Beyond the Carousel Page 6

  Seeing such a dramatic increase in the stock, George Feldman took the last $200 out of his mama’s savings account and bought another ten shares of Broadhurst Steel. When Franklin got the call from George telling him to buy the ten shares of Broadhurst, he started to voice his doubts about the stock.

  “I ain’t interested in your opinion,” George said and hung up.

  Not anxious to lose yet another client, Franklin took the transaction and put through a buy order.

  The following week Broadhurst took a dip along with a number of other stocks, but it was only a few points so nobody did anything. The days of the month rolled by with investors expecting a rebound, but it didn’t happen. By early October a number of Wall Street brokers were scratching their chins.

  The News Leader jumped back and forth with a diversity of opinions. One day they’d interview a banker who assured readers the market had reached a sustainable high and was certain to stay there. The next day they’d quote an economist who claimed such expectations were unrealistic.

  The fourth week of October when Laura’s parents came to Sunday dinner, Franklin took Emory aside.

  “I know a lot of people disagree, but I think we’re in for a rough ride,” he said. “Play it smart; take the money you’ve reinvested back out of the market.”

  “With the prices down?” Emory replied skeptically.

  Franklin nodded. “Last week was a roller coaster ride, but it’s going to get worse. I’m certain of it.”

  Over the past few years, Emory had come to have great respect for Franklin. He was a man who took care of his family, and there was nothing Emory Hawthorne appreciated more than that.

  “Okay,” he said. “Do it.”

  On Monday morning when Franklin got to the office, the first thing he did was to execute the trade for Emory. By then the value of the account had dropped by nineteen percent. Franklin telephoned Emory and gave him the news.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said, “but I’ll make it up to you, I swear I will.”

  The money he’d lost was the equivalent of three months’ pay for Emory.

  “I’m not happy losing all this money,” he said, “but you don’t have to make up for anything. Taking care of my little girl as you do is payment enough.”

  Before noon the market was in free fall, and there seemed to be no way of stopping it. Franklin remained in the office until eight-thirty that evening, calling clients and advising them of the situation. Some said to sell as soon as the market opened the next morning; others said he’d been wrong before and they had little reason to believe he was right now.

  He came home that night bleary-eyed and exhausted.

  Despite a lack of sleep, Franklin was awake before dawn and anxious to get to the office. He slipped out of bed quietly, got dressed then kissed Laura’s cheek and said he was in a hurry. He took the car and drove to work instead of walking as he usually did. Two hours before the market opened he was at his desk writing up the sell orders he’d taken the previous night.

  When the opening bell rang on Tuesday, Franklin’s sell orders were a fraction of what poured in. There were no buy orders, just sells—so many that by noon the ticker couldn’t keep up with them. By close of business, the ticker tape was more than two hours behind.

  That day Franklin skipped lunch and drank nine cups of black coffee. It was after ten when he finally telephoned Laura to say he was at long last starting home. He’d parked the car on a narrow side street in the downtown area, not a place where there would be other people walking around at that time of night. Halfway down the block he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Hey, Frankie, wait up!”

  Franklin hadn’t been called Frankie since he was in kindergarten, and even then he hated the name. He turned and saw the figure staggering toward him. Something was wrong with the man.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I need my money back!”

  Franklin recognized the voice then saw the man’s face. George Feldman, drunk as a skunk. After a day such as he’d had, his patience was at an end.

  “What do you want?”

  George moved closer then stopped. From two feet back, Franklin could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  “Gimme my money back!”

  “I don’t have it,” Franklin said. “It’s in your account. Tomorrow you can close out the account and—”

  “I want my money now!”

  George shifted something from one hand to the other, but what it was Franklin couldn’t say. A bottle opener or maybe a knife.

  “All I’ve got is three dollars in my pocket,” Franklin said. “If you need money you’re welcome to it, but I can’t get a nickel out of your account until the market opens tomorrow morning.”

  He nervously reached into his pocket, pulled out the three singles and handed them over. George snatched the bills and clumsily thumbed through them.

  “You got balls, Frankie, you know that? You take everything I got and give me three lousy, stinkin’ bucks…” He shoved the money into his pocket.

  Taking advantage of the momentary diversion, Franklin jumped into his car and drove off.

  Franklin didn’t drive straight home. He headed north, turned at the Safeway store and then doubled back along Wilmont. He drove past the house, looking to make sure there was no sign of trouble then continued for three blocks. At Brewster he turned into the side street, parked the car and walked back. George Feldman had seen the car, and a man in such a state of mind could be crazy enough to come in search of it.

  As Franklin walked he turned back several times, trying to see into the dark shadows and listening for the sound of footsteps behind him. If George Feldman was waiting to jump him from behind a bush Franklin could handle that, but the one thing he didn’t want to do was lead a crazed man to his wife and daughter. Franklin kept walking and circled the block three times until he was absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed. By the time he pushed through the front door, his face was ashen and his mouth drawn.

