experience, he felt confident that a weekend of sun-drenched excess would derail any simmering revolt. Eight of the nine investors had RSVP’d; all would be bringing either wives or mistresses. Jackie met them in baggage claim at Miami International and escorted them outside to a plush coach-style bus with satellite TV and a wet bar. He figured the sooner he got them tanked, the better.
Still, the ride to the Keys was tense. One of the partners, a young hedge-fund hawk from Providence, refused hard liquor and loudly peppered Jackie with questions that Jackie was disinclined to answer. The man, whose name was Shea, struck an accusatory tone that alarmed his host, who waited in vain for the other investors to speak up in defense of his rectitude. Instead they fell silent, except for an occasional murmur to their female companions, and listened with disturbingly sober expressions to Shea’s nasal interrogation. Jackie Sebago could hear the ice cubes clink in their glasses whenever the bus took a bump.
At issue was the balance of the investors’ principal, and what was being done with it. When Jackie assured Shea that the money was being safely held in California, the arrogant worm had the gall to challenge this smallish lie by demanding the name of the bank and the account number. Jackie said he was insulted and offered to return Shea’s entire investment by wire transfer. He whipped out his smart phone as if to initiate the transaction, and he was rattled when Shea failed to back off. In fact, everyone on the bus was watching to see if Jackie would follow through. It was appalling—nobody spoke up to get him off the hook.
With creeping dread, Jackie stalled by pretending to be searching his contact list for his banker’s private number. What a shitty way to begin a Florida vacation, he thought. These ungrateful swine did
not
deserve to be serenaded by Mr. Michael Bolton.
“What’s the goddamn problem?” asked Shea.
Jackie continued scrolling intently. “I thought I had the number in my directory but I guess it’s in my other Pearl.” He made a show of checking his wristwatch. “Anyway, shit, the banks just closed in L.A.”
“So do it by e-mail,” Shea said.
“What exactly are you insinuating?” Jackie asked, as if he didn’t know. This was a nightmare—what if all of them demanded the return of their money?
At that instant, as if by a miracle, the driver stomped the brakes. The bus swerved sharply, then shuddered to a halt. Jackie hurried up the aisle, elated to have an excuse for fleeing Shea’s inquisition.
The bus driver held a death clench on the steering wheel. “Damn, I almost hit her,” he gasped, pointing to a young woman who was signaling from the edge of the road, in the wash of the headlights. She wore rhinestone flip-flops and a flimsy wrap with a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.
“Everybody stay right here,” Jackie Sebago said dramatically to his investors, who appeared more annoyed than concerned. Jackie regarded the injured pedestrian as a divine distraction, and bounded off the bus.
The young woman said, “Thank God you stopped.”
“What happened? Are you okay?” Jackie noticed she was quite attractive, even with a puffy lip.
“It was terrible,” she said. “I can’t describe it. He made me put on this … this nasty old
thing
.” She flicked disgustedly at the silky garment.
“What is that?”
“It’s from some stupid NASCAR race.”
“The checkered flag?”
“Yeah, he’s a real sicko.” The woman swiped at a cloud of gnats.
Jackie Sebago was thinking she looked pretty tasty wrapped in a Jiffy Lube banner, but he prudently withheld the compliment. “Want me to call an ambulance?”
“First get me out of here, okay? Like right this minute.”
The woman stepped toward the idling bus. Jackie intercepted her and said, “But we’re going the other way, down to Ocean Reef.”
“That’s fine. Anywhere but here is fantastic.”
“What’s your
Still, the ride to the Keys was tense. One of the partners, a young hedge-fund hawk from Providence, refused hard liquor and loudly peppered Jackie with questions that Jackie was disinclined to answer. The man, whose name was Shea, struck an accusatory tone that alarmed his host, who waited in vain for the other investors to speak up in defense of his rectitude. Instead they fell silent, except for an occasional murmur to their female companions, and listened with disturbingly sober expressions to Shea’s nasal interrogation. Jackie Sebago could hear the ice cubes clink in their glasses whenever the bus took a bump.
At issue was the balance of the investors’ principal, and what was being done with it. When Jackie assured Shea that the money was being safely held in California, the arrogant worm had the gall to challenge this smallish lie by demanding the name of the bank and the account number. Jackie said he was insulted and offered to return Shea’s entire investment by wire transfer. He whipped out his smart phone as if to initiate the transaction, and he was rattled when Shea failed to back off. In fact, everyone on the bus was watching to see if Jackie would follow through. It was appalling—nobody spoke up to get him off the hook.
With creeping dread, Jackie stalled by pretending to be searching his contact list for his banker’s private number. What a shitty way to begin a Florida vacation, he thought. These ungrateful swine did
not
deserve to be serenaded by Mr. Michael Bolton.
“What’s the goddamn problem?” asked Shea.
Jackie continued scrolling intently. “I thought I had the number in my directory but I guess it’s in my other Pearl.” He made a show of checking his wristwatch. “Anyway, shit, the banks just closed in L.A.”
“So do it by e-mail,” Shea said.
“What exactly are you insinuating?” Jackie asked, as if he didn’t know. This was a nightmare—what if all of them demanded the return of their money?
At that instant, as if by a miracle, the driver stomped the brakes. The bus swerved sharply, then shuddered to a halt. Jackie hurried up the aisle, elated to have an excuse for fleeing Shea’s inquisition.
The bus driver held a death clench on the steering wheel. “Damn, I almost hit her,” he gasped, pointing to a young woman who was signaling from the edge of the road, in the wash of the headlights. She wore rhinestone flip-flops and a flimsy wrap with a black-and-white checkerboard pattern.
“Everybody stay right here,” Jackie Sebago said dramatically to his investors, who appeared more annoyed than concerned. Jackie regarded the injured pedestrian as a divine distraction, and bounded off the bus.
The young woman said, “Thank God you stopped.”
“What happened? Are you okay?” Jackie noticed she was quite attractive, even with a puffy lip.
“It was terrible,” she said. “I can’t describe it. He made me put on this … this nasty old
thing
.” She flicked disgustedly at the silky garment.
“What is that?”
“It’s from some stupid NASCAR race.”
“The checkered flag?”
“Yeah, he’s a real sicko.” The woman swiped at a cloud of gnats.
Jackie Sebago was thinking she looked pretty tasty wrapped in a Jiffy Lube banner, but he prudently withheld the compliment. “Want me to call an ambulance?”
“First get me out of here, okay? Like right this minute.”
The woman stepped toward the idling bus. Jackie intercepted her and said, “But we’re going the other way, down to Ocean Reef.”
“That’s fine. Anywhere but here is fantastic.”
“What’s your
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