| The Bridge 13 |
| 1 | THIRTEEN "It's not the end of the world," Stan said quietly, even before I had settled in the chair on the other side of his desk. "It's what we could call a bit of a reverse. The West Coast Commodity Exchange collapsed yesterday. They filed for bankruptcy. You've lost a little money." My financial manager was always understated, which is why my jaw tightened at his words. "How little have we lost, Stan?" "About six hundred thousand dollars," he said, "five hundred ninety-some thousand." "Gone?" "Oh, someday you might get a few cents on the dollar from the bankruptcy court," he said. |
| 2 | "I'd consider it gone." I swallowed. "Glad we're diversified. How go things at the Chicago Board of Trade?" "You've had some setbacks there, too. Temporary, I'm sure. You're having the longest string of losses I've ever charted. It can't go on like this forever, but for the time being it's not the best. You're down about eight hundred thousand dollars." He was talking about more money than I had! How could I lose more than I had? |
| 3 | On paper, he must mean. It's a paper loss. People cannot lose more money than they have. If I could learn anything about money, maybe it would be well to pay closer attention to this business. But I would have to study for months, and money-handling is not like flying, it is suffocating dull stuff; even the pictures aren't easy to follow. "It's not as bad as it sounds," he said. "A loss of a million dollars will cut your taxes to zero; you've lost more than that so you won't be paying a cent of income tax this year. |
| 4 | But if I had a choice, I'd choose not to have lost it." I felt no anger, no despair, as though I had stumbled into a situation comedy, as though by turning fast enough in my chair I'd find television cameras and a studio audience instead of Stan's office wall. Unknown writer makes millions, loses them overnight. Isn't that some worn cliche? Is this really my life? While Stan explained the disasters, I wondered. |
| 5 | People with million-dollar incomes, they've always been somebody else. I, on the other hand, have always been me. I'm an airplane pilot, a barnstormer selling rides from hayfields. I'm a writer as rarely as possible, when forced by an idea too lovely to let die unwritten . . . what is the likes of me doing with a bank account of more than a hundred dollars which is all anyone could possibly need at one time anyway? |
| 6 | "Might as well tell you, while you're here," Stan went on quietly. "The investment you made through Tamara, that high-interest, government-backed foreign development loan? Her client disappeared with the money. It was only fifty thousand dollars, but you ought to know." I couldn't believe it. "He's her friend, Stan! She trusted him! And he's gone?" "Left no forwarding address, as they say." He studied my face. |
| 7 | "Do you trust Tamara?" Oh, my. Please not that cliché. Pretty woman takes rich fool for fifty grand? "Stan, are you saying that Tamara had something to do. . . ?" "Possible. It looks to me like her handwriting on the back of the check. Different name, same handwriting." "You're not serious." He unlocked a file drawer, brought out an envelope, handed me a canceled check. SeaKay Limited, it was endorsed, by Wendy Smythe. |
| 8 | High sweeping capital letters, graceful descenders on the y's. Had I seen those on an envelope, I would have sworn it was a note from Tamara. "That could be anybody's writing," I said, and handed it back across the desk. Stan didn't say another word. He was convinced that she had the money. But Tamara was my department; there would be no investigating unless I asked for it. I'd never ask, never say a word about it to her. |
| 9 | And I'd never trust her again. "You do have some money left," he said. "And of course there's new income, every month. After a long streak of bad luck, the market has to turn. Now, you could put the remaining assets in foreign currency. I have a hunch the dollar might fall against the Deutschmark any time now, so that you might earn your losses back, overnight." "It's beyond me," I said. "Do what you think's best, Stan." For all the warning-lights flashing and danger-bells clanging, my empire could have been a nuclear powerplant three minutes to melt-down. |
| 10 | At last I stood, picked my flying-jacket from the arm of the couch. "Someday we'll look back on this as our low point," I told him. "From here on things can only get better, can't they?" As if he hadn't heard, he said, "One more thing I've been meaning to tell you. It's not easy. Do you know that saying: Tower corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely'? Well, it does. I think that might be true for me, too." I didn't know what he meant, and I was afraid to ask. |
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