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College Money

 On summer break Junior took the telemarketing job: a boiler room, people at tables making calls.  Vinnie, the team leader, introduced him to the firm.  “You’re not a salesman.  You’re a marketing representative.”

Junior nodded. 

“Every morning we hold a mandatory sales meeting.  Mandatory.  You have to be there.  If you’re not, you’re fired.  At sales meetings we polish technique.  We go over the script, the one you’ll use in your presentation.  A lotta research went into the script.  We follow the script.  Your rebuttal list has the answer to any possible objection.  Use it to keep them saying ‘yes’.  We don’t deviate from the script.  Deviates will be fired.”  With the slightest smirk, Vinnie telegraphed that he was making a joke.

Junior smiled.

“After the sales meeting, all reps spend the whole day on the phone.  Those who don’t are fired.”

Vinnie’s stare showed that now he was not joking. Junior nodded gravely.

Vinnie explained, “The company expects sales.  That means making a couple hundred calls a day.  People who don’t stay on the phone and fail to come up with a high volume of sales are fired.  Questions?”

“Sounds pretty clear to me.”

“Good.  The company’ll give you leads and help hone your skills.  The rest’s up to you.”

The sales meeting was a pep rally.  Gil, the office manager, promised that a good rep “can earn thousands per week.”  He gave a testimonial.  “When I joined this organization, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together.  I just wanted to survive!” 

He proudly hefted his gut in his hands.  “Now look at me!”

Laughter.

“I like to eat filet mignon, drink twenty-year-old scotch, screw foxy ladies, and drive flashy cars – that’s why I’m here!  How about you?  Do you want to make money, real money?” 

Gil tilted an ear toward the group of reps.  Some, like Junior, were trainees at two hundred a week, others more practiced.  From the back, someone said, “Right on.”

Gil made as though he’d heard nothing.  “How about you?  Do you want to make money, real money?”  He cupped a hand over his ear.

There was mild affirmation.

Gil strode across the front of the room, and yelled at the ceiling, “And how do we make money?”

A few called out, “Volume!”

Gil stopped.  “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

More clamored, “Volume!”

“Damn it, don’t whisper!”

Some stood and screamed, “Volume!”

Gil bellowed, “Volume!” so loud it scared the pigeons from the roof next door.

He built animus for a few minutes, then introduced the president, “The man who put all this together, who gave this sweat hog a chance, and who makes it possible for us to get rich.”

There was applause, a few cheers.  In contrast, The president was subdued, his energy restrained.  Thin, in his thirties, he wore a pinstriped three-piece suit.  “Thanks, Gil.  And thank you all for making the company what it is.  I want to announce here that this was our first year grossing ten million dollars.”

Gil interrupted with a war whoop, setting off whistles, shouts, and more applause.  The president waited for it to die down, continued, “It couldn’t have happened without all of you.”

As cheers and applause waned, he went on, “I’ll have to leave in a minute, but before going want to mention that you will have a new tool today, an improved computer printout, with more information about the prospect.  To help you close sooner,”  he turned to Gil.  “Which means, overall – ”

Gil roared, “Volume!”  For half a minute, covering The president’s exit, he led a chant of “Volume!  Volume!  Volume!”  In broad red strokes, he wrote “Volume” on a large white board. 

He held up a handful of the new printouts.  “Each of these lead cards represents opportunity, your ticket to affluence.” 

A rep yelled, “Gimme one!”

Gil chuckled.  “Soon enough.”  The room grew still, with only a slight murmur of anticipation.  He paused, let them settle down, then with more gravity announced, “But first – are you guys ready?  What day is it?”

“Friday, Awards!”

“Awards Day!”

Gil drew an envelope from his suit jacket.  “Right.  Award time.  Here we go.  No surprise today.  Third week in a row, top sales go to – Larry Fonseca!  C’mon up here and get your C note.”

Laurindo Fonseca, slim, dark, well dressed, strode up for his hundred-dollar bill.  Gil stopped him by grabbing his shoulder, holding him, to display.  “Look at this guy!  He gives dapper new meaning.”

Fonseca pocketed the hundred and laughed.  “When I look good, I feel good.”

More applause, whistles and cheers.  They were much higher than they had been a half hour earlier.  Gil distributed the new lead cards, and they all hit the phones.

