Another Part of the City

10

He was shaving when the telephone rang. In the mirror, he could see his lathered face and the room behind him. Single bed. A scarred dresser. A naked light bulb hanging in the center of the room. A torn shade on the window. Another light bulb over the sink. His face covered with lather, a razor in his hand. He put the razor down on the sink and went to the phone.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hi, it’s Sandy.”

He nodded. “Hello, Sandy,” he said. He had drunk too much last night after leaving Kathy. Far too much. There was a sand turtle in his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot. The Monday morning blahs. Exacerbated by almost a full fifth of bourbon. He did not want to be talking to Sandy Sanderson. He did not want to be talking to anyone. This was his day off. He planned to go to the library and check out the newspaper stories on the unknown Arab who’d been shot at La Guardia and spirited off to Christ knew where. He planned to visit the law offices of Lewis and Dodge. He planned to come back to the hotel and finish off the rest of the bourbon.

The case was getting to be a pain in the ass.

He didn’t know what D’Annunzio had to do with the Arab who’d been shot too many times in the chest and whose body had been stolen from a meat wagon on the way to the morgue. He didn’t know what D’Annunzio’s murder had to do with the murder of his lawyer. Peter Dodge, who’d been stabbed to death all the way up on Central Park West on the same day he’d had lunch at the Luna Mare.

“I had a tough time tracking you down.” Sandy said.

“My day off,” he said.

“Who’s the man at the precinct who kept calling me ‘Your Honor?’ ”

“Must’ve been Alex Ruiz.”

“Wouldn’t give me your home number till I told him you were investigating a burglary for me. I don’t think he believed me, actually.”

“But he gave you the number.”

“He gave it to me. Where’s the Lorimar Hotel?”

“Twenty-sixth and Broadway.”

“Sounds charming.”

“Oh, yes, lovely.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“The reason I’m calling,” she said, and hesitated. “I always seem to be apologizing to you.” Another pause. “I’m sorry about the other night.”

“Well. I would have called before coming over,” he said, “but...”

“I know. No telephone. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“It was my fault,” he said.

Why the hell was he apologizing to her? She was the one who’d had somebody in the apartment with her. Shit, he thought.

“Here we go again,” she said. “Apologizing to each other. Let’s make a deal, okay? No more sorrys.”

“Sure,” he said.

Another long silence. So what now? he thought. Get off the phone, lady. I got shaving cream all over my face.

“Want to have a drink later?” she asked.

He hesitated. He shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

“Your place or mine?”

“Have you given up on Ringo’s?”

“I got stood up there once,” she said. “My place at six, okay?”

He almost said forget it. Instead, he said, “I’ll bring the wine.”

“Never mind wine, just bring a flashlight,” Sandy said. “See you later.”

There was a click on the line. He looked at the receiver. He shook his head, put the receiver back on the cradle, and then went to the sink.

He looked at himself in the mirror for a long time.

Then he began shaving again.

He did not get to see Phillipa Lewis until almost two o’clock that afternoon. Repeated calls to the law firm of Lewis and Dodge netted only the information that she was out of the office and would not return until alter lunch sometime. He spent his own lunch hour in the Forty-second Street Library, reading through the back issues of last week’s newspapers.

The Times story on the dead Arab told him nothing he didn’t already know. Unidentified man shot at La Guardia Airport, body hijacked from the ambulance on the way to Queens General. A longish story, but buried at the back of last Monday’s newspaper. Both the Post and the News had made bigger deals of the shooting and the subsequent hijacking of the body. MYSTERY ARAB KILLED, the News headline read. ARAB SLAIN, CORPSE STOLEN, blared the Post headline. Now, with both newspapers in front of him, he recalled having seen them last Monday. But the Jurgens trial had started that morning, and he’d been too busy to read either paper. And that night, of course, he’d caught the D’Annunzio murder. In this city, your corpses fell all around you, like cold rain. A cop needed an umbrella, was all. He expected the story would make the covers of both Time and Newsweek in the immediate future. Hot story like this one, he was surprised it wasn’t on the stands already. He often wondered if Time and Newsweek were in secret partnership. Otherwise, how could you explain the same cover stories week after week after week, even when the issue wasn’t a strictly topical one? Sometimes the world got too difficult for Reardon. Sometimes he thought it was all a big fucking conspiracy.

