THE NUMBERS MAN

CHAPTER TWO

November 18, 2001
Houston, Texas

Mark Turley woke hungover and angry over last night's fight with his fiancee. Driving into work he got cut off by another driver and chased the guy five miles before getting back in front of him and hitting the brakes. They came way too close to an accident, so close his hands still shook as he walked into the Enron building. He bought a coffee, rode the elevator up to the trading floor, and his anger flared again as his supervisor walked over and lowered his big ass into a chair.

"Why are you late again, Turley?"

Basically, because he was only here so he could get the bonus Enron had promised him. For sticking it out another ninety days he was supposed to get three hundred grand. That way Enron could show the banks they still had the core traders needed to rebuild the company, typical Enron bullshit.

"I hit traffic."

"Right." Coulter leaned forward. "The good news is you're not going to have to worry about traffic anymore. You're joining the people you were laughing at yesterday."

It took Turley a second to remember laughing as he'd looked down six floors at Houston cops giving parking tickets to Enron employees who'd been fired, and then double-parked on Smith Street so they wouldn't have to carry their stuff as far. Some of them had worked at Enron since the beginning and been fired by voice mail. It was so pathetic it was funny.

"You're firing me?"

"I had to do another round of cuts and you didn't make it through."

Turley pointed across the room at other traders.

"And they did?"

"That's just how it worked out."

Coulter smiled. He was red-faced and fat. Turley hoped he'd have a stroke that paralyzed him. He wanted to see Coulter walking with a dead arm and a slack face.

"Then I guess I'll get a lawyer."

Coulter laughed.

"Go for it, Turley. I'm sure you'll be the only one suing Enron. Look, we don't like each other, but you'll be fine. You're the guy who sold his stock when it hit fifty. You've got plenty of money. Most of these guys rode their stock down, but that's called believing in the company. You've never had that problem."

"Like you did? How much stock do you still have, Coulter? You're a fucking hypocrite."

Coulter gave a blubbery exhale. He pushed his chair back and stood.

"You've got half an hour to get out of the building before I call security."

"Better call them right now."

"I'd be happy to."

Turley had counted on that money, had bragged about getting a three hundred K bonus when Enron could barely keep the lights on in the building. Thirty-two years old and they needed him that badly. When Coulter turned, Turley threw the latte on him, watched him squirm, pretending the lukewarm drink had burned him. He shoved Coulter out of the way as he went for the elevators, pushing over the computer monitors he passed as though they were dominoes.

When the elevator doors opened in the lobby two security guards rushed toward him. He shoved the first one away.

"Back off, I'm out of here, I'm gone. I'm fired. Leave me the fuck alone."

A guard grabbed at his coat and Turley jerked free. He got his car keys out. He just wanted to get out of the building and was almost out when he got tackled from behind and crashed into the lobby doors with the guard hanging off him. Then he lost it and drove his elbow into the guard's face, punched at the guard's eye and felt his car key go in. When the guard let go he was howling, and Turley slammed through the doors and was gone.

Within fifteen minutes he was home packing a suitcase. He called Shelly, his fiancee, from the car, left a message, then drove to the Galleria Mall. He left three more messages in the next hour, the last saying,

"Shelly, I screwed up. I need your help. Can you meet me at Loudine's at 5:30?"

She didn't call back, but the fight last night had been their worst ever. He kept calling her throughout the afternoon and paced through the mall, bought a couple of shirts he didn't need, sat through half a movie, then walked to Loudine's from the theatre, calling her several times in quick succession before going through the restaurant doors. Every time her phone went to voice mail he hung up and speed-dialed her again. Come on Shelly, don't be such a bitch.

In Loudine's he sat at the end of the bar and acted like it was a normal night. He joked with the bartender, ordered a margarita no salt, then a second drink when the first was finished. After he'd had three the space in the bar felt small and tight and he knew Shelly wasn't coming.

Last night she'd quizzed him about the trading he did at Enron. Never even once before had she asked anything, but now suddenly with Enron in the news she had to know everything. He'd told her about Death Star, Ricochet, Get Shorty, and the California energy trading schemes. He'd tried to make her laugh at the idiots in California but she'd pretended it wasn't funny. He'd gotten angry. Who wouldn't?

After leaving Loudine's he drove to her house, saw her car in the driveway, houselights on. He drove away, bought gas, went to the ATM, and then came back to her house. An hour ago he'd picked up a voice mail from a Houston cop. In a false friendly drawl the cop said he just wanted to talk to him about a 'scuffle' with a security guard and some property damage. He replayed it before deciding he'd have to hide his car in Shelly's garage. He'd apologize and make it whole with her again. She could come with him down to Galveston for the weekend. If he had to write a check for the computer screens he would, and he'd leave a message for the Houston detective tomorrow. He might need a lawyer, but whatever, it was the guard's fault his eye got hurt and the lawyer could deal with it.

