The Day Trader (15 page)

I didn’t plan on being out this late so I didn’t flip on the stoop light when I left for Bedford this morning. Without it, the stone path to my house is all but invisible.

I come to a quick stop a few feet from the steps leading up to my door and peer into the gloom, startled because I thought I saw something move. I squint into the darkness and it almost looks like there’s someone standing by the hedge in front of the house. Just when I decide it’s probably the alcohol playing tricks on me, the figure begins to move slowly toward me and I take a step back. As the person draws near, I recognize Frank Taylor.

“What do you want?” I ask angrily. “What are you doing here?” Roger and I stayed at the Capital Grill drinking until eleven thirty, but suddenly I’m stone-cold sober. “Don’t come any closer,” I warn.

“Don’t screw with me, Augustus.”

Taylor is slurring his words, which could be the result of my fist to his face last week—he’s now standing close enough for me to see that his upper lip is still terribly swollen. But he’s swaying and his movements seem impaired, like he’s in slow motion. He’s clearly been drinking too, and a lot more than I have.

“You started it last week, Taylor. You were looking for a fight. You followed me to the Grand.”

“Fuck you!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting ready to kick your ass.”

“Try anything, Taylor, and that punch I hit you with last week will seem like you were grazed by a cotton ball. There isn’t anyone around to protect you this time, and you’re trespassing. I could kill you and the law would be on my side.”

Taylor staggers a step closer, ignoring my warning. “I want to know what you think you’re doing sending the police after me,” he says.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. A detective named Reggie Dorsey showed up at my office this afternoon, asking me all kinds of questions about my relationship with Melanie and exactly where I was on the night of her murder. It was the second time in a week he dropped by without an appointment. He even asked for a blood sample today.” Taylor sways well to one side and stumbles trying to keep his balance. “Dorsey wanted to know about this,” he says, pointing at his lip. “I think it’s fair to say that he was fascinated to find out you were responsible.”

“You asked for it.”

Taylor leans forward, and the smell of liquor on his breath hits me. “You’re so desperate to throw Dorsey off your own trail, you’re trying to make him think I killed Melanie.”

“Maybe you did.”

“I loved Melanie,” Taylor says, his voice turning wistful. “I could never have hurt her.” He taps me on the chest with his finger, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the house. “What did you do? Kill her in there, then dump her in that alley downtown? It must have been a helluva stressful drive with her body in the trunk.”

“I’m warning you, Taylor!”

“Did Mel ever tell you that I made love to her in your house, Augustus?” Taylor breaks into a punch-drunk grin as he wavers back and forth. “In your bed one Saturday afternoon while you were gone. Did she ever tell you that? Did she tell you that it was the best sex of her life? Because it was.”

The world turns red and my fist slams Taylor’s jaw for the second time in a week. He tumbles backward onto the ground, and I’m on him before he can stand up. He struggles to crawl away, but I roll him over, throw him onto his back, and pin him to the ground with the weight of my body, a knee to his chest and one hand wrapped tightly around his throat. My adrenaline and his intoxication make the fight no contest. He grabs my forearm, desperately trying to pry my hand from his throat.

“You gonna kill me too?” he gasps, perspiration pouring from his face.

“You asshole.” I squeeze harder, the urge to cause pain taking over. “What makes you think you can steal a man’s wife?” In the background I’m vaguely aware of a door slamming. “What makes you think you can play with people’s lives?”

“Melanie came after me.” He takes a feeble swing at me, but I easily block his punch with the arm I’m not using to suffocate him. “Let me go!”

“I should kill you.” I made believe I did so many nights when I was waiting for Melanie to come home. “No one would miss you.”

For the first time he realizes that he may have pushed me too far. That I may have no intention of releasing my grip on his throat until he’s dead. He panics, twisting and turning violently beneath me, so I lift up and drop a knee into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He lets out a sharp groan and goes limp beneath me, and I drop another knee into his solar plexus. This time I hear a faint crack.

Some people say revenge isn’t sweet. I say those people have never been wronged. We’re humans and we’re ruled by emotions. I want to see Frank Taylor suffer. An eye for an eye.