If, for example, Senator Bailey had in fact dined with the unknown Arab on the night of his murder, why hadn’t he come forward to identify him?

Or had there been two Arabs on the nine o’clock shuttle from Washington?

Or three? Or a dozen?

None of them the one who got shot.

But Bailey had asked him, “How on earth did you ever make the connection?”

And then had said, “Between what happened at La Guardia and me.”

They’d been talking about homicide. They’d been talking about the Arab.

So Bailey came up with La Guardia.

And now it turns out an Arab was shot and killed at La Guardia, and his body was still drifting around out there someplace, and Bailey didn’t know anything about anything.

A big fucking conspiracy.

Reardon would have preferred running down a burglar.

He was waiting in the reception room when Phillipa Lewis walked in. An attractive woman in her early forties, he guessed. Wearing a gray topcoat over a trim gray business suit. He introduced himself, told her why he was there, and she immediately looked at her watch. Politely, but not overly enthusiastically, she invited him into her office. Sitting behind her desk — blonde hair pulled tightly back, red earrings, blue eyes — she listened as he explained that he was working a homicide possibly related to the murder of Peter Dodge.

“Even now,” she said, “it’s hard to get used to the word murder. Well, it was a shock to all of us here. As I’m sure you realize.” Vassar out of Rosemary Hall, he guessed. “He seemed so extraordinarily up that day,” she said in the same somewhat nasal voice, talking through her pretty little uptilted nose. “He’d been away for the weekend, skiing in Vermont — Stratton, I believe. Peter was an avid skier. He came back Monday morning and could talk about nothing but how excellent conditions had been. Fresh powder, sunshine... do you ski, Mr. Reardon?”

“No, I don’t.”

“A lovely sport,” she said.

“Who made the lunch reservation for him that day, would you know?”

“Well, his secretary. I would imagine.”

“At the Luna Mare.”

“Yes. He loved Italian food.”

“What time did he get back here?”

“At about two. And rushed right out again.”

“Oh? Where’d he go?”

Phillipa hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It was a personal matter.”

“A woman?”

“No, no,” she said, and smiled.

“Then what? The man was murdered that night, Miss Lewis. Anything you can tell me...”

“Well, I’ve already told Detective Weissman all he wanted to know.”

“Yes, but at the time Detective Weissman didn’t have all the facts.”

“What facts?” she said.

“One,” Reardon said, and began ticking them off on the fingers of his left hand. “Mr. Dodge had lunch that day at a restaurant named Luna Mare. It’s my understanding that your firm wrote the contract for the purchase of that restaurant.”

“Yes, that’s true. Peter did.”

“All right, two. He was killed sometime between six and six-thirty that night, possibly by three men who were driving a brown Mercedes-Benz. Three, approximately an hour later, the owner of the Luna Mare was killed, by two men who got out of a brown Mercedes-Benz. I’m looking for a connection, Miss Lewis. Peter Dodge was D’Annunzio’s lawyer, but what’s the connection beyond that?”

“Where he went that afternoon has nothing to do with his murder.”

“How do you know that?”

“Or with this man who owns the Luna Mare.”

“Let me judge, okay?”

“I mean, this simply isn’t the connection you’re looking for.”

“Where did he go. Miss Lewis. Would you please tell me?”

Phillipa sighed. “It’s just... he confided this to me, and I’m not sure I should...”

“What’d he confide?”

It seemed a long time before Phillipa answered. Reardon waited.

“That he’d bought some silver contracts.”

“Some what?” Reardon said.

“Silver contracts. That’s where he went. To buy silver contracts.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He bought silver contracts, Mr. Reardon. Heavily and long.”

“I still don’t...”

“It means he hoped to make a large profit.”

“And this is what he confided to you?”

“Yes. That he’d bought the contracts.”

“These silver contracts.”

“Yes.” She paused and said, “He urged me to follow suit.”

