her perfume drifts to my nostrils, and it drives me crazy to think she might be wearing it for Frank Taylor. Perhaps he even bought it for her. But I can get past all the jealousy and rage if she’ll just come back. I could even get past the bruises on her wrists. “We’ve been together so long. We can’t let it end like this.” Tears build in her eyes and I press, sensing that this might be my best chance to change her mind. “We promised ourselves we’d never let this happen. Remember?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “We need to rededicate ourselves to each other and to our relationship. We need to work at this thing.” I take another deep breath and nod solemnly, implying that I am accepting my share of the blame. “I’ve been paying too much attention to all of my stock charts lately, and not enough attention to you. I apologize for that. I promise not to take you or us for granted ever again.”

  “Sometimes I think you care more about the Wall Street Journal than you do about me.”

  “I need to work harder at our marriage,” I agree firmly. “Nothing can be more important.”

  She lets her head fall back slowly and looks to the sky, our future balanced precariously on her next words. “Augustus, I just can’t… .”

&n
bsp; “Give it time, Mel.” I heard an awful finality creeping into her tone. “For God’s sake, give it time.”

  She drops her head and catches a tear on her finger. “I’ve made my decision,” she says, her voice raspy.

  But I hear a tiny bit of indecision. Like there might still be a sliver of a chance. “Mel, you’ve got to reconsider.”

  “Don’t do this,” she pleads. “Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

  “I can’t lose you, Mel. I can’t be without you.” I take her hand and she doesn’t pull away, which must be a good sign. I’m saying all the right things, despite how hard it is. After all, she’s the one asking for the divorce. “You’re the only woman I’ve—” Emotion suddenly strangles my words, and the brutal honesty causes her to glance up. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever made love to, Mel. I’ve never said that to you before, but it’s true.” I had chances, before and after we were married, but I’ve never strayed. And that night so long ago, in the fall of our senior year in high school, when she surrendered to me in the back of my parents’ old Chevy, was my first experience. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to make love to.”

  A tear rolls down her cheek as she glances at my neck. “I know,” she whispers. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

  “What?”

  “Frank has volunteered to help me with my side of the divorce,” she announces, her demeanor turning professional. “Which is very nice of him. He says you need to retain an attorney right away, and he has several recommendations of people who can help if you don’t know anyone.”

  “Does he now?” I ask, really feeling for the first time that the end of my marriage is at hand. My thoughts flash to a knife lying in the trunk of my Toyota. A knife I keep stashed in the folds of a red woolen hunting vest in case of trouble on the road.

  “We have to move on, Augustus. I thought I made myself clear last night.”

  I swallow several times, unable to believe what I’m thinking. “Are you? …” My voice trails off.