him to accept the co-chair for this year’s Celebrate Lakeview event, claiming the honorary position required little to no work. Far as he was concerned it put you in the knee-to-chest position to get boned up the ass. The bare minimum financial outlay would be to purchase a table for ten guests at five hundred a pop. Her hunger for social notoriety was killing him.
But it all wouldn’t be such a bad deal if Samantha weren’t so prudish in bed. More and more he wondered why put up with her?
The answer was simple: Divorce would be too expensive. But not in the obvious way. Fact was, he couldn’t risk the audit that would result. So, for the time being it would be far better to just roll with it.
He’d considered having an affair as one way to satisfy his unfulfilled sexual needs, but he couldn’t figure out where to find a candidate. Nurses or residents like Gonzales would be the easiest to hit on. But the residents were his surrogate children. And good fathers don’t screw their daughters. Unless, of course, you live in east Tennessee.
He gazed across the room to a wall of pictures of every graduate from his program. All doing well. The majority of them in academics, pursuing significant research and teaching—a part of him remained embedded in each one and would subsequently be passed on to every student they taught. The sight of all the past trainees filled him with deep pride. No, he couldn’t even think of hitting on Gonzales.
With a sigh he picked up the callback note and started to reach for the phone just as his back line rang. Interesting, only a limited number of people knew the number. The caller ID showed restricted, so it couldn’t be Cunningham. He answered, “Yes?” preferring to not announce himself.
“Bertram, Harold Glant.”
Fuck! Hang up? A voice in a small recess of his brain warned not to. In his best schmoozing voice he said, “Harry, how nice to hear your voice. I just got out of surgery and was intending to call. How you doing?” As if he gave a shit. The shark.
“My health is good, but my sleep will be a lot better when I start seeing some of the money you owe me. You know what Monday is?”
Monday? What the fuck was Monday supposed to be? Nothing came to mind so he didn’t answer.
Glant answered for him. “At the start of business Monday, the interest rate bumps up two hundred basis points, Bertram. Understand what that means? That’s a two percent increase.”
Wyse started to yell, “Fuck you!” but realized it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say to the broker to whom he owed 1.6 million dollars. When gold prices were going straight up he’d loaded up on GLD, a stock indexed to the price of gold. It was a good call and his position became profitable. But then he got greedy and leveraged the position, buying the maximum amount his account would allow on margin. Turned out, he margined at the very peak of gold prices, and when the market turned south he was caught in a meat grinder. Sure, he could walk away from the account, but the broker’s lawyers would come after other assets. He was forced into a classic rob Peter to pay Paul situation. His solution had been to “borrow” the money from his company, RegenBiologic. Cunningham’s money.
“Harry, you’ll get the money. You have my word on it. But at the moment I’m on another call.” Wyse disconnected, then sat watching his hand shake from his anger.
Where was he? Oh yeah, Cunningham and the Pentagon meeting. The outcome of which would determine his entire future. A future now threatened by Tom McCarthy. Talk about bad luck. Of all the doctors in Seattle, why had those two patients picked McCarthy for a second opinion? First Russell, then that Baker woman. What were the odds of that ?
Maybe he should’ve done something—although he wasn’t sure what—when Russell started to complain about the memories. But no, he’d blown Russell off, figuring the problem would simply go away. It didn’t. Then, two
But it all wouldn’t be such a bad deal if Samantha weren’t so prudish in bed. More and more he wondered why put up with her?
The answer was simple: Divorce would be too expensive. But not in the obvious way. Fact was, he couldn’t risk the audit that would result. So, for the time being it would be far better to just roll with it.
He’d considered having an affair as one way to satisfy his unfulfilled sexual needs, but he couldn’t figure out where to find a candidate. Nurses or residents like Gonzales would be the easiest to hit on. But the residents were his surrogate children. And good fathers don’t screw their daughters. Unless, of course, you live in east Tennessee.
He gazed across the room to a wall of pictures of every graduate from his program. All doing well. The majority of them in academics, pursuing significant research and teaching—a part of him remained embedded in each one and would subsequently be passed on to every student they taught. The sight of all the past trainees filled him with deep pride. No, he couldn’t even think of hitting on Gonzales.
With a sigh he picked up the callback note and started to reach for the phone just as his back line rang. Interesting, only a limited number of people knew the number. The caller ID showed restricted, so it couldn’t be Cunningham. He answered, “Yes?” preferring to not announce himself.
“Bertram, Harold Glant.”
Fuck! Hang up? A voice in a small recess of his brain warned not to. In his best schmoozing voice he said, “Harry, how nice to hear your voice. I just got out of surgery and was intending to call. How you doing?” As if he gave a shit. The shark.
“My health is good, but my sleep will be a lot better when I start seeing some of the money you owe me. You know what Monday is?”
Monday? What the fuck was Monday supposed to be? Nothing came to mind so he didn’t answer.
Glant answered for him. “At the start of business Monday, the interest rate bumps up two hundred basis points, Bertram. Understand what that means? That’s a two percent increase.”
Wyse started to yell, “Fuck you!” but realized it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say to the broker to whom he owed 1.6 million dollars. When gold prices were going straight up he’d loaded up on GLD, a stock indexed to the price of gold. It was a good call and his position became profitable. But then he got greedy and leveraged the position, buying the maximum amount his account would allow on margin. Turned out, he margined at the very peak of gold prices, and when the market turned south he was caught in a meat grinder. Sure, he could walk away from the account, but the broker’s lawyers would come after other assets. He was forced into a classic rob Peter to pay Paul situation. His solution had been to “borrow” the money from his company, RegenBiologic. Cunningham’s money.
“Harry, you’ll get the money. You have my word on it. But at the moment I’m on another call.” Wyse disconnected, then sat watching his hand shake from his anger.
Where was he? Oh yeah, Cunningham and the Pentagon meeting. The outcome of which would determine his entire future. A future now threatened by Tom McCarthy. Talk about bad luck. Of all the doctors in Seattle, why had those two patients picked McCarthy for a second opinion? First Russell, then that Baker woman. What were the odds of that ?
Maybe he should’ve done something—although he wasn’t sure what—when Russell started to complain about the memories. But no, he’d blown Russell off, figuring the problem would simply go away. It didn’t. Then, two
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