“He was giving you some sort of tip, is that it?”

“Well, yes, if you want to put it that way.”

“To buy silver contracts.”

“Yes. Heavily and long.”

“I guess I know what heavily means...”

“Well, yes, heavily.”

“But what does long mean?”

“Well, that would take some time to explain,” Phillipa said, and looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m already late for an appointment uptown. One buys futures, you see. Silver is a commodity, like soybeans, hog bellies, grain... really, I am sorry, but I do have to leave.”

“One more question.” Reardon said. “Where did he buy these contracts?”

“At a firm called Rothstein-Phelps,” Phillipa said.

A blonde, blue-eyed receptionist sat behind the switchboard at Rothstein-Phelps. Reardon wondered why every woman in the world was blonde and blue-eyed when your blonde, blue-eyed wife was divorcing you. Well, Sandy isn’t, he thought. Eyes the color of loam, hair a light shade of brown. But Sandy’s got a boyfriend she lets into her bed.

“Rothstein-Phelps, good afternoon,” the receptionist said. “One moment. please.” She pushed a button, looked up at Reardon. “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

“Detective Reardon, Fifth P.D.U.,” he said, flashing his shield. “I’d like to see either Mr. Rothstein or Mr. Phelps, please.”

“Mr. Rothstein is out just now,” the receptionist said. “Just a moment, sir. I’ll see if Mr. Phelps is available.” She pushed another button. “Alice,” she said, “there’s a detective here to see Mr. Phelps.” She listened and then said, “He didn’t say.” She listened again. “Okay,” she said and turned to Reardon. “It’s just down the hall, sir,” she said. “Through the door there.”

Reardon opened the door and found himself in a beige-colored corridor, muted lighting overhead. He walked to a desk at the end of the hall, and showed his shield again to an elderly woman.

“Detective Reardon,” he said. “For Mr. Phelps.”

“Yes, sir, won’t you go in, please?”

He went to the door she’d indicated, knocked, and then opened it. A stout little man sat behind a desk, a telephone to his ear. Dark suit, tie pulled down, top button of his white shin open.

“Four cents a pound.” he said, and gestured to a chair. “Eighty-eight dollars a ton,” he said, and listened. “All right, get back to me.” He put the phone down, stood, and extended his hand to Reardon. “Sorry,” he said. Reardon took his hand. The palm was damp. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reardon? Sit down, please.”

Reardon sat. He took out his notebook.

“A man named Peter Dodge was killed last Monday night,” he said. “Would you know him?”

“Peter Dodge? No.”

“His partner — a woman named Phillipa Lewis — tells me he had some business dealings with your firm on the afternoon of the murder.”

Phelps shook his head. “I don’t recognize his name as one of our customers.”

“He bought silver,” Reardon said.

“Oh? Did he?”

Eyes instantly alert.

“According to Miss Lewis. Silver contracts.” He looked at his notebook. “Heavily and long.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Phelps said, and instantly reached for his telephone. He pressed a button in the base, said, “Alice, would you please check...?” He looked up at Reardon. “When did you say this was?”

“Last Monday. The fifteenth.”

“... the list of calls for Monday,” Phelps said into the phone. “The fifteenth. And buzz Jenny for Mr. Rothstein’s appointment calendar. See what he had scheduled for that date, would you? Thanks.” he said, and hung up.

“You didn’t sell those contracts personally, is that it?” Reardon asked.

“No, I didn’t. But my partner may have. That’s what I’m checking now.”

“Would that have been unusual, Mr. Phelps? Buying long in silver?”

“Everyday occurrence,” Phelps said.

Eyes alert again. Voice entirely too casual.

His phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” he said, and listened. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you.” He put the receiver back on its cradle. “Yes, a man named Peter Dodge was here last Monday afternoon,” he said to Reardon. “Lowell saw him. My partner, Lowell Rothstein.”

“Did he buy silver contracts?”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know.” Phelps said. “If he talked to Lowell personally, then only Lowell would know about any silver position he took.”

“Where can I reach your partner?” Reardon asked.