Junior began selling without much success.  He didn’t know how to persuade business owners to take advertising in a magazine they’d never heard of when he himself had never heard of it.  Around midmorning, Gil, making the rounds of trainees, assessed his progress.  “Well, you sold them a quarter page, anyway.  You’ll get it, in time.”  He observed Junior, who followed his script, then handed him a dozen cards.  “These are fresh off the press.  Hot prospects.  Sell them big spaces.”  And he was gone, to guide other newbies.

Fonseca took Junior under his wing, and the second week, bought him lunch at the bowling alley next to their office building.  “This is the nearest place to eat.  I don’t want to lose much time.  I’ve got calls.  There’s money to be made.”

“For those of us making money.”

“What did you take in last week?”

“At twenty percent, it would have been less than my two hundred.”

“Yeah, well, if you go too many poor dollar weeks, they’re going to cut you loose.”

“Gil already warned me.”

“Okay.  Here we go: Boston may be a city, but a city of provincial minds.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s big, but small-minded.”

“What does that mean?”

“Okay.  We make calls to Southie, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And the people there are...?”

“Irish, mostly.”

“Good.  We’re getting somewhere.  And the North End?”

“Italian.”

“Right.  And you can tell by the street address on the printout what the neighborhood is, whether it’s the South End, Chinatown, Roxbury...”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you can guess the ethnic background of the person you call by their neighborhood, their name, their accent – what name do you use when you call the South End?”

“My name.”

“Good.  Alvarez is good in the South End.  How about Southie?”

“My name.”

“Bad.  Don’t give a mind more than it can absorb.  Look at my skin, what am I?”

“I don’t know.  Black man, Portuguese...”

“Cape Verdean.  How would I do in Southie, selling face to face?”

“You’d be dead.”

“Right.  But I can call.  And when I do, my name is not Fonseca, but McNamara.  And I adopt a brogue, and I know the Irish counties.  Get my drift?”

“So I use other names?”

“They’re called phononyms.”

“As in phony names.”

“You’re funny.”

That afternoon, he passed Fonseca’s table and observed him at work.  Fonseca, enphoned, looked up, winked.  “Yeh, tellim Rocco called, Rocco Benedetti.  He probably wants I should call back – when’s he gonna be in?  Si.  Ma, cose diverse.  Sta bene, grazie.  Si.  Addio.”[1]

The next morning, Vinnie met Junior when he got off the bus at the corner.  “We’re not going into the building today.”

Junior said, “Okay,” and thought, We’re not going into the building today?  He saw Fonseca at the parking lot entrance, accosting other boiler room guys, telling them something.

Vinnie went on, “There’s some kinda legal hassle.  We’re gonna meet in that restaurant.”  He gestured across the street.  “Go on over there.”  Vinnie headed back to the corner.

Junior looked toward the office building entrance as he walked past.  A guy in a grey sharkskin suit, not a salesman, stood at the door, as if guarding it.  Two sedans with U. S. Government plates were parked right in front.  Junior thought two things:  They must have been here early, to park there.  I wonder if it has anything to do with the boiler room.

After coffee, half the reps headed for a New Hampshire campaign with the president.  Gil drove Junior and Vinnie to Providence in his Mercedes.  “Everything’ll be the same, same phones and sucker list, just a different town, different magazine.”

Vinnie asked, “What’s it called?”

“Rhode Island Fraternal Order of Police.”

Junior wondered aloud, “That’s the name of the magazine?”

Gil passed a long line of cars.  “Umhmm.  Well, yeah; that’s what we’re calling it.”

Vinnie said, “Sounds good.  Sounds intimidating.”

Gil laughed.  “Lots of opportunity.  Vinnie, j’ever hear of infallible forecast?”

“Investments?”

“Umhmm.  Starts ‘I don’t want you to invest a single cent’.”

“That’s the warm-up.  ‘Never invest with someone you don’t know’.”

“Right.  Then you predict a stock price increase to show ‘the company’s research skill’.”

“That’s the forecast.”

“The first.  Second call, you still don’t ask for an investment.  You just share the forecast that the price of some other commodity is about to go down.”

“‘To help you decide whether we are the kinda firm you might someday want to invest with’.”

“That’s the line.  By the third call, they are believers, insist on throwing money at you.”

Junior asked, “How can you tell beforehand if prices are going up or down?”

They didn’t answer.  Finally, Gil said, “It’s a setup.”

Vinnie added, “Call a hundred people, tell fifty it’s going up, tell fifty down.”

“Yeah.  Same with the second call.  Once the predictions come true, they raid their savings.  Infallible forecast.”

