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Parker had started glancing at his watch, and she knew she was beat, but still, she plunged on. “We can make money with this kind of organization, and it would be more efficient for clients. If we’re discriminating, being represented by Parker Dayton would become a real status symbol. We’d be a ‘caviar agency’ with great clients beating down our door.”
“Fleur, I’m going to try this one more time, and you’d better watch my lips. I don’t want to be William Morris. I don’t want to be ICM. I’m happy with things just the way they are.”
She shouldn’t have wasted her breath. But as she headed back to her office, she couldn’t stop thinking about her idea. If someone honest and reliable had taken care of her interests when she was nineteen, she wouldn’t be out two million dollars.
She thought about her “caviar agency” all that day and into the next week. Putting together the kind of operation she imagined would be much more expensive than a standard agency. The nature of the project required a prestigious address and a diversified, well-paid staff. It would take a fortune just to get started. Still, the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that the right person could make it work. Unfortunately the right person had only five thousand dollars in her savings account and an under-abundance of courage.
That evening she met Simon Kale for tandoori at the Indian Pavilion. “What would you do if you weren’t already filthy rich and you needed big money?” she found herself asking.
He plucked some fennel seeds from the bowl in front of him. “I’d clean apartments. Really, Fleur, it’s impossible to find good help. I’d pay a fortune for someone reliable.”
“I’m serious. How would you go about it if you only had five thousand dollars in the bank and you needed a lot more? Like six figures more.”
“Are we eliminating drug dealing?”
She lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Well, then…” He selected another fennel seed. “I’d say the fastest way would be to pick up our telephone and call that bitch Gretchen Casimir.”
“That’s not an option.” Modeling was the one thing she wouldn’t consider. If she did this—not that she would, but if she did—it would have to be all hers.
“Have we considered prostitution?”
“Fishnet stockings are so unflattering.”
He brushed a stray seed from the sleeve of his silky gray shirt. “Since we’re being so picky, the best way would probably be to demand a loan from a filthy rich friend.”
She smiled at him. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you? I’d only have to ask.”
He pursed his lips. “Which, of course, you won’t.”
She leaned across the table and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Any other ideas?”
“Mmm…Peter, I suppose. He’s your best bet, considering all these silly restrictions you’ve set up.”
“Our Peter Zabel? Lead guitarist for Neon Lynx? How could he help me?”
“Tell me you’re kidding, pet. You used to place all those phone calls to his brokers for him. Peter knows more about making money than anyone I’ve met. He’s made a fortune for me in precious metals and new stock issues. I can’t believe he never gave you any tips.”
Fleur nearly knocked over her water glass. “Do you mean I was supposed to take him seriously?”
“Fleur…Fleur…Fleur…”
“But he’s such an idiot!”
“His banker would most definitely disagree.”
Another week passed before Fleur got up the courage to call Peter and lay out the situation in the vaguest terms. “What do you think? Speaking hypothetically. Could a person do anything with only five thousand dollars to start?”
“Depends on whether you’re willing to lose it or not,” Peter said. “High return means high risk. You’re talking commodities trading—currency, fuel oil, wheat. If sugar goes down a penny a pound, you lose your nest egg. Very risky. You could end up worse off than you are now.”
“I supposed…Yes.” And then she was horrified to hear herself go on. “I don’t care. Tell me what I have to do.”
Peter explained the basics, and she began spending every spare minute with her head buried in the books and articles he recommended on commodities trading. She read the Journal of Commerce on the subway, and she fell asleep with Barron’s propped on her pillow. All her classes in business and economics helped her grasp the basics, but did she really have the guts to do this? No. But she was going to do it anyway.
Following Peter’s advice, she invested two thousand in soybeans, bought a contract for liquefied propane, and, after studying weather forecasts, spent the rest on orange juice. Florida had a killer freeze, the soybeans rotted from too much rain, but liquefied propane went through the roof. She ended up with seven thousand. This time she divided it between copper, durum wheat, and more soybeans. Copper and wheat tanked, but soybeans pulled through to the tune of nine thousand dollars.
She reinvested every penny.