“He’ll be out all afternoon. Can you try him tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” Reardon said, and paused. “Mr. Phelps... just how heavy is heavy?”

“Well,” Phelps said, “I suppose that depends on how much loose change you have to spend, doesn’t it?”

They were sitting in the living room of the Kidd brownstone on East Seventy-first Street.

Lowell Rothstein and all three survivors of the Kidd family.

“I was worried,” Rothstein said, “I have to tell you. I didn’t know whether or not your father’s death might precipitate a change of plans.”

“Nothing has changed,” Olivia said.

“Well, fine then. We’re to continue with the purchases as scheduled, is that it?”

“Yes,” Olivia said.

“We have the money in our discretionary account...”

“Good.”

“... where either Joe or I can draw checks as needed. The price has gone up just a bit, and we’ve seen some raised eyebrows in the pit, but so far nothing that would indicate a stampede.”

“How much is still in the account?” Olivia asked.

“Oh, I would have to check on that,” Rothstein said. “By the close Friday, we’d bought something like three thousand contracts, I believe it was. I’d guess we still have a bit more than four million, something like that.”

Olivia nodded.

“Again, I want to express my sympathies on the death of your father. The funeral will take place in Phoenix, I expect...”

“His body has already been cremated,” Olivia said.

“Oh, I... I see,” Rothstein said. “Well, I... because Joe and I had planned to fly out, you see...”

“There’s no need,” Olivia said.

“Well,” Rothstein said, and nodded.

There was an awkward silence.

He put on his hat and coat.

“Sarge,” he said. He took Jessica’s hand. “Miss Kidd,” he said. “Nice to’ve met you. Olivia.”

He went to the front door. There was silence in the living room until the door closed behind him.

“What are you buying?” Jessica asked. “What’s this schedule you were talking about?”

“You’ll know Wednesday night,” Olivia said, and put on her mink.

“Pop would’ve told me now,” Jessica said.

“I sincerely doubt that. In any event, he’s dead now, Jessica. And I’m in charge. Don’t ever forget that.” She went to the front door. “I’ll see you back at the hotel, Sarge,” she said, and went out.

“Bitch,” Jessica said.

“Well,” Sarge said, “she’s got a lot on her mind right now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Would you like a drink? I’m going to have a drink.”

“I guess,” he said.

“What would you like? Do you know how to mix martinis?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess so fucking much, Sarge. You either know how to mix a...”

“I know how to mix one.”

“Then mix two,” Jessica said.

He went to the bar. She watched him as he located the bottle of Beefeater and the vermouth. He reached into the ice bucket, began dumping cubes into the pitcher.

“Make them very dry,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I know a man who has a secret for dry martinis,” she said. “This is a man I met in Acapulco. What he does...”

“I don’t want to hear about your boyfriends,” Sarge said.

“This isn’t a boyfriend, he’s just a man I met. Why?” she asked suddenly. “Do my boyfriends make you jealous?”

“No. they don’t make me jealous.”

“They do. I’ll bet they do,” she said, and grinned. “Anyway, what he does, when he buys his bottle of olives, he pours out all the water, all the salty water in there, you know? And he fills the bottle of olives with vermouth. In place of the water. And he lets the olives sit in the vermouth. Then, when he’s mixing a martini, he just uses gin, and instead of the vermouth he drops one of the olives into it. That’s soaked with vermouth, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which makes a very dry martini.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I ought to keep a bottle of olives like that.”

“What do you do if you prefer a twist?” Sarge asked.

“Don’t ask me hard questions,” Jessica said.

He was pouring from the pitcher now. He came to where she was sitting and handed her one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” she said. “Here’s to the big deal, whatever it is.” She sipped at the drink. “Mmm, good,” she said, “you really do know how to make a martini.”

“I told you I did.”

“Do you know how to make a fire, too?”

“I have to be leaving soon.” he said.

“Nobody asked you to stay, I only asked if you know how to make a fire.”

“Of course I know how to make a fire. Everybody knows how to make a fire.”

“Not me.” she said. “Make a fire for me, Sarge.”

He sighed and went to the fireplace.