Taylor’s eyelids flicker and his mouth slowly opens. He grasps my forearms again but there’s little strength left in his hands.

“Mr. McKnight!”

Suddenly a blinding beam of light is shining directly into my face. I pull my hand from Taylor’s throat and stand up, blinking in the rays of what I realize is a flashlight. Taylor rolls on his side, contracts into a fetal position, and begins coughing violently.

“Mrs. Friedman.” Behind the flashlight is the tiny form of my seventy-four-year-old neighbor.

“My God, I thought the world was coming to an end,” she declares in her squeaky voice. In the glow of the flashlight she now aims at Taylor, I see that she’s dressed in a flower-print cotton robe and fuzzy pink slippers.

“I caught this man trying to break into my home, Mrs. Friedman,” I explain as calmly as I can. “But I’ve got everything under control.”

Taylor can’t deny my story because he can’t speak. His only concern right now is being able to suck down his next breath.

“Should I call the police?” she asks, wide-eyed.

“No, no. I’ll take care of it. You get back inside. Go on,” I urge.

But she doesn’t budge. She’s staring at Taylor as he writhes on the ground. “He doesn’t look like a—”

“In case there are others out here!”

With that she turns and hustles back across the lawn to her house, the flashlight beam bouncing in front of her. When I hear her front door slam, I grab Taylor by the collar and lift him to his feet. “Come on.” He’s beginning to regain his breath, but it’s all he can do to stand up. “Where’s your damn car?” I demand. It occurs to me that I don’t know what kind of car Taylor drives. I want to make certain it isn’t a silver Mercedes with darkly tinted windows. That would be appropriate for a snake like him who doesn’t want to be seen. For a divorce lawyer who makes his money off of others’ pain.

“Down the street,” he mumbles, pointing toward the end of my cul-de-sac.

When we reach the car whose locks open with the keys I grab from his sweaty palm, I see that he drives an old Volvo that looks like it was built during the Nixon administration. Even my Toyota is worth more than this piece of crap. “What’s your other car?”

“I don’t have another car.”

“God help me, Taylor,” I snarl, “I’ll put you down again and choke the life out of you for good this time. What’s your other car?”

“This is all I’ve got. I can’t afford another car.” He leans over, blood dripping from his nose. “My law practice is failing. I’m going broke.”

“Son, son.”

I pry open my eyes to the dawn and a priest kneeling over me, shaking my arm. He’s wearing his black suit and white collar, and there’s a small silver cross dangling from his neck.

“Are you all right?”

“Father Dale?” I ask, rubbing my eyes and straining to pull myself to a sitting position on the church’s front steps where I’ve been sprawled for the past few hours.

“Yes, son. It’s me.”

“I’m Augustus McKnight.”

“I know, Augustus. I recognize you from my visit to your house last week.” He raises one eyebrow. “You seem to have had a rough night.” His expression turns grim. “I’m so sorry about Melanie’s death.”

When I finished with Taylor I went back to the house and drank what was left of a bottle of scotch I had received as a birthday present a few months ago. Then, around two o’clock, I drove to this small Gothic church only a few minutes from the house. It’s the church Melanie used to come to every Sunday morning while I stayed in bed.

“I’ve been here for a couple of hours,” I explain. Through the gray light I notice my Toyota parked in front of the church at an odd angle, driver-side door still open. I vaguely remember stumbling out of it and crawling to the steps.

“How can I help you?” he asks kindly.

“I’m not Catholic.”

“That’s all right,” he replies reassuringly. “God doesn’t discriminate. Neither do I.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about your wife? Is that why you’re here?”

My eyes flash to his, and for a moment I consider asking him if he knows why she stopped coming to his services so suddenly. “No,” I finally murmur. “It’s not.”

“Then what is this about?”

“I understand that you support a local shelter for battered women and children.” Melanie told me about the shelter one Sunday after Father Dale had mentioned it in his sermon. “That you personally take great interest in it.”

Father Dale nods. “Yes, I do. It’s in the heart of downtown and run by a woman named Betty Griswold. Betty has dedicated her life to assisting abused women and children. She runs the center on a wing and a prayer with the help of a few very dedicated volunteers.”