“What it is.”

They were quiet for a while. 

Vinnie asked Junior, “Alvarez – what kinda name is that?”

“American.”

Gil said, “Spanish.”

Vinnie paused, asked, “You speak Spanish?”

“Yeah.”  And to change the subject from a tedious examination of his ethnicity, asked, “Are you guys hungry?”

Vinnie answered, “I’m famished.

Junior couldn’t help it.  “You speak famish?”

A brief chuckle, followed by silence as they each reflected on the day ahead. 

The day in Providence went well.

“I need your check tomorrow at the latest.”  Vinnie took off his headset and grinned.  “Virgin scam.”

Junior was unsure.  “All cold calls.”

“Yeah, til we turn up the heat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if we don’t get their confidence, there’s always intimidation.  Everybody’s scared of the police.”

“We aren’t the police.”

“We’re not?”  Vinnie started laughing. 

Junior said, “Impersonating a law enforcement officer...”

Vinnie held up his hand.  He was trying to talk, but laughing too hard.  “Please, you’re scaring me.”

Junior saw there were tears in Vinnie’s eyes.  He waited for him to subside.  Vinnie took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.  “Whoo!  Talking’s my meal ticket.  If I’m laughing so hard I can’t talk – that’s scary.  Junior, you’re funny.”

Junior said, “I’m not a cop.”

Vinnie asked, “You’re serious?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Okay.  Here’s what I mean.  We get all we can on cold calls.  First we get their trust by tooting our horn about the magazine’s past successes.”

“This is the first issue.”

“Maybe.  So what?  As far as we know...  That’s immaterial.  Don’t bust my chops.  We tell ‘em what a fabulous, exciting deal advertising in it will be.  You know, we get them to say ‘yes’ to the little things first.  Then we tell ‘em it has to be now or they miss out, that we go to press in a couple of days.  Appeal to their ego, their intelligence, remind them how smart they’ll be to ‘grab’ this or ‘take’ that – not ‘buy’, you know?  ‘Buy’ is a bad word.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then.  Then, if they won’t buy in, then we ease into a little intimidation.”  He flipped through his cards.  “Let me find one.  But almost any, even the waspiest Brahmin will – here:  Ho’s Laundry.  Punch in on line two.”

Junior listened in.

“Ho Laundry.”

“Good morning.  Mr. Ho?”

“He out back.”

“Go get him.”

Vinnie turned to Junior.  “Rule number one: gotta take charge.”

They heard Chinese hollered in the background, then, “He busy now, say, ‘call back’.”

“Tell him it’s a police matter.”

“Pohreese?”

“Yes.”

More Chinese, then, “Ho Laundry.”

“Mister Ho?”

A long pause, then, “I Mister Ho.”

“Good morning.  How’s business?”

“Busy.  Business velly busy.  What you want?”

“Good.  I’m glad business very busy.  I hope you wanna keep business very busy.  Yes?”

“Yes.  You Police?”

“Fraternal Order of Police.  We need your help.  You help us and we help you.”

“What you want?”

“I wanna keep your business very busy.  You advertise in our magazine.  Everybody know Ho Laundry.  Police your friend.  No trouble.”

“No trouble?”

“No trouble.  A half page ad.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred.”

Exclamations, probably cursing, in Chinese, then, “Too much.  Small business.  I small business.”

Vinnie left five seconds of dead air on the line, and then said, “Okay.  I have a quarter page spot left.  I can let you grab that.  I was gonna save it for my brother-in-law...”

“How much?”

“Two fifty.  I’ll tell you how to make out the check...”

Junior and Vinnie commuted from Boston that first week.  Gil stayed in Rhode Island “to set something up.”  The next week, Gil told them, “Okay, the magazine’s sold.  Once you’ve tied up loose ends, take the rest of the day off.  Come back tomorrow for a new campaign, one that I think you’ll like.”

The following day, Laurindo Fonseca and two women and a man Junior had never seen before were at their office.  He shook hands with Laurindo who introduced him to the other three, “Sally, Barb, Ben – Junior.”

Barb, more interested in Ben, and Ben, more interested in a table of pastries and coffee, ignored him.  Gil entered, bellowing, “Good morning and welcome to Rhode Island!  Now if you’ll make yourselves comfortable, we’ll begin our sales meeting.”