He pulled into Shelly's driveway, walked up to the door but didn't let himself in with his key, rang the bell instead, and smiled as she opened the door.

"Hi, I'm the guy who's been leaving you all the messages."

Shelly just stood there under the foyer light with her eyes large and dark, looking first at his torn coat, then slowly at his face. She opened the door wider so he could come in, but kept her arms over her chest and backed away from him as he moved toward her. She'd been crying and that annoyed him, but he kept smiling. His smile had always worked with women. It had always worked with Shelly.

"We're not getting married, Mark. It's over. I can't do it anymore."

"Can't do what anymore? What are you talking about?"

"I can't fight anymore."

"Shell, everybody has disagreements."

She spoke in a soft, even voice as though she'd made a business decision. The tears started and she kept talking as though there was no other choice but to break up. When he realized she was serious he shook his head, repeated that it was just a fight and ridiculous to break up over. But now when he smiled his lips felt like rubber stretching back over his teeth. He tried again.

"We both lost it last night."

"I didn't lose it, you did, and it's too late—"

"What's too late?"

"It's not the first time I've thought about ending it. We don't want the same things anymore. I want a family and I don't mind living in the suburbs. I want an honest job and I want my husband to have one." She reached but stopped short of touching him. "I don't mean that you're not honest."

Now he was the one who was quiet. He looked at her sadly.

"Do you think the trading I do is dishonest because of what I told you last night?"

"I know you're just doing what they tell you."

"And you think it's dishonest."

"No."

"Shelly, I was drunk last night. I admit it."

"You sound drunk right now."

"I haven't had anything to drink." He waited for her to challenge that, dared her to, then said, "I got fired today. I'm not going to get the bonus and I got in a fight with some peckerwood security guard. Now the police want to talk to me."

"Then go to the police station."

"I need to talk to a lawyer first."

"Then call one."

He appealed to her with his eyes but he could feel how distant she was, how careful not to touch him, as though he'd already turned into a friend or something. She folded her arms across her chest again, and anger heated his face. He hid it by looking down.

"I'm sorry you got fired. You can come in and you can take your things tonight or come back for them later. Whatever you want to do, Mark, but it's over. We've had our last fight and I told my mom today there's not going to be a wedding."

Anger and sadness joined and came up through his gut in a wave, pity for himself, for what had happened to him today, then a disturbing thought, an idea that she'd talked to Coulter and this was planned. When he spoke again his voice was colder.

"If I take my stuff that'll be it, you'll never hear from me again."

His clothes were already on the bed, stacked, folded, and fucking waiting. Shelly went to get a grocery bag for him to carry them in. T-shirts and pants into a paper bag like some homeless derelict.

"This can't be happening," he said, and Shelly finally touched him, squeezed his arm with tears running down her cheeks. "I know how hard you've worked. I'm really sorry you got fired. I'm so sad, Mark."

She started to cry harder and he drew her to him. He held her as her chest shook with sobs. They stood there holding each other, and then Turley reached and turned off the light and pulled her down on the bed. He lay beside her in the darkness as her chest heaved, then began to talk about himself again.

"I don't know what I'm going to do next, but I know I can't lose you. I don't care about the job. You're all that matters."

From the way she was crying he didn't believe she really wanted to break up. He stroked her and told her he was sorry and slid a hand under her shirt, felt the warm skin and kissed away the tears on her face.

Sometimes, after they'd fought they'd make love and fall asleep and afterwards things were okay again. But as he kissed her lips she pushed him away and his anger returned. He caressed her again, but not so gently and Shelly stiffened. Now she was just waiting for it to end. He could tell and saw her eyelids flutter, knew she was thinking about what he was doing, and where this was going. What he did next was undo the top button of her jeans and pull the zipper down slowly, saying, "I want to feel your back." He ran his hand along her spine.

"No, get off me, Mark."

"I love you."

"Get off me."

She fought him, twisting around, but he was much stronger and held her without hurting her.

"Stop it, Mark. Stop!"

Instead, he worked her jeans down and liked the feeling of keeping her from getting away. He liked holding her as she fought, liked the way her body slickened with sweat, and he covered her mouth to keep her quiet. When she tired he pulled his shirt up so their skin touched. She wrenched her face sideways as he kissed her and he gripped her jaw with his hand and brought her mouth back. He stripped her top off. She wasn't fighting anymore, and he knew he should stop.

"Last night will never happen again," he said, his voice harsh, knowing it was really was over with her and anger running deep as he spread her legs.