Читать книгу Coming for Money - F.W. vom Scheidt - Страница 7

2

On weekends, I seemed to live a breath at a time.

Saturday and Sunday inched by in a downward spiral, making me increasingly edgy. Fickle. Channel surfing till dawn. Feeling it in some part of every minute, the need to reach the hurry of days with deadlines waiting in the coming week on the other side.

When I could no longer tolerate the inertia that accumulated, like a surely rising tide from the moment of leaving the office Friday night, I grudgingly sought the support of a familiar armchair and the distraction of whisky in my hand.

In my memory were weekends that flowed like a glassy river from Friday to Monday; the living room a tranquil anchorage, ripe with the indolence of fat newspapers, rich coffee, and flaky pastry crumbs.

Any more, I found I could only look outwards.

At my elbow, the panelled windows of my twentieth-floor condominium let in the last city views, wavering in the watery light of the late winter afternoon.

I swirled the glass in my hand, bringing forth the familiar and reassuring rattle of the ice cubes.

“It was even easier than I expected,” I announced above the knocking ice cubes, one thought present, all others absent. “All I had to do was be patient. Not run scared. Wait out the week, and give them just enough rope to hang themselves.”

I kept my eyes on a distant point where the chilly winter sky blurred with the skyline.

“You know what?” I asked her.

I pulled a trickle of Scotch off the rim of my glass, let it warm behind my teeth before I swallowed it slowly. “I knew they’d oversubscribe those bonds. I knew they’d see the dollar signs stacking up before their eyes like sugarplums. That bank has always been run from head office in Amsterdam by the greediest bunch of bastards I’ve ever seen. They’d sell twice as many bonds as they could get their hands on. Three times as many. They wouldn’t care. They’d do it just to keep the bidding juicy.”

Eagerly, I began to re-climb the steps of my success, the sensations free-flowing within me, the adrenaline of the risk, the elation of winning.

I sipped again. Barely. To add credibility to my opinion. “All I had to do last week was let them think they’d beat us and we’d rolled over and played dead. And then.”

Two shallow gulps that I swallowed hurriedly, appreciating the sensation of alcohol diluting my adrenaline.

“And then, bam! Friday night. Pull the plug on them. All I had to do was sit there and wait for one phone call from our guys in Singapore to let me know I’d gotten what I wanted. And that was it. Lock up the market and let them choke on their own greed. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not collect dollar fucking one. Do not – ”

I stopped at the centre of a breath, never fully drawing it for the next word.

I was doing it again.

The sudden realization caused my heartbeat to accelerate wildly as if I were fleeing from the recognition. I shook my head loosely, inhaled deeply, and tried to exhale as slowly as possible to disperse the fluttering in my chest.

Why did I keep doing it?

Talking to Judith.