  “You look terrible,” Laura said. “Are you okay?”

  “For now,” Franklin answered. He explained his encounter with George Feldman. “This market situation isn’t going to settle down anytime soon, and I’m concerned that he won’t be the only one acting crazy.”

  A knotted line of ridges settled on Laura’s forehead. “Perhaps you should call the police.”

  “And tell them what? They can’t arrest a person for being angry.”

  “Maybe they could question him, say they’re keeping an eye on him or do something that would scare him enough to leave you alone.”

  “It’s not me, I’m worried about,” Franklin said. “It’s you and Christine.”

  “Us? Why?”

  It was all but impossible for Franklin to explain the level of hatred he’d seen in George Feldman’s eyes.

  “I can take care of myself,” he said, “but I’m worried about you and Christine being here alone.”

  She eyed him with a look of concern. “Christine is just a child. Surely you don’t think—”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But if a stranger knocks at the door, don’t answer it.”

  He gripped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length with his eyes looking directly into hers. His intent was to warn Laura but not frighten her out of her mind.

  “Understand this,” he said in a dead serious voice. “George Feldman might or might not be dangerous. I don’t know, and I don’t want you to take chances. If Christine goes outside, keep her in the backyard and stay with her.”

  The fear in his voice was something Laura had never heard before.

  “Franklin, you’re scaring me,” she said nervously.

  “I don’t want you to be frightened,” he replied. “But I do want you to be cautious.”

  He saw the fear in her eyes and drew her to his chest. “I’m probably just being over-protective, but it’s only because I love you so much.”

&nbs
p; Even as he spoke he was remembering the previous year’s kidnapping of ten-year-old Rose Budd. It was almost eleven o’clock by then, too late for making telephone calls, but still Franklin dialed the Hawthornes’ number. Emory answered in a sleepy voice.

  “I hate to bother you at this time of night…” Franklin began. He told Emory of the incident with a disgruntled client.

  “I’m not expecting trouble,” he said, “but I’d appreciate it if you or Mother Hawthorne could stop by to check on Laura and Christine during the day.”

  “Do you really think anyone would—”

  “I doubt it,” Franklin said, but his voice was edgy and filled with concern.

  Franklin

  Last night when I asked Dad to stop by and check on Laura, I could hear the anxiety in his voice. He’s concerned, and he’s got every right to be. He loves Laura and Christine as much as I do. He suggested I report it to the police, but I told him the same thing I told her. Right now there’s nothing to report.

  Hopefully last night was a single confrontation, and Feldman got the anger out of his system. If he steps back and looks at the whole picture, he’ll realize the market isn’t something I can control. I told him to take his money out while he still could, but the man’s a hothead and not one who is likely to listen to reason.

  The thing is George Feldman didn’t flat out threaten me. I doubt he’s even interested in a man-to-man fight. If that’s what he was after, he would have come at me last night. The apprehension I felt wasn’t because of what he said, it was because of the crazed look in his eyes. He was more than just a belligerent drunk. He was a man who’d lost all reason. With a man like that, I worry he’ll follow me home.

  Being a stockbroker is like being an amateur psychiatrist. You’re supposed to know what’s in the client’s head and what their expectations are. When I look at Feldman, all I see is a man hell bent on revenge. In his mind I’ve taken everything from him, and I think he’ll be looking to do the same to me.

  Even a fool can tell what’s most important to me. There are pictures of Laura and Christine all over my office. That’s what has me worried.

  From here on in you can be sure I’ll be looking over my shoulder when I leave the office at night. And on days when I drive, I’ll be parking the car at least three blocks from the house. I’m praying I’ve seen the last of George Feldman, but if he does show up here again I’m going to report it to the police.

  Dark Days

  On Thursday Franklin didn’t hear from George Feldman but the selling frenzy continued, and by the end of the day the New York Stock Exchange announced they would remain closed on Friday.

  Late that afternoon Franklin called George’s telephone number but got no answer. Since George seesawed back and forth on buy and sell orders as he did, Franklin figured it unwise to close out the account without an actual request to do so. Rules were rules. The account had already dropped to a value of less than $100 and wasn’t likely to go lower.

  On Monday when the market reopened, he called George again. Still no answer. By noon the stock exchange had already announced it would be closing at one. It remained that way all week: sellers frantic to get rid of their stock, shortened market hours and long waits for everything. The market decline continued through most of November, and by the time Thanksgiving rolled around there was little to be thankful for. Rose and Emory came to dinner, and they celebrated with a much smaller turkey and less trimmings.

  “We’re not as bad off as some are,” Laura told her mama. “Franklin isn’t making any commissions, but at least we have some savings.”

