James The Accountant (eBook)

Chapter One

“I’ll have a scotch. Oban. Neat. Know what? Make it a double,” he said to the bartender. The portly man nodded in reply.

He checked his watch; he was thirty minutes early. Just one scotch, he thought, meaning it. His wife, Tiffany, was meeting him at eight, and there would be hell to pay if he was drunk when she arrived. It always starts as just one drink, he said to himself in her naggy voice. Next thing you know, you’ll be pissing in the closet again. The memory amused him. She knew what she was getting into.

Just one to calm the nerves. It was usually she who was waiting on him. Sorry, babe, my meeting ran long. Sorry, Tiff, Montana Bob called about the Peterson lease and I had to take it. She wasn’t always patient, but she was there. Always there. She’d yell, they’d fight. She fought dirty, swinging wildly like an outmatched boxer praying to land a lucky haymaker in the first round before her opponent had a chance to settle in for the bout.

He checked his phone then quickly placed it face down on the bar top, following the shrink’s advice. Nothing to see there tonight, he told himself. Nope, she’ll have my full attention. Let’s be real, old chap, she’s earned it.

He fought against the restlessness that crept into him. His days in the life of a commercial real estate broker in New York were busy. He was up early and out late almost every day. Client calls, prospect meetings, lunches, coffees, dinners, drinks, golf on Saturdays—he was constantly dashing toward the next opportunity. The next payday. Being idle made him uncomfortable; constant activity suited him. And that’s why he made the big bucks.

Most of his friends worked in finance or insurance and would spend their days stuck in an office, doing the same thing every day. He imagined they came home for dinner at the same time every night, read to their kids before bed, and maybe had some time to fuck their wives after the dishes were clean. Always missionary, the working man’s position. It was efficient; a few quick thrusts to climax before rolling off and falling asleep. Then wake up and do it all over again. With the rent in New York, he wondered if they struggled to find a private space to jerk off in their own apartments. 

God save me from a mundane life, he thought. He was wired for the hunt, in the business sense. Had he been born in another time, those nine-to-fivers would have been the ones hanging back at camp with the women and children, getting the fire ready to roast his kill. There were no guarantees in his line of work, and it thrilled him. His bones were earned through commission: he ate only when he killed, but then he feasted. Salaries were for pussies—safety nets for the financially insecure.

His name was Jimmy Undell, and today was the best day of his life. 

The bartender arrived with his scotch. Jimmy couldn’t help but scrutinize the man’s appearance. He was older, maybe in his mid-forties, with graying hair and a sizeable gut. The lower buttons on his standard-issue white button-down were putting in a lot more work than those above. Jimmy guessed he needed to tie the apron around his waist from the front and then twist it around to the back. That would explain why his gig line was off center. He wondered if the man bragged to his kids about the glory days when he could tie his apron directly behind his back like a professional.

He empathized with the man. A few short years ago, he had scrutinized his own appearance, standing beside his beautiful wife in a photo. Why did the camera only add the proverbial extra ten pounds to him and not her? Oh. An exercise routine had immediately been incorporated into his daily schedule. He even had to cut back on the booze, which was bad for business. It had been two months since his fortieth birthday, and he was now back to his early thirties weight. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Looking good, Jimbo. All except that hairline. Sheesh, it’s always something.

“Keeping a tab open?” the bartender asked. 

“Yeah. My wife is meeting me,” Jimmy replied. The man nodded as he took Jimmy’s credit card. As he swiped it, he looked up at the TV over the bar, where SportsCenter was playing. 

“Fucking Giants. Daniel Jones sucks,” he said to no one in particular. “You catch the game last night?”

“Yep,” Jimmy lied. He didn’t have time to watch overpaid children playing games. While other people watched sports, he spent his evenings with clients or reviewing contract language or calling prospective clients to set up meetings. He did, however, make a habit of checking scores each morning for situations just like this.

