returned his attention to the table, his wife, as if it were the punch line of a long anecdote, was just saying the word polymerize. He smiled at her, stood back up and rushed again to the bathroom, where this time he dialed 911. The desk sergeant on call seemed bored by his story and kicked him upstairs along the chain of command to the fraud unit, giving him the number and telling him to call the next day.
After a sleepless night, Potash phoned his old friend Casper Macaleer the first thing next morning. Cas was an ex–college roommate now wired heart and soul into the Street who, upon hearing him out at length, asked two questions: “John, why didn’t you come to me before you made a move of this size?” And: “Did you ever think about why Greenleaf Financial just happens to have a small satellite office in your little pissant town when they only have two or three in the whole country and five in the world?”
Shouting something not entirely coherent in response, Potash hung up, jumped in his SUV and, driving maniacally, arrived ten minutes later at the local offices of Greenleaf Financial. He whipped through the front doors and was halfway across the lobby when he jerked suddenly to a stop like someone whose hips had locked tight.
He’d never talked to the New York office . Slowly, he took his left foot where it was lingering still planted behind him and drew it even with his right. He’d never talked to New York even once. He turned slowly in the space of the lobby, marveling. He’d always believed himself a far-seeing man, but he’d been as blind as a baby, as helpless as a newborn.
He’d just wired the vast majority of his savings into thin air and he’d never talked to New York.
A kind of foul mist clouding his eyes, he got on the nearby elevator. It rose slowly upward, the ping sounded, the door slid open and with a gut-shot heavy feeling he walked down the hallway of suites till he found the door that had formerly led to Greenleaf. Though it still bore the vaguely planetary logo, it was locked tight.
“Lemme guess,” said a passing secretary, staring at Potash with a slightly pitying air. “Another person for Greenleaf, right? They’re gone, and fast, too.”
The girl was continuing to talk to him, but he was barely hearing her. She was saying dully human things like, They seemed like nice people, but this moving van pulled up, and the next thing I knew the office was locked and they were out of here lickety-split. People were coming by all day yesterday and looking about as unhappy as a person can .
With a peculiar copper taste in his mouth, he took the elevator back down and walked back through the lobby. He felt like a stick figure in an illustration manual. Slumping nearly in tears on a bench in front of the building, he again dialed Cas, who picked up on the first ring.
“Oh,” said Potash softly into the phone, “my God.”
“John,” shouted Casper, “what happened?”
“I feel like I’m dying, Cas.”
There was a silence on the other end, and then Casper, in a low voice, said, “Oh, shit.”
“Just like you said, it was a front,” Potash croaked. “A front, totally. And so fucking slick and well done that I never thought to talk to New York.” Suddenly he felt tears, but they were tears of disappointment at his own stupidity. “I mean,” he repeated in a lowered voice, “I never talked to New York, Cas.” And then, again, and as if it was the bitterest, saddest admission of defeat, “Not once.”
“John,” said Cas, simply.
“And now,” Potash said, wanting suddenly to tear at his head, stab or gouge himself, “now I don’t know what.”
“Well, there’s procedures,” said Casper. “I mean, there are resources.”
Potash, breathing heavily, said only, “I’m drowning, Cas.”
“John, you’ve gotta be strong here and think clearly and, I know it’s next to impossible, but you’ve also gotta not get emotional.”
Potash let out a sharp,
After a sleepless night, Potash phoned his old friend Casper Macaleer the first thing next morning. Cas was an ex–college roommate now wired heart and soul into the Street who, upon hearing him out at length, asked two questions: “John, why didn’t you come to me before you made a move of this size?” And: “Did you ever think about why Greenleaf Financial just happens to have a small satellite office in your little pissant town when they only have two or three in the whole country and five in the world?”
Shouting something not entirely coherent in response, Potash hung up, jumped in his SUV and, driving maniacally, arrived ten minutes later at the local offices of Greenleaf Financial. He whipped through the front doors and was halfway across the lobby when he jerked suddenly to a stop like someone whose hips had locked tight.
He’d never talked to the New York office . Slowly, he took his left foot where it was lingering still planted behind him and drew it even with his right. He’d never talked to New York even once. He turned slowly in the space of the lobby, marveling. He’d always believed himself a far-seeing man, but he’d been as blind as a baby, as helpless as a newborn.
He’d just wired the vast majority of his savings into thin air and he’d never talked to New York.
A kind of foul mist clouding his eyes, he got on the nearby elevator. It rose slowly upward, the ping sounded, the door slid open and with a gut-shot heavy feeling he walked down the hallway of suites till he found the door that had formerly led to Greenleaf. Though it still bore the vaguely planetary logo, it was locked tight.
“Lemme guess,” said a passing secretary, staring at Potash with a slightly pitying air. “Another person for Greenleaf, right? They’re gone, and fast, too.”
The girl was continuing to talk to him, but he was barely hearing her. She was saying dully human things like, They seemed like nice people, but this moving van pulled up, and the next thing I knew the office was locked and they were out of here lickety-split. People were coming by all day yesterday and looking about as unhappy as a person can .
With a peculiar copper taste in his mouth, he took the elevator back down and walked back through the lobby. He felt like a stick figure in an illustration manual. Slumping nearly in tears on a bench in front of the building, he again dialed Cas, who picked up on the first ring.
“Oh,” said Potash softly into the phone, “my God.”
“John,” shouted Casper, “what happened?”
“I feel like I’m dying, Cas.”
There was a silence on the other end, and then Casper, in a low voice, said, “Oh, shit.”
“Just like you said, it was a front,” Potash croaked. “A front, totally. And so fucking slick and well done that I never thought to talk to New York.” Suddenly he felt tears, but they were tears of disappointment at his own stupidity. “I mean,” he repeated in a lowered voice, “I never talked to New York, Cas.” And then, again, and as if it was the bitterest, saddest admission of defeat, “Not once.”
“John,” said Cas, simply.
“And now,” Potash said, wanting suddenly to tear at his head, stab or gouge himself, “now I don’t know what.”
“Well, there’s procedures,” said Casper. “I mean, there are resources.”
Potash, breathing heavily, said only, “I’m drowning, Cas.”
“John, you’ve gotta be strong here and think clearly and, I know it’s next to impossible, but you’ve also gotta not get emotional.”
Potash let out a sharp,
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