The Love of Money

By S.Aprov

Sitting at a dinner table on a huge outdoor patio, I listen to the pounding of the waves on a nearby beach. I consume another breath of the salt air that drifts in from the Pacific Ocean, and my senses are awakened to the unique embrace of nature.
A candle set on my table casts a faint glow and stands guard against the darkness of the night. Across the bay, the lights of a nearby megalopolis sparkle in the black sky.
“Do you like the beaches of South Cal.?” a youngish woman asks.
I turn to face an attractive black woman. She has been sitting opposite me at dinner and is anxious to make conversation.
“Well, it certainly is a different feeling than Toronto in winter” I reply. “Even in summer, Toronto’s beaches don’t look like this. There’s certainly no salt in the air either.”
The smartly dressed woman smiles and looking intently at the oversized wine glass she holds, swirls it carefully. Afterwards, she takes a measured sip of her red wine, and the candlelight captures her action perfectly, highlighting her vivacious nature. The warm ocean breeze adds to the moment, reminding me of pleasant memories when I once vacationed at beach resorts with my wife.
“Is this your first time in California?” the woman asks.
“Yes” I answer immediately. “It came as bit of a surprise when Mr. Waterman invited me to stay at his mansion for a few days. I’ve never experienced something like this, a house set by itself on a pristine white beach and able to support such a massive backyard party.”
The thirty-something woman reclines in her seat and gently brushes away the soft black hair that has fallen across her face. She casually dangles the wine glass in her hand.
“Of course, it’s more than a backyard” I add quickly.
The woman presses a pleasant smile to her lips and takes another sip of her wine; she’s adept at sipping slowly. She exudes charm and youthful optimism.
“You deserve it” the woman says afterwards. “Mr. Waterman talks about you frequently.”
“I hope it’s all good?” I quip.
The woman casually nods her head.
“You dug him out of a deep financial hole last year” she continues. “Your college major was finance?”
In the distance, the crashing surf pounding on the beach interrupts my thoughts, but the waiters who move about the patio in the hot sticky evening seem unphased by the noise.
“When I was in my early twenties” I begin “I went to business school and took some courses in finance and accounting. As well, my father had an interest in the markets. Later, I made connections with others who were good with investments. You might say, I learned by doing.”
“Impressive” the woman responds. “So, what do you think will happen next?”
“I’m sorry” I say. “I didn’t catch your name?”
The woman grins broadly.
“I didn’t give it” she answers, putting her glass on the table.
Waiting to see how I’ll respond, but finding only a surprised look, she adds “It’s Sarah Lindale. I’m Mr. Waterman’s Estate Lawyer. I was supposed to be at the portfolio meeting earlier today, but I had other business. So back to my question, what happens next?”
Now, I’m impressed. This Sarah Lindale is both attractive and accomplished.
“Well, nothing goes up forever” I answer quickly. “The markets moved last year for a variety of reasons, stimulus money, oversold conditions and expectations of an economic rebound are some of them. I’m not sure what we’ll see this year, but if you want my two cents, I think we’ll see the economy surprise on the upside and the markets may go higher. Of course, in between those broad moves, there’s lots of room for buying and selling. Personally, I like oil and gas. In particular, there’s an imbalance in the oil and gas ratio. A smart trader may be able to make some money playing the ratios.”
After I finish, a waiter sporting a freshly pressed white cotton shirt quietly emerges from the shadows and refills Sarah’s glass. He takes great care and pleasure in his task. Sarah seems not to notice, as though it were familiar and uninteresting.
“I see” she says, swirling her glass “more buying and selling. Well, what about my real estate proposal? Did you have time to look at it? We’ve got plenty of clients lined up to lease our space.”
Plenty of clients, I muse? How could this be in a devastated commercial real estate market? My suspicions are raised.
Before I can answer either Sarah or my own questions, the band that Mr. Waterman has hired begins to play. Sarah turns to watch, and so do I. A full orchestra of some thirty musicians, all dressed in tuxedos or long black evening dresses in the case of the female musicians, strikes a rich cord in an impressive display of powerful sound.
Several couples enter the dance floor. It is a large area in the midst of patio and lies between the orchestra and the tables overlooking the beach.
Sarah turns to face me. There’s a youthful smile displayed on her face; it’s infectious.
