Free Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) by Jack Getze Page B

He’s been speaking before luncheon crowds this week.”
    Sounds like Walter. The bastard. I thought we were pals, so I kept his departure secret two days. Meanwhile, he used that weekend to work on Shore’s client list, including two of my biggest clients. When I lived in California, Walter’s betrayal might have caused me to talk about my hurt feelings. But I live in Jersey now. No complaining. I have to accept the fact Walter made me his bitch.
    And then get even.
    “So why would you want to move your book and business to Shore?” I say. “There could be bad publicity about the investigation, plus you know Shore can’t afford the kind of bonus a big wire firm could pay you. Right now, Shore can’t afford to pay any kind of bonus.”
    Let’s see how she handles obstacles.
    Franny’s gaze searches mine, then holds me tight. Her chin is set, too. Like the keystone of an arch. “I don’t want a big bonus,” she says. “I want a bigger percentage of commissions and trailers.”
    Okay, this f igures. Franny Dahler, alias Ms. Strawberry, the Queen of Branchtown brokers, is pistol smart and quick on her feet. She knows instinctively that Shore Securities might flounder without Walter. She thinks I might be desperate in Vic’s absence. In the vernacular, the lady is trying to seize me by the short hair.
    Ms. Strawberry saying, “And I’m willing to stick around long enough to make the deal pay off for both of us.”
    I glance at my empty bourbon glass. I like this brass-blond lady, and I mean over and above my not-so-secret lust. I know she can sell bonds. One point eight million of them. I’d never say no to her. All of which means I am probably going to let her squeeze me on percentages. My only hesitation, I sense Ms. Strawberry is not telling me everything about her desire to change firms. It’s more than money. Swear to God, I’ll bet Walter got her corner glass office overlooking the Navasquan River.
    But white lies and hunches can’t matter in Shore’s current situation. Walter’s lack of production is already worrying the back office. Once I start letting one or two of those people go, I’ll lose salesmen. Could become an ugly cycle. Mr. Vic will return next fall to find me and Carmela—just the two of us—working from a camper.
    “How about forty-five percent for five years?” I say.
    “How about sixty for three?”
    It’s strictly business me wanting to hire her. I’m paying absolutely no attention to whatever is quietly lifting my desk—the card table with three computers and four monitors on it. Hope she doesn’t re-cross her legs again.
    “ Forty is what I pay my best producers, but for you I’d go fifty for six years.”
    She shakes her head. “You need a big producer, right now. Sixty for one year, then fifty for another three.”
    “My best offer is fifty-five percent for six months, then fifty for two more years, forty-five for another two—you sign a five-year contract.”
    Her gaze roams my face. “Commissions and mutual fund trailers?”
    “Everything.”
    “Done,” she says.
    In my enthusiasm to shake hands on the deal, I stand up from behind the big desk, forgetting my groin area will now be fully exposed. Her eyes throw me a slow once over, and Ms. Franny Dahler, Ms. Strawberry, leaves my private office grinning like a circus clown.
    I’m not embarrassed. I think it’s good to tell women how you feel, and showing is always better than telling. I hope Ms. Strawberry can start next week. She’ll be earning at a better commission rate than me or Carmela.
     
     
    I have more crap paperwork to sign than a U.S. Army supply sergeant. It’s eight o’clock before I close up Shore Securities for the weekend and begin to dream of Luis’s place, Umberto’s green-chili burritos.
    A motion sensor illuminates the back parking lot as I walk to my Camry, but the neighboring businesses are closed, and a huge ring of darkness encircles me. Like a spotlighted performer, my skin