“Poor put-upon bro,” she said. “Tell me what we’re buying that’s so hush-hush.”

“No,” he said.

“You have to put paper under the logs,” she said.

“I know.”

“I don’t see you using any paper.”

“I always put the paper in last.”

She watched him as he set the logs in place over his kindling, cross-hatching them.

“So neat,” she said.

“If you want a good fire, you have to lay your logs right,” he said.

“Oh, my, you’re such a good log-layer,” she said. “When are you going to put the paper in?”

“Now,” he said, and began tearing Sunday’s Times into long strips.

“You’re tearing up the story on Pop,” she said. “Also you’re supposed to crumple the paper, not strip it.”

“I prefer stripping it,” he said.

He struck a match and held it under the grate.

“I hope you’ve got a good flue here,” he said.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” she said.

The paper caught.

“Fahrenheit four-fifty-one,” he said.

“What?”

“The ignition point of paper. It was also a story by Ray Bradbury.”

“Who’s Ray Bradbury?”

“Forget it,” he said.

“Tell me about the deal,” she said.

“You’ll find out Wednesday.”

The kindling caught now.

“You should buy some Georgia fatwood,” he said.

“What for?”

“Makes a good fire.”

“That’s a pretty good one, anyway,” she said. “Come sit here beside me, Sarge.”

“I have to be going. Olivia’s expecting me.”

“Fuck Olivia,” Jessica said. “Come sit here, warm your toes.”

She took off her shoes, stretched her legs toward the fire.

“Mmm,” she said.

He sat beside her.

“So tell me,” she said.

“I can’t. Stop asking me, Jess.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because too much is at stake.”

“How much? Mmm, that’s a good hot fire,” she said.

“Billions,” he said. “Trillions. After it starts.”

“After what starts?”

“Well, never mind,” he said.

“You make a good fire,” she said, and suddenly giggled. “You give great fire, Sarge.”

He nodded.

“You didn’t get that, did you?” she said.

“Get what?”

“What I just said. About giving great fire.”

“No. What do you mean? Get what?”

“Do you know what giving great head is?”

“No.”

“What a pity,” she said. “Is there any more of this left in the pitcher?”

“Some.”

“Pour me another one. will you?”

“And then I have to go,” he said, rising.

“Tell me about the deal.”

“Can’t,” he said.

“Secrets, secrets,” she said, smiling.

He took her glass and went to the bar. He poured into the glass. The fire crackled. He brought the glass back and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” she said, and patted the sofa beside her. “Sit down. Come sit next to your little sister, Sarge. And tell her what the big secret is.”

“I can’t, Jessie. So please stop asking.”

“Sit down,” she said, and pulled her legs up under her, sleek knees shining in the light of the fire. He sat beside her.

“Tell me the big secret,” she said.

“No,” he said, and looked at his watch. “I’d better go.”

“Not until you tell me what the big secret is.”

“There is no possible way you can convince me to...”

“There is a possible way,” she said. “Move over,” she said, “I want to stretch out.”

“You can have the whole sofa,” he said, “I’m leaving.”

“No, Sarge,” she said, “don’t go yet.”

“Well...”

She shifted her weight, stretched her legs out, and put her head in his lap.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Olivia would kill me,” he said.

“You’ve been killed before,” she said. “For sharing secrets with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That time in the bathroom. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“Me in the tub, starkers. You sitting on the potty.”

“I remember.”

“Pop beat the shit out of you,” she said.

He nodded.

“Was it worth it?”

“No,” he said, and smiled.

“It was worth it, you liar,” she said, and shifted her head in his lap. “Do you remember the other time?”

“What other time?” he said, remembering at once.

“When we were still kids? In the bathroom again? Don’t you remember?”

“I have to go,” he said.

“When I asked you if they were too small?”

“I guess I remember.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she said. “They were too small, I was only thirteen.” She moved her head to look up at him. “You had a hard-on, Sarge.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. I saw it.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I saw it.”

“No.”

“They were small,” she said again. “But not now,” she said, and settled her head in his lap again. “Oh, my,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“You know what,” she said.