“At least Saquan is healthy now.” He regurgitated something he had heard earlier this week and hoped it was still true. If this was a client, he wouldn’t have committed to a comment like that without fact-checking first, but bartenders were good practice for his sports talk, so he wanted to keep the conversation rolling. It didn’t take much effort on his part: know when the big games were being played, check the score the next morning, and scan a few headlines. With that, one could equip oneself with enough ammo to at least not get left out of the conversation, which was the whole point, because one never knew when the topic would turn to business. Part of the charade was knowing which players could be referred to by their first name. Using Saquan Barkley’s full name would be like asking a drug dealer if he had any marijuana or cocaine—they’d know he was a phony.

“Yeah, I guess that’s something. Still don’t understand why they’re sticking with Jones, the guy’s a bum,” the bartender said. 

“I think instead of shopping for another quarterback, they ought to invest in some targets for him. He doesn’t have anyone to throw to,” Jimmy said, repeating something else he’d heard. This was dangerous ground. Opening the door for debate could expose him as a fraudulent sports fan. If the man argued, Jimmy could still safely exit the conversation with a “yeah, you’re probably right.” If he agreed, Jimmy would file that comment away as “safe for use with clients.”

“Fuck that. No more excuses for that guy. It’s always something. No pocket presence and terrible decision-making. Can’t blame the receivers for throwing picks.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jimmy said. He was pleased to see a satisfied look of vindication cross the bartender’s face. “I’m Jimmy.”

“The name’s Sal. Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Where ya from?” Jimmy knew that whenever someone named Sal asked where you were from it meant that you had been pegged as a non-New Yorker.

“St. Pete originally, but I’ve been in New York for ten years now.” Jimmy guessed Sal was about to tell him about a family member who lived in Florida. All real New Yorkers had family in Florida, usually a cousin. 

“Oh yeah? My cousin Tony lives in Tampa. Nice area but too fucking hot. I’ve been thinking about moving down there with him. They keep raising the rent now that everyone wants to move back after COVID. Been here my whole life, grew up in the Bronx. I could buy a house with a yard down there for what I’m paying here. The pizza sucks and it’s too fucking hot, though. You want another scotch?” Sal asked. 

Jimmy looked down and noticed his glass was empty. Where did that go? He checked his watch; still fifteen minutes to go until Tiff would get there, assuming she was on time. Just one more. To calm the nerves. “Yeah, sure. Make it another double.”

“You got it, Jimmy-from-St.-Pete,” Sal said as he poured another round. Jimmy noticed he didn’t measure this time, just poured the nut-brown liquid into the glass until it was half-full. Sal wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and hadn’t mentioned anything about kids when he was talking about moving to Florida. Must be nice to have shitty pizza and hot weather as the biggest considerations for a move like that. 

“You work on Wall Street? You look the type, no offense,” Sal said. Jimmy took it as a compliment but decided not to say so.

“No, I’m a commercial real estate broker. An accountant by trade, but staring at numbers all day gave me a headache,” Jimmy said. In truth, being an accountant had made him want to blow his brains out just so something exciting would happen.

“Good. Wall Street bankers are a bunch of cunts.”

Jimmy laughed. “Not a fan?”

“They think they can do whatever they want and the government will just bail ‘em out. It’s people like me that get fucked. Me and Tony had been saving for years to open up a pizza shop by Yankee Stadium. Place was doing great until ‘09, then we had to close up shop when the economy tanked. Crazy times when people were too fuckin’ broke to buy pizza. Then Tony moved to Florida, and I’m stuck here serving the cunts drinks for happy hour.”

“Couldn’t you bartend in a different part of Manhattan?” Jimmy asked. Wall Street was only a few blocks away. 

“Ah. Cunts or not, they tip well. I pay ‘em lip service and pretend to listen to their fucking stories and they leave me a big fat tip. Especially when they bring their girls in; they like showing off how much money they can throw around. Besides, my uncle owns this place, so I get to pick my schedule. Real estate broker, huh? Good money in that?”...