They settled into a row of chairs.  Gil stood at the erasable board facing them.  “First, I’m grateful they sent me three aces: Larry, Ben, Barb.  I’ll explain why we’re here.”  He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin, then, more subdued, almost confidential, went on, “What we have here is a new and very different campaign.  You’ll work in teams.”

Barb sucked on a cigarette and exhaled, “That’s different.” 

Junior noticed her wrists and fingers glittered with what must have been diamonds.

“There’s a reason for it, which you’ll see in a few minutes.  But before that I want you to know our name.  We’re called First Narragansett Financial Group.”

“Ben said, “Sounds like investments,” and took a bite of his donut.

“It is.  Today I’ll do the paperwork adding ‘Incorporated’ to our name.”

Barb asked, “Fancy name – what are we selling?”

“Selling?  Well, it’s bridge financing; we induce investment in stock.”

Ben studied another donut.  “Good.  I like playing broker.”

This made Barb laugh, for some reason.  Junior felt he had better hang on; there was much that wasn’t making sense, and here at the start of a new campaign.

Gil wore a grin.  “Well, we are brokers.  Follow me?”

Vinnie, too, was grinning.  “What it is.”

Junior looked around.  Fonseca was straight-faced.  Sally returned Junior’s glance and smiled at him.  Gil repeated, “We’re brokers encouraging speculation.  Here’s the deal.  Brochures have gone out to the leads.  You’ll begin with calls building their trust.  These people buy stock.  Get them interested in First Narragansett Financial Group.  Get them dreaming about big money.  Get them salivating!  Their greed will make us rich.  Then, you ask permission to call again if an exciting deal comes along.”

Ben interrupted, “Will an exciting deal come along?”

Everyone laughed – all but Junior and Fonseca.

“Yes.  But no pressure, no pressure at all at this point.  The pamphlet’ll do our work for us.  We’ve slid it under the door, so to speak.”

He passed the brochure around.  They looked it over.  It described a multibillion-dollar international corporation, not the seven people in this office.

Barb asked, “Flashy.  What’s the rip?”

“Our commission is twenty percent of receipts.”

Ben said, “I’m flattered to work for” – he tested the phrase – “First Narragansett Financial Group.”

Gil smiled.  “That’s our name.  We’re gonna say it thousands of times.  Let’s practice it once for good luck.  Repeat after me: First Narragansett Financial Group.”

All said, “First Narragansett Financial Group,” as though in church, or a foreign language class.

Gil went on.  “Once they get a brochure, they qualify, and we give them all the attention a true lead deserves.”

Fonseca asked, “Is this the ‘three call’ deal?”

Gil grew serious, exchanged a glance with Vinnie.  “Yes, and on the second call, we whet the lead’s appetite with a ‘fantastic deal’ we think we may be able to get them into.  It will be a ‘fabulous opportunity’.  We don’t set the hook, merely ask them to watch the paper to see the stock’s price go up.”

Vinnie was enthusiastic.  “That’s where they call us!”

“When they do, pass them on to ‘the opener’, your partner.  Otherwise, let a day pass, then the opener will third call them with an initial sale of stock.”

Vinnie yelled, “Buy now or miss out!”

They laughed.  All but Fonseca and Junior. 

Gil drew some kind of four-legged beast on the board, with a dollar sign on its belly.  They sat in meditation of it a moment until Vinnie jumped up and again burst out, “We’re talkin a cash cow here!  But it’s goin fast!”

Barb said, “God!  Somebody sedate this kid!”

Gil laughed.  “That’s one thing an opener might say to get a monetary commitment.  You all have your different styles.  Main thing, on the cold call, get them dreaming your dream.”

Barb asked, “Any cautions?”

Gil paused, sobered.  “Yeah.  If on any call the lead is too ‘professional’, or seems like an official, you know, asking too many questions, drop out.”

Sally asked, “What about women?”

“Younger women, too.  You can tell their age.  Avoid them.  They’ll fight for ‘justice’.  What do you think, Barb?”

Barb dunked a half-smoked cigarette into her coffee, sign that she was ready to start.  “Yeah, the young ones are vindictive if burnt.  Sure, the retirees are easier.  But you know, Sally, honey, forget obstacles; focus on your ability to get money from men.  Use your wiles on their egos and you’ll be golden.  Other than that, I’ve got nothing to add.  I’m good to go.”

“On that note, with Barb and Vinnie chomping at the bit, I’ll just say that this campaign is a feast set before you, so: enjoy!”

