Party Time_Raving Arizona Read online

  My quadmates laugh. Relief washes over me, but tinged with guilt because of Paul.

  ‘My name’s Lines,’ Paul says, blushing. ‘And I certainly haven’t been in at nights photocopying or—’

  ‘But you did recently go for a job interview at Yorba Securities.’ Johnny smiles with satisfaction at his own omniscience.

  Paul’s face stiffens. ‘You’ve got the—’

  ‘What you don’t understand is,’ Johnny says, wagging a finger, ‘the stockbrokerage community in Phoenix is a very small one, and I’ve been around for a very, very long time. If something’s going on in this community, I know about it. Immediately! Paul Whines, you’re fired! Let this be a lesson to the rest of you.’ Johnny’s eyes range the room and return to Paul. ‘And, Whines, don’t even think about grabbing your files. The security guard is here to show you out.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘I’m Ben Collins. Come through to my office,’ says a junior manager at Yorba, where Paul Lines, out to get revenge on Johnny, has arranged an interview for Matt and me in a drab first-floor building with tiny windows overlooking a parking lot. With pockmarked skin and protruding eyes, Ben looks half lizard. He enquires about our backgrounds.

  ‘What can you tell us about Yorba?’ I ask.

  ‘Yorba’s a small firm, but not a bucket shop like Kruger,’ Ben says. ‘We have an in-house trader, Jim Detherow, so you won’t have to call out of Arizona to place your trades. The manager here’s Tim Ford and, unlike Johnny Brasi, he’s a class act.’

  ‘Are you pushing house stocks?’ Matt asks, referring to the high-commission stocks Kruger specialises in.

  ‘No. You’ll be allowed to buy whatever you want. Whatever you feel will make your clients the most money.’

  Pleased, I ask, ‘Will you provide sales leads?’

  ‘Not really. You’ll have to generate your own. But there are a bunch of old accounts you can call.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of leads,’ I say, alluding to the Kruger accounts we photocopied.

  Matt giggles.

  ‘How soon can we start?’ I ask.

  ‘Soon as you like.’

  Wary of running into co-workers, we enter Kruger late at night to fetch our files. I turn on the lights. We search for boxes to pack our stuff in.

  ‘Let’s get out of here fast. Johnny might see the lights on and drive over here. He’d probably kneecap us on the spot,’ I say, bracing for him to appear at the reception.

  ‘What would you do if he showed up?’

  ‘Probably fall at his feet, beg for mercy, offer to cut a little finger off.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Seriously, though, when Johnny finds out, he’s gonna kill us,’ Matt says, dumping brochures from a box.

  ‘I know. Now that we’re actually doing it, I’m shitting myself. Is he really backed by the Mafia or what?’

  ‘That big bald dude that comes to see him with the fancy cane,’ Matt says, ‘that’s one of his gangster backers.’

  ‘Great. Hopefully, they’ll take you out to the desert first, then I’ll know to leave town. After all, you’re his star account opener.’

  ‘Johnny liked you from the get-go,’ Matt says. ‘That’s why he put you in the criminal quad, dude.’

  I feel slight guilt. Mo has blessed our plan. We must be doing the right thing. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say, loading a box. ‘Seeing as we’re moving to Yorba together, why don’t we form a partnership?’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like we merge our books, keep putting long hours in and split everything we make. Teaming up will give us more strength to do battle. We can watch out for each other,’ I say, gazing at Matt’s eyes, willing him to saying yes.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  While Matt empties a drawer, I structure our roles in the partnership. He started before me and is a better closer, but I have more experience in analysis and investing. ‘We’ve got to try to make our clients money. That means you’ll have to stop putting them in penny stocks.’

  ‘But that’s all I know,’ Matt says. ‘Johnny’s got me programmed with sales pitches for the penny stocks Kruger’s making a market in. Look at all of the accounts I just opened with Ryan Murphy.’

  ‘But Ryan Murphy’s going to tank, and your clients are going to lose money.’

  ‘What should I do?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Ryan Murphy’s an environmental company. Let’s look at that sector and see if there are any safer companies available. Then you can just vary your sales pitch.’

  ‘I think this partnership’s gonna work.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We shake hands and hug.