“Jessie...”

“Mmm,” she said.

“Jessie...”

“Be still,” she said. “Just sit still, Sarge. Sit still... and tell me what the big secret is.”

From Joseph Phelps’s Sutton Place apartment, you could see the Delacorte fountain in the middle of the East River. Phelps thought the fountain cheapened the neighborhood, goddamn thing shooting up a spray of water into the air every hour, like a fire hydrant turned on in the middle of a Sheepshead Bay street. His wife thought the fountain was “exciting.” Kitty found a lot of things exciting that Phelps found either boring or stupid. “Exciting” was his wife’s favorite word. She found Dijon mustard “exciting.” The only thing Phelps and Kitty agreed on as exciting were her breasts. Kitty had terrific breasts. “Have you ever seen such exciting breasts?” she would ask. He agreed. They were exciting. But she was using the word to mean beautiful or extraordinary or compelling, the way she would have said a sunset was exciting or a restaurant was exciting or a Beethoven sonata was exciting or even the goddamn Delacorte fountain was exciting. He thought they were exciting because they were exciting. Full and round and firm and pearly white, with large pink nipples. Exciting.

During cocktails that night, Kitty was wearing a low-cut dress that showed her breasts to excellent advantage. They were sitting alone in the living room overlooking the East River where the goddamn Delacorte fountain was shooting up into the air. Cheap goddamn fountain, cost Delacorte millions of dollars probably. Supposed he could afford it, the money they were charging for paperbacks these days. Kitty had black hair cut in a wedge. Kitty had brown eyes. Kitty had exciting breasts and a nose she had picked from Dr. Gerardi’s book of possible noses.

“Well, did you pick your nose?” Phelps had asked when she’d got back from the doctor’s office that day three years ago.

“Very funny,” she’d said. “I’m sorry you don’t find this experience as exciting as I do.”

The creamy tops of Kitty’s breasts were exposed now in the scoop-necked black dress she was wearing. Her right hand, the fingers widespread, rested idly on her left breast. Several travel brochures were spread on the cocktail table.

“I thought three days in Guadeloupe.” she said, “that’ll make it the fourth, then on to Martinique, which is supposed to be exciting. If we left on New Year’s Day...”

The telephone rang.

“Shit,” Kitty said.

“Excuse me,” Phelps said, and rose from the couch.

“Please make it short, Joe,” she said. “I really do have to go over this with you.”

The phone was still ringing. Phelps went into the study and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Joe? It’s Lowell.”

“Yes, Lowell.”

“I just got a call from the CFTC,” Rothstein said.

“What? Where are you?”

“I’m still at the office.”

“What’d they want?”

“They want to see us.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“They didn’t say.”

Phelps was silent for several moments.

“Joe?” Rothstein said.

“They’ve got our reports,” Phelps said. “They’ll be asking for disclosure. won’t they?”

“Even so, there’s nothing to worry about,” Rothstein said. “Don’t sweat it, we’ll see what it’s about tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Phelps said, “thanks for letting me know.”

His hand was sweating on the telephone receiver. He replaced the receiver on the cradle, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and went back into the living room.

“Who was that?” Kitty asked.

“Lowell.”

“What’d he want?”

“Nothing that couldn’t have waited till morning,” Phelps said.

Kitty looked at him. He avoided her glance. Picked up his martini glass. His hand was shaking.

“Joe?” she said.

“Mmm.”

“Are you into anything I should know about?”

“No,” he said. “Into anything? No. What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” she said, but she was still looking at him.

“Tell me about the trip.” he said.

A cannel coal fire was going on the grate. The room was candlelit, as it had been the first time Reardon was here. They were drinking the white wine he had brought with him. Sandy was wearing what he guessed were called lounging pajamas. He was wearing a sweater over a sports shirt. They both sat on pillows before the fireplace. The wind outside was fierce. Winter had returned with a vengeance.

“I’m an idiot when it comes to money,” he said, “so please keep it simple.”

“Well, let’s see,” Sandy said. “You want to know about buying long.”

“Yes.”

“As opposed to selling short?”