“Would you like to dance?” she asks hopefully.
I hesitate.
Sarah stands up and stretches her arm toward me. She reveals a slim youthful figure, perfectly fitted to the bright yellow party dress she’s wearing. The sleeveless dress looks expensive and matches the aura of sophistication which surrounds her.
“I know you’re married” she says playfully. “We’ll dance for the pleasure of it. I won’t bite. I promise!”
I casually nod my head in agreement. In less than twenty minutes, she’s disarmed my inhibitions totally, and I take her at her word.
“Oh well” I say “I suppose we can talk about your real estate deal.”
Sarah’s eyes twinkle, and she takes me aggressively by my arm. Recognizing my lingering inhibitions, Sarah escorts me to the dance floor. I feel young once again. I imagine this is how trouble begins, very slowly and very slyly.
“They’re playing a Glenn Miller song” she says authoritatively.
So, Sarah knows music as well, I muse. Has this woman no imperfections?
“Do you know it?” she asks.
“Well, I’m not up on such things, but about the real estate deal. I don’t think U.S commercial real estate is a good idea right now. Most analysts believe this asset is vulnerable to a looming crash. Many U.S. commercial properties are experiencing vacancies, and there’s trouble acquiring credit worthy tenants right now. I expect that Canadian REITs might even get dragged down in sympathy. There's just too much debt in the system for a variety of reasons. Further, I -”
Sarah smiles politely and tiring of my talk, gently puts her finger to my mouth. She begins to dance closer.
“We can talk about this later, much later” Sarah says carefully.
Her body moves to the rhythm of the music, and her mind is far away. Her touch on my shoulder is very light and gentle. I’m not sure what to think, but I don’t have much time in any case.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
A series of loud pops startles me. At the opposite end of the patio, four large masked gunmen have scaled the low wall which separates the patio from the beach. They stare menacingly at the partygoers and point their weapons into the sky, shooting randomly as a warning. The band stops playing, and many of the guests begin to scatter in all directions.
Chaos ensues, and in the panic, several of the tables are overturned. Expensive glasses and plates smash in pieces as they hit the stone patio. Overturned tables also send cutlery flying like so many dangerous projectiles, and the beauty of carefully arranged flowers are trampled underfoot by fleeing guests.
Immediately, three of Mr. Waterman’s security guards emerge from the main house and return fire, wounding one of the gunmen. The gunmen respond from behind overturned tables, and bullets flash in all directions. The acrid smell of gun smoke fills the air and clouds the patio.
I soon find myself on the floor behind a table, caught in the crossfire of what I suppose to be a robbery gone terribly wrong.
“We’ve got to get out of here” Sarah warns. There is fear in her voice. “I was caught in a bank robbery last year in Bogotá. People died.”
Sarah tries to get up, but a bullet has entered her lower right leg, and she is bleeding profusely. A large pool of blood sits under her dress; its bright yellow is now stained a crimson red. Fortunately, I’ve taken some courses in first aid and can stop the bleeding. I use my tie as a tourniquet.
In the distance, I hear the wail of police sirens and ambulances. After one last burst of gunfire, the gunmen retreat into the night, and the security guards chase after them. When the combatants have left, silence follows, and the crashing of the surf on the beach returns, except that it is fainter now. The tide is going out.
“Thank you” Sarah says nervously. “I see you’re accomplished in more than portfolio first aid.”
Under other circumstances, I might laugh, but now, I can only feign a smile pressed weakly to my lips.
“Do you know why they came here?” Sarah asks.
I shake my head.
“We have connections - bad ones.”
Sarah is in great pain and very angry. She also appears weak. My tourniquet has stopped the bleeding, but she has already lost a lot of blood. I wonder whether she will remain conscious.
“I like you” she says, gripping my hand. “Do yourself a favour and find another client. We’re involved with dirty money.”
These were Sarah’s last words before she lapsed into unconsciousness.
In my mind, I ponder Sarah’s words and wonder why she would tell me this, even if it was true. I also wonder whether all sense of morality has left North America. Everywhere I go these days, I see two groups, the haves and the have-nots.
Dirty money, I never would have suspected it. Is this where our love of money and our fear of poverty have brought us?
In the distance, the pounding of the surf grows fainter as the tide goes out. In this dark moment, I wonder if this is an omen. Will true prosperity ever return to North America?