  ‘We can keep each other motivated,’ Matt says. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’

  ‘Wish we didn’t have to lose this view,’ I say, admiring the city lights.

  Our first day at Yorba, we scramble to inform our clients about our move. We brace for Kruger to attack. No shots are fired in the morning. War breaks out in the afternoon. Kruger brokers bombard our clients, demanding they keep their accounts with them. Overwhelmed by calls, we juggle the multiple clients we have on hold. I tell them that Kruger is doomed, their brokers are penny-stock outlaws and Yorba is in a position of financial strength, stirring fear of their accounts sinking with the Kruger ship.

  Most of my customers transfer. As do Matt’s. But Kruger brokers keep calling them. We employ our secret weapon: the accounts we photocopied. Out of fear and respect, we don’t call the accounts of the criminal quad. We target the clients of the Kruger brokers who are pestering our clients the most. Our calls are well received. Dozens of Kruger clients accept account-transfer forms and newspaper articles warning about the stocks Kruger specialises in. We wage war at night, when most Kruger brokers are at home. The battle focuses our minds, sharpens our senses. I feel alive. When our back offices begin to process the transfer forms, it becomes apparent we’re liberating clients from Kruger that aren’t ours. We know Johnny’s onto us, that he knows we used his photocopier to steal account information. Expecting him to hit back hard, we do the unthinkable: we call Johnny’s clients.

  Immediately afterwards, fearing for our lives, Matt insists we go to a pawnshop to buy handguns. Holding a 9mm with a silver barrel and a black grip, I’m shocked and nervous, yet hopeful it will protect me from Johnny. After the purchase, I ask Matt how to load it.

  He inserts bullets into a clip that slots into the gun. ‘I’ve put the safety switch on so you won’t shoot your nuts off.’

  A few days later, our branch manager, Tim Ford – a lanky redhead with an aquiline nose and a ginger moustache who speaks with Southern eloquence – summons us to his office. ‘Are you guys calling Kruger accounts that don’t belong to you?’

  ‘They’re calling our clients,’ I say.

  ‘Technically, they have a responsibility to inform your clients that you’ve left Kruger.’

  ‘But they’re talking shit about us,’ Matt says.

  ‘Look, I just had a call from Johnny Brasi and he’s threatening legal action.’

  The prospect of a court case, of getting sued out of the business, quickens my heartbeat.

  ‘I don’t know what you guys are up to, and it’s probably best we keep it that way, but for the time being I’d like you guys to back off. If Kruger does go out of business, then I don’t see how Johnny can bring any legal action against Yorba. So back off and wait it out. On a more positive note, you guys have done a great job opening so many new accounts.’

  The truce with Kruger makes time drag. Every day I arrive at work hoping to hear Kruger has folded. It takes two months.

  Ben Collins gives us permission to resume calling Kruger accounts. We swoop, like ravens on a warm carcass. It’s even easier pickings. The clients we forewarned of Kruger’s downfall credit us with fortune-telling powers and transfer their accounts.

  Tim Ford calls us into his office.

  We’re in trouble again.

  ‘I’ve got something important t
o tell you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, tensing up.

  ‘The Yorba Phoenix office is closing down.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘But the good news is I’m offering you both jobs with the new firm I’m founding with the senior staff here: Detherow & Ford.’

  ‘But we’ve just transferred all our customers here,’ I say, disappointed. ‘Are you saying we’re going to have to move them again?’

  ‘Yes. We’re opening a brand-new office. Paul Lines is moving with us. You guys should check it out.’

  We inspect the stockbrokerage but are unhappy with the pay-out schedule. The more commission we gross, the higher percentage we take home, and Detherow & Ford’s schedule implies a 10 per cent pay cut.

  Unacceptable. I’m barely making ends meet.

  We move, but not to Detherow & Ford.

  We are contacted by a firm called Radcliff Financial – which has moved into Kruger’s old offices. Its manager, Nick Solari, interviews us. Its pay-out schedule is superior to Detherow & Ford’s, and our view of the mountains is back. We say we don’t want to work at a firm like Kruger. Nick insists Radcliff is reputable like Yorba, we can buy whatever stocks we want and there’ll be no pressure to do our clients wrong. My first day at Radcliff, I’m assigned to sit where I started out a year ago: the criminal quad. I’m pleased to see my Persian buddy, Scott Virani, from Kruger there.