“Melanie said the shelter was in financial trouble.”

The priest sighs. “It’s always in trouble. We do what we can for Betty, but as with most charitable causes, money is constantly in short supply.”

I reach into my shirt pocket, pull out the check I scrawled a few hours ago, and gaze at it intently for a moment. The only line not filled in is “pay to the order of.” “Would you give this to Ms. Griswold for me, Father?” I ask, handing him the check. “You’ll have to fill out the name of the shelter.”

Father Dale stares at my sloppy handwriting and shakes his head. “Son, this check is made out for ten thousand dollars. It’s an incredibly generous gesture, but are you sure about this? Why don’t you go home and think about it for a while?” he suggests, holding the check out toward me. “I’ll be here tomorrow if you want to come back.”

All I want right now is a tall glass of water. I’m so damn dehydrated. I make it to my feet with a groan. “I’m certain, Father,” I answer, gazing at the Toyota, embarrassed by how decrepit it looks. I sure would like something nicer. “And you can tell Ms. Griswold that there will be more coming. Much more.”

CHAPTER 11

I’m not a weak man. In fact, I’m pretty strong, both physically and emotionally. I’ve always worked hard to keep myself in good shape, and I can’t respect those who don’t. Life is an incredible gift, and it seems to me it’s our obligation to develop what we’ve been given to the fullest.

Being strong means I’m able to recover quickly from a long night of drinking—which cuts both ways. I don’t suffer from bad hangovers, but I don’t slow down once I’ve started drinking either because I don’t fear the aftereffects. Unfortunately, I’m still prone to saying and doing the same stupid things as everyone does while I’m under the influence.

Two hours ago I handed Father Dale a ten-thousand-dollar check for Betty Griswold and her shelter—which I don’t regret at all. I’m glad to finally be able to help someone in a meaningful way. What bothers me is that I’m not certain
why
I gave the priest ten percent of my newfound wealth. Maybe I went to him with the gift as atonement for almost killing Frank Taylor on my front lawn. If Mrs. Friedman hadn’t put on her pink slippers and come running out of her house with the flashlight, there’s no telling what might have happened. Or maybe I handed Father Dale the check because of Melanie. She was devoted to that church for so long. Maybe I felt like that was what she would have wanted, and by making the gesture I would finally be able to say good-bye to her. Maybe the check should have been for more.

“Good morning.”

Mary’s fingers curl around my shoulders from behind, gently kneading my shoulders and neck. I know it’s her by her voice. “Hi.”

“How are you?” she asks.

“Fine.” It’s seven o’clock and we’re the only people on the trading floor so I’m not worried about her public display of affection. “My God, where did you learn to do that?” She’s only been rubbing my shoulders for thirty seconds, but I’m already drifting into that state of physical satisfaction where you feel like you can’t keep your eyes open. “That’s amazing.”

“Someday I’ll tell you all about my secret past,” she says, her deft fingers continuing to work. “It hasn’t always been a bed of roses, but I managed to take away a few good things from the bad times.” Her fingertips rub my temples softly, and I feel myself starting to drift off. “Some not so good things too.”

For a few seconds I’m not certain if her hands are still there, or if I’m even awake. Finally, I’m able to pry open my eyes and she’s standing in her cubicle, smiling down at me while she turns on her computer. Her hair is up in a bun this morning—the first time she’s worn it like that since I started at Bedford—and it’s a completely new look for her. The transformation is startling. She hardly looks like the same woman.

Melanie had that same chameleon ability, and I found it incredibly alluring. It was as if I were making love to a different woman when she would come to bed with her long blond hair pulled back by a leather ribbon. As she entered the room she’d make a big production out of taking off her wedding ring and leaving it on the dresser, as if I wasn’t her husband and she didn’t want to be fettered by it during the encounter. Her back to me, she’d slip seductively out of a red silk robe she wore only on these occasions, then turn slowly around and stand before me, hands and arms covering what I most wanted to see until I pulled them away and dragged her onto the bed. She became a woman I didn’t know but desperately wanted. She knew exactly how her game affected me, and she loved it. She loved that power.