“Is there selling short?”

“Oh. sure. But you want it simple, right?”

“Right.”

“Well...” She sipped at her wine. “Okay. Let’s say there’s going to be a county fair in May...”

“A what?”

“A fair. Cows, pigs, chickens, apple pies. You know. A fair. This is a metaphor,” she said. “To make it simple.”

“Okay, a county fair. Next May.”

“Right. This is now December, and I’ve arranged for a booth at the fair where I’ll be selling... kisses, let’s say. At a dollar a throw.”

“Sounds a bit low,” Reardon said, and smiled.

“Thank you. But, actually, you’re beginning to catch on.”

“Am I?”

“Next May, I’ll be selling kisses for a dollar apiece. But I look things over, and I see there are going to be three other booths selling kisses, and I think maybe I won’t get any customers at a dollar a throw. Maybe they’ll only pay fifty cents, maybe only a quarter...”

“Who gave you the dime?” Reardon asked.

“Everybody!” Sandy said. “I love that joke. But that’s just the point. I decide that by May my kisses may be worth only a dime. But if I contract now. to sell them at the current price, a dollar each kiss, that’s what you’ll have to pay me for them in May, when I deliver. In other words, I’ll have made a ninety-cent profit on each kiss. Got it?”

“No.”

“No?” Sandy said, surprised. “Well, okay, let me take another run at it. I am selling short — I am taking what’s called a short position — when I contract now to sell something at a price that’s higher than I hope it’ll be when I deliver. You contract to buy my kisses at a buck a throw in May, do you see? You contract for them now. The kisses are worth only a dime in May, but you’ve got to pay me a buck, ’cause that’s what you agreed to. I’m selling short. I’m taking a short position.”

“Okay, what’s a long position?”

“Okay, you’re on the other side of the booth. Or you will be in May. And because you think I’m so desirable and beautiful and such a good kisser, you decide that the price of my kisses will go up by May... let’s say to two dollars each by the time the fair rolls around.”

“Inflation,” Reardon said.

“Whatever,” Sandy said. “The point is, if you contract to buy the kisses now, at a dollar a throw, you’ll be saving a dollar for each kiss you take delivery on in May. That’s if the price actually does go up.” She shrugged and said, “That’s a long position. That’s buying long.”

“In other words, were both gambling on what the price of those kisses will be in May, five months from now.”

“That’s why it’s called the futures market. We’re betting on future prices.”

“You’re betting the price will go down...”

“So I’m taking insurance, right. Selling now at the higher price...”

“And I’m betting it’ll go up.”

“Which in real life — never mind kisses — could net you a big bundle of money in five months’ time.”

Reardon was silent for several moments.

“So if I bought heavily and long...” he said.

“You’d be contracting for a lot of kisses, and you’d be praying the price went up.” She grinned suddenly. “And if, by chance, you happened to corner the market...”

“What does that mean?”

“Cornering? It means you’ve bought contracts from all the girls who’ll be selling kisses. All the contracts, all the kisses — for delivery in May. If any of the guys there at the fair want to buy a kiss or two, they’ll have to deal with you.”

“Because I own all the contracts.”

“All the kisses, in effect. And if you own them all, you can charge whatever you want. A dollar, two dollars, five dollars, the sky’s the limit.” She grinned again. “It’s known as having the world by the kisses.”

“Has that ever been done?” Reardon asked.

“Not with kisses.”

“How about silver?”

“The last time was by the Bank of England... in 1717. The Hunts tried it in... 1979? 1980? Whenever. It’s pretty much impossible to do nowadays. Too many regulations, too many requirements for reporting and disclosure. It’s safer to speculate in kisses. And a lot cheaper.”

She lifted her wine glass.

Sipping at the wine, she looked over the rim at him.

“Do you... uh... think you might be interested?” she asked, and put down the glass. “In... uh... cornering the market on kisses?” Almost shyly, she said, “My kisses?”

“Well, I... uh...”

“Here’s a sample,” she said, and leaned in closer to him, and kissed him on the mouth. “What do you think?” she said.

“I think I might be interested,” he said.