  ‘I have a back office now,’ Scott says, which means he is one of the biggest producers at Radcliff.

  ‘Why are you sitting at a quad if you have a back office?’

  ‘I open way more accounts when I’m on the front line.’ Scott aims his mouth at a trashcan, and expertly launches a ball of spit that turns the waste paper brown from the tobacco he is chewing.

  After the stock market closes, Scott entertains us with tales of his latest rampages in bars and strip clubs. When our boss treats us to drinks at a yuppie bar, Scott brings a blonde strip-tease dancer who speaks with a squeaky voice as if on helium.

  I tell myself, Maybe hanging out with Scott, I’ll meet some wild and interesting women.

  Chapter 5

  Cooling off after work, I go to a yuppie bar and await Matt. Perched on a stool at a circular table, I’m taken by surprise when a Japanese woman in a black pencil dress showcasing toned legs smiles at me. Have I intercepted a smile aimed at someone else? Looking over my shoulder, I see no possible recipients. The smile’s a call to action, but what should I do? As if my glass of pink wine contains the answer, I guzzle half of it. My face flushes as I prepare for action. I ponder introductions: Hi! I’m Shaun. I’m here from England. How’re you?

  Flicking back long, straight dark hair, streaked blonde and red, she turns her porcelain face slightly and stares invitingly. It’s now or never. I smile, take a deep breath, puff out my chest, grow taller, strut over. But her presence deflates my bravado. ‘Er … hello. My name’s, er, Shaun.’

  ‘My name Sumiko.’

  Her smile puts me at ease. ‘Where are you from, Sumiko?’

  ‘Japan.’

  I jump straight into questions about Japan and tell her about England. Her English is poor, my Japanese nil, but we manage to converse, assisted by body language. She’s a fitness instructor from Fukuoka.

  Ten minutes later, Matt walks in, winks and positions himself at the bar.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ I say.

  We exchange numbers. She asks if I’ll help move her pool table.

  ‘Sure. No problem.’ What a strange request, but I’d like to see her again.

  ‘You help, I cook for you.’

  ‘Sounds like a fair trade.’

  ‘What food you like?’

  ‘Curry. Chicken curry.’

  ‘You like spicy?’

  ‘I love it. It’s my favourite.’

  ‘You tried kimchi?’

  ‘No. What’s that?’

  ‘Surprise,’ she says, beaming.

  On Saturday, I head for Sumiko’s in a Ford Tempo on loan from Mo. I turn into a resort. Tall palms line the entrance. I feel as if I’m driving through a column of giants. I pass fancy flower gardens, an English-style roundabout, buildings reminiscent of an old Spanish village. Stucco facades. Red roof tiles. Plants in terracotta pots. I go up a hill, past a water park, tennis courts, horse stables and a golf course. I park, knock at a second-floor apartment and wait, fidgeting with my clothes.

  Sumiko answers, smiling. ‘Take shoes off, please.’

  Entering, I admire the thick white carpet, her dainty feet swallowed up by its glow. I stop myself short of kicking my shoes off and try to remove them like an English gentleman, relieved today’s socks have no holes. My eyes dart all over the place and linger on paintings with the intricate detail prevalent in the Orient. At the foot of each wall are cabinets – black, lacquered and laden with emerald and jade statuettes – with tiny drawer handles suitable for a baby’s fingers. Something smells delicious.

  ‘Nice place.’ I walk to the pool table and give it a shove. It doesn’t budge. ‘There’s no way I can move this!’

  ‘I call other people. They no show up,’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘Do you want me to help you some other time, then, when there’s more of us to move it?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, I cook.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you cook?’

  ‘It’s surprise. You hungry?’

  ‘I’m always hungry.’

  ‘Come. Sit. Eat.’ She seats me at a glass dining table and lays out food.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got the rice in?’ I ask, my stomach rumbling like the mating call of a frog.

  ‘A rice cooker.’

  ‘I’ve never seen one before. Warm rice all day. That’s amazing!’

  The most complex recipe I’ve cooked so far in America is beans on toast. The presence of so much home cooking makes me lose control. I pile a mountain of rice onto my plate and add a pool of curry until my meal resembles a volcano. I shovel heaped forkfuls into my mouth and swallow with minimal chewing, resenting having to stop eating to drink water to dislodge the logjam of rice from my throat. Three plates later, I’m stuffed.

  ‘Try this,’ she says.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Kimchi. Here, try some.’ Sumiko stabs the kimchi – which looks like the least appetising vegetables on earth mangled together and bathed in blood – with chopsticks and drops some on my plate.

  I fork the dollop and budge it around, trying to ascertain its consistency. Mostly cabbage?

  Radiating encouragement, Sumiko studies my face.

  If I don’t eat it, I’ll break her heart. Mustering enthusiasm, I lift the kimchi, catching a whiff of mildew. I drop my smile but raise it fast. Gingerly, I put the kimchi in my mouth. Cold. Sour. Pickled. Hoping to minimise its contact with my taste buds, I swallow it in one gulp. Good riddance. Oh shit! Now what? My tongue starts to burn. While straining to maintain my smile, my cheeks contort. I emit a half-hearted mmmmm. I chug water, hoping to wash away the aftertaste. ‘It’s OK, but I prefer these,’ I say, reaching for a fried sweet potato.

  Next up is plum wine. Claiming she’s allergic to alcohol, Sumiko brings a glass. It slides down my throat like fruit juice. I glug it greedily. About ten minutes later, the euphoria hits. My face flushes. My smile expands. I talk and talk.

  Two more glasses slow my brain down. My thoughts collide. I can’t speak. I stare at Sumiko, the walls, the decor … The room lurches like a ship. The food in my stomach attempts to escape. I swallow it back down, but the kimchi taste returns with a vengeance.

  Sumiko says I’m too drunk to drive and suggests I stay the night. I stagger to her room, undress and get in bed. She joins me. We slide closer. I put my arm around her. Our kimchi breath meets before our lips.

  Over the next few months, we date. I refrain from kimchi but not plum wine. Sumiko asks me to move in with her. Dazzled by her company and sur
roundings, I say yes.

  Sumiko looks younger than me but is seven years older. Although she seems harmless and delicate on the surface, she works out for hours with military aggression. Every weekend, she marches up Squaw Peak Mountain. I stumble behind her, panting, begging to rest. She recently divorced an American she met in Japan. From him, she got a Green Card and a $100,000 settlement, fuel for constant shopping trips to luxury malls. She claims her father, a farmer, prospered from the bubble in Japanese land prices. That she came home from school and saw him and his workers gut, pepper and eat her pet dog. That he was abusive and beat her mother to death with a stick. She weeps as she says these things. I listen, shocked and sad. Her stories make me want to take care of her, but she takes care of me. She replaces my shirts and ties from Ross Dress for Less with designer attire. When she doesn’t cook, we dine at expensive restaurants. I drive her sports car to work. When I come home, she massages me and walks on my back. We enjoy living at the resort so much, we plan to buy a house there. To save up, we move to a cheap apartment near my work.

  We fall in love, and Sumiko gives me a Japanese name, Satoru. I learn a love song in Japanese and sing it to her often. I recite passages from Romeo and Juliet that I learnt in high school, which move her deeply. Happy at home and work, the rave scene and drugs are far from my mind.

  Sumiko says that, because of her bad luck with men, she’ll feel more secure if we’re married. Emotionally immature, besotted and wanting to make her happy, I agree even though we’ve only been together for five months.

  Sitting in a deckchair on the porch overlooking Mo’s swimming pool, I tell my aunt I’m engaged.

  ‘I can tell you love Sumiko and want to make her happy,’ Mo says, opening a can of Budweiser. ‘You have a tendency to want to make people happy – at times to your own detriment. But from a more practical perspective, have you thought about how this may benefit you?’

  ‘No. What do you mean?’

  ‘You can never visit your mum and dad because they won’t let you back in the country when they see you’ve overstayed your visitor’s visa. If you’re married on paper for three years, then you have the right to a Green Card. You can also apply for naturalisation and become a legal alien.’