Chapter 1. Containing a New York-Minute
New York, New York, October 1929
We’re more than happy to move a few sizable stacks of Big Department’s rumrunning money into penny stocks. He loves the 100%-profit-for-every-penny argument. But this is a colossal miscalculation on the part of my employer. Considering Big Department isn’t as toothless as the widows, Aldo actually has to care which stocks he picks. His blue-sky racket’s completely cast over.
Poochie makes it clear the Big Department would prefer his shares go up. It only takes a couple days of the market tanking for Aldo Pennebeck’s smiling demeanor to disappear. The devil-may-care attitude is gone. Then the market really begins exhaling and it’s no accordion making melodies. It’s a bellows fanning the flames. Big Department’s penny stocks are all losing and Aldo is sweating like one of the damned, as well he should be. To make matters worse, Eva-Maria announces she met some movie producer on the subway who wants to give her a screen test in Los Angeles. I hesitate to object, though I want to. In fact, like some half-wit, I actually encourage her, and when she finishes stewing over that fine how-do-you-do, she books a sleeping berth to L.A. without me.
I start thinking about going back to driving full-time but legit, something not too strenuous, like a potato chip route, delivering nice light cartons that no one wants to shoot you for. And I start daydreaming about finding Eva-Maria to convince her she misunderstood me, is all. To kiss and make up. They eat potato chips in L.A., don’t they? But before I can pull the trigger, circumstances dance completely out of control.
Wednesday, October 30, 1929, I’m in my redoubt, picking stocks to bet against. I have the Wall Street Journal stock page taped to the wall opposite my desk, and I’m flipping darts at it. With my back turned and my eyes closed. Whatever I hit, I’m shorting. What with the market falling through the floor, it’s a sure bet. The problem is our floor trader is already drowning in a sea of sell orders and what’s the point really in answering the phone? If people want to sell the whole market, they might as well just give it away. People are already calling yesterday Black Tuesday.
That’s when Aldo gets a visit from some of our clientele, unannounced and pretty much suddenlike. I hear the outside door close, then heavy footsteps. The floor starts jouncing like it’s getting pounded by a ton of falling bricks in shoe leather.
The inner office door closes kind of hard and I hear someone say: “The Department ain’t happy, Aldo. The Department ain’t happy one bit about them penny-ante stocks you pawned off on us.”
“It’s a long-term play,” Aldo says, fast-talking. “These penny stocks jump around, sure enough, but they’re going to make everyone a fortune in the next few months. The market’s just going through a little seasonal turbulence…”
Whatever other malarkey he’s about to offer up gets stuffed back down his throat, and the very loud crash that follows has the hair on the back of my neck leaping to attention. I shove my eye up to the pinprick peephole in the door of my well-disguised office. Two gorillas in blue uniforms are storming around Aldo’s office as if they’re tired of doing time in the Bronx zoo. A third guy’s with them, a giant in a brown suit and Stetson, palming a pistol the size of a cannon. One of the cops makes quick work of Aldo. He blackjacks him and that’s that.
The guy in the Stetson throws open a window and the two flatfeet pick Aldo off the floor. He’s completely limp, blood’s pouring down his face. The poor bastard doesn’t know whether he’s buying or selling. They rush over to the window and defenestrate him. It’s a nightmare—slow, quick, horrible—and Aldo’s gone. One of his shoes clips the window frame as he cartwheels out and the window cracks. I’ve known guys to make stiff demands on the small business owner, but these are extremely tough customers.
When the guy in the Stetson turns around, I get a clear look. It’s Poochie. I try to remember if he ever saw my tiny, back office. I hope I always paid him in the Irish bar.
For Aldo Pennebeck, it’s all a dull swirl. He dreams he’s playing a game of musical chairs and a polka band is booming and crooning a roomful of oompas. The accordionist rips his accordion in two, the drummer kicks her drums in, and the music stops cold. Like that. He gropes with both hands to claim a chair to settle in, but there is no chair there under him as he sits down on air and there’s a whish and a long, long, long, long way….
The next day the papers report he committed suicide. Like three other brokers who couldn’t make their margin calls. That’s the way they write it up—another broke broker who jumped to his death. When I read the story in the paper, I’m surprised anybody thinks that’s what happened. Especially considering his ransacked office. Aldo Pennebeck is the last guy in the world who’d leave a party early. Then again, cops have ways of keeping stuff out of the papers, I’m sure of that.
* * *
New York, New York, October 1929
We’re more than happy to move a few sizable stacks of Big Department’s rumrunning money into penny stocks. He loves the 100%-profit-for-every-penny argument. But this is a colossal miscalculation on the part of my employer. Considering Big Department isn’t as toothless as the widows, Aldo actually has to care which stocks he picks. His blue-sky racket’s completely cast over.
Poochie makes it clear the Big Department would prefer his shares go up. It only takes a couple days of the market tanking for Aldo Pennebeck’s smiling demeanor to disappear. The devil-may-care attitude is gone. Then the market really begins exhaling and it’s no accordion making melodies. It’s a bellows fanning the flames. Big Department’s penny stocks are all losing and Aldo is sweating like one of the damned, as well he should be. To make matters worse, Eva-Maria announces she met some movie producer on the subway who wants to give her a screen test in Los Angeles. I hesitate to object, though I want to. In fact, like some half-wit, I actually encourage her, and when she finishes stewing over that fine how-do-you-do, she books a sleeping berth to L.A. without me.
I start thinking about going back to driving full-time but legit, something not too strenuous, like a potato chip route, delivering nice light cartons that no one wants to shoot you for. And I start daydreaming about finding Eva-Maria to convince her she misunderstood me, is all. To kiss and make up. They eat potato chips in L.A., don’t they? But before I can pull the trigger, circumstances dance completely out of control.
Wednesday, October 30, 1929, I’m in my redoubt, picking stocks to bet against. I have the Wall Street Journal stock page taped to the wall opposite my desk, and I’m flipping darts at it. With my back turned and my eyes closed. Whatever I hit, I’m shorting. What with the market falling through the floor, it’s a sure bet. The problem is our floor trader is already drowning in a sea of sell orders and what’s the point really in answering the phone? If people want to sell the whole market, they might as well just give it away. People are already calling yesterday Black Tuesday.
That’s when Aldo gets a visit from some of our clientele, unannounced and pretty much suddenlike. I hear the outside door close, then heavy footsteps. The floor starts jouncing like it’s getting pounded by a ton of falling bricks in shoe leather.
The inner office door closes kind of hard and I hear someone say: “The Department ain’t happy, Aldo. The Department ain’t happy one bit about them penny-ante stocks you pawned off on us.”
“It’s a long-term play,” Aldo says, fast-talking. “These penny stocks jump around, sure enough, but they’re going to make everyone a fortune in the next few months. The market’s just going through a little seasonal turbulence…”
Whatever other malarkey he’s about to offer up gets stuffed back down his throat, and the very loud crash that follows has the hair on the back of my neck leaping to attention. I shove my eye up to the pinprick peephole in the door of my well-disguised office. Two gorillas in blue uniforms are storming around Aldo’s office as if they’re tired of doing time in the Bronx zoo. A third guy’s with them, a giant in a brown suit and Stetson, palming a pistol the size of a cannon. One of the cops makes quick work of Aldo. He blackjacks him and that’s that.
The guy in the Stetson throws open a window and the two flatfeet pick Aldo off the floor. He’s completely limp, blood’s pouring down his face. The poor bastard doesn’t know whether he’s buying or selling. They rush over to the window and defenestrate him. It’s a nightmare—slow, quick, horrible—and Aldo’s gone. One of his shoes clips the window frame as he cartwheels out and the window cracks. I’ve known guys to make stiff demands on the small business owner, but these are extremely tough customers.
When the guy in the Stetson turns around, I get a clear look. It’s Poochie. I try to remember if he ever saw my tiny, back office. I hope I always paid him in the Irish bar.
For Aldo Pennebeck, it’s all a dull swirl. He dreams he’s playing a game of musical chairs and a polka band is booming and crooning a roomful of oompas. The accordionist rips his accordion in two, the drummer kicks her drums in, and the music stops cold. Like that. He gropes with both hands to claim a chair to settle in, but there is no chair there under him as he sits down on air and there’s a whish and a long, long, long, long way….
The next day the papers report he committed suicide. Like three other brokers who couldn’t make their margin calls. That’s the way they write it up—another broke broker who jumped to his death. When I read the story in the paper, I’m surprised anybody thinks that’s what happened. Especially considering his ransacked office. Aldo Pennebeck is the last guy in the world who’d leave a party early. Then again, cops have ways of keeping stuff out of the papers, I’m sure of that.
* * *