  * * *

  November turned into December, and George Feldman held on to his Broadhurst stock still believing it would bounce back as it had before. In January the company declared bankruptcy and closed its doors, and George went on a bender that lasted six days. When he finally sobered up and returned to work, he found he’d been fired.

  “I got a mortgage payment due,” he said grimly. “How the hell am I gonna make it with no job?”

  “That’s not my problem,” the foreman replied and told George if he wasn’t off the lot in thirty seconds they’d call for the police.

  That same afternoon Sara Perkins, a loan officer for the bank, called. She said there were two mortgage payments already overdue and the third would be coming up in another week. George told her she could go straight to hell then ripped the telephone from the wall and started stomping on it.

  Mama Feldman heard him cussing and hurried in from the kitchen.

  “That was the bank calling again, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “Yeah, Mama, that was the bank,” George snapped. “They want their money, and I got nothing to send them.”

  “What’s that mean? They gonna throw me outta my own house ’cause of a dumb ass thing you did?”

  “How the hell should I know?” George yelled. He gave the broken telephone one last kick and sent it flying across the room.

  “You happy now?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Mama, I swear, if you don’t leave me alone—”

  “You’ll what? Move out? There ain’t nobody but me who’ll have you!”

  “Shut up, Mama, just shut up!”

  “I’ll shut up when you get off your lazy ass and go back t’ work so’s you can pay the bank and pay me for that broke telephone.”

  “I can’t get t’ work,” he said. “I got canned.”

  Earlier in the day George thought he’d simply find himself another job and say nothing about being fired, but in the heat of the argument it came out. When his mama heard that, she about went crazy. She began beating her fists against his chest and calling him every name she could think of. Once he was able to get loose, he ran up the stairs and disappeared into his bedroom.

  It was the start of an argument that raged on through the middle of February. Every time George ventured out of the room, his mama came at him screaming like a banshee.

  With each day that passed, he became more desperate. He’d thought finding a job would be easy enough, but now it seemed there were no jobs. Nothing. Not even sweeping the streets or emptying out trash cans. After nearly a month of looking he went back to the steel mill thinking he’d beg to have his old job back, but by then they’d already laid off forty-two men and weren’t willing to even talk to him.

  With the telephone no longer working, the bank began sending a barrage of letters. Each one was more threatening than the previous one. Looking at them when he had no money and no way to get any was depressing, so after a while George stopped opening the envelopes and just tossed them into the trash.

  In late February he was lying in bed one morning thinking of what he might do when he heard the hammering at the front of the house. His mama heard it also. She was the one who opened the door and saw the bank’s foreclosure notice nailed there. Seeing that, she stormed up the stairs and pounded on George’s bedroom door with both fists.

  “What now, Mama?” he hollered and stayed where he was.

  “Don’t you get sassy with me! Open this door right now!”

  George was already dead tired of arguing and he knew opening the door would only mean a bigger fight, so he did nothing.

  For a good five minutes she stood there banging on the door and yelling cuss words at him. Then she stopped as suddenly as she’d started. He heard a groan and the thump of something hitting the floor.

  “Mama?” George called. “You still there?”

  When he got no answer he twisted the lock, pulled the door open and saw her lying there. He inhaled sharply and kneeled beside her.

  “Mama!”

  She was breathing, but her hand was clutched to her heart.

  “Get an ambulance,” she wheezed.

  George was halfway down the stairs before he remembered his bout with the telephone. He ran across the street and pounded at the door. Bertha Paulson was an old woman and slow as molasses. When she finally opened the door he said, “Mama’s sick, call for an ambulan
ce.”

  “I don’t have no telephone,” she replied.

  George went from one house to another, and it was almost five minutes before he found someone to make the call. By the time he got back to the house, his mama was no longer breathing.

  “Mama!” he cried. “Don’t do this! Please don’t do this.”

  When the ambulance finally arrived, Anna Feldman’s skin had already taken on a ghastly pallor. George stood at the window and watched as they lifted the stretcher into the ambulance and pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said then dropped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

  Anna Feldman wasn’t necessarily a good mother, but she was all he had. Now he had nothing. No job, no home and nobody who gave a damn whether he lived or died. With that thought in mind, he pulled his last bottle of corn whiskey from the cupboard and poured himself half a glass.

  For a long while he sat there thinking back on what had gone wrong. He remembered how at first buying the Broadhurst stock had seemed such a good idea. He could still picture the way Franklin Wilkes stood and shook his hand. Back then Wilkes treated him as an equal, but later on, after the stocks had become almost worthless, he’d doled out a measly three dollars. It was a handout, given to him as if he were a vagrant standing on the corner with a tin cup.

  Shoved the money at me then drove off in his fancy car.

  George poured another drink and gulped down a swallow. He could still picture Franklin Wilkes with a suit and tie.

  Wearing a smug grin.