Barb and Ben, Vinnie and Fonseca broke into teams.  Gil coached Sally and Junior.  “Listen.  Warm them up with the cold call.  Be friendly.  Suggest you might have called them before.  Flatter them.  Junior, buddy up to them.  Sally, you know how to do that flirty thing.  If you’re nice to them on the phone, if you offer them friendship, they’ll never be rude.”

Gil looked at his Rolex.  “This is real low pressure.  Because of the three calls, it’s geared way down.  Lots of torque.  On the second call, assume they want more income.  Offer them a bargain.  Appeal to their ego, to their greed.  You know, their avarice.  You’ve got the script, here’s some information you can use on Rhode Island sports teams, and your lead cards.”

Sally and Junior split the cards and sat at their table.  The voices of the others already at work filled the boiler room.

“You’re a Brown alumnus?  So am I!”

“Well, we could finance this ourselves, but the fact is we’re building a power base for the future with this venture and people like you...”

“I remember when Rick Pitino coached them.  I guess that dates me...”

“No, ha haha, I can’t be lying.  There are laws against that...”

“We both know I’m your kids’ college money...”

“Good decision!  We’re here to make money – right?”

After the morning calls, they lunched together at a restaurant across the street.

“Good cards.”

Ben talked around a mouthful of his Reuben sandwich, “The lead cards are good.”

Barb polished a spoon on her napkin.  “I know, told me everything about this mooch – except that he’d want to know the location of our ‘corporate offices’.”

Vinnie pointed at her with his fork.  “Me too, I had to look it up in the brochure.  But I was there, riding a whale!”  He laughed, then, deadpan, asked,  “Do you guys smell something?”

Gil smiled.  “I smell it.  I smelled it this morning.”

Sally and Junior sniffed the air.  Fonseca ate in silence.  Barb smiled, “Yeah; I’ve smelled that before.”

Ben said, “I know you have.  I love that smell.”

Junior was about to, but Sally asked first, “What smell?”

They answered in unison, “Money!”

They returned to the boiler room in good spirits and energized – all but Fonseca, who seemed reserved.  Junior, in a moment alone with him, asked, “Larry, something up?”

Fonseca looked him straight in the eye.  “We’ll see.  Talk to you later.”

And they hit the phones.

“...but would you like to make a lot of money in little time, with little or no risk?”

“We all get offers every day from hucksters who say they’re going to make us rich.  But Bob – can I call you Bob? – Bob, I can help you make a decision based on actual facts...”

“...oh, yeah, sure, sure, but I know you’d be interested in hearing about such a great investment opportunity – wouldn’t you?”

Barb was feigning indignation.  She stood and projected her voice for Ben’s attention.  As she spoke, she scribbled tag on a card and held it up for Ben to see.  “What do you mean am I ‘a legitimate broker’?  I call you from First Narragansett Financial Group, an established corporation, and offer, as a favor to you because of your past investments, a fantastic opportunity – wait, Mister White, the corporate Chairman just stepped into my outer office.”

She passed the call to Ben.  “Good afternoon.  Yes, this is Ben White, CEO.  Yes.  Yes.  No, Ms. Cabot’s honesty, competence and integrity are unassailable.  I’ve known her for twenty years.  Yes, she is an S.E.C. licensed broker.”

Ben listened, then lowered his voice.  “Confidentially, she’s had a death in her family.”  He paused, then went on, “I agree.  She should have taken time off.  But, personally, I know firsthand that her dedication to First Narragansett Financial Group’s investors has been exemplary, above and beyond what should be expected of a qualified broker.”

Barb lit a cigarette and, smiling, mouthed thank you.

Ben continued, “I’m heading into a Board meeting, but, what she was offering you, well, is just a fantastic opportunity which recently presented itself, and which First Narragansett Financial Group wants to share with you...”

Junior rode back to Boston with Fonseca that night.  Traffic was light.  The radar detector in the Lexus went off.  Laurindo slowed.  Junior looked for the cop.  “There he is.  In the median, over that rise.”

Laurindo just nodded.

After a couple of miles, Junior spoke.  “Good to leave after rush hour.”

“Yeah.  Rush hour’s better for making calls than for driving.”

Junior didn’t say anything for a while, then, “You’ve been quiet with this new campaign.”

Laurindo looked at him, and back at the road ahead.  Junior sensed something was up, waited out whatever Fonseca would say.

“You’re right.  I didn’t want it to be noticeable.”

Junior thought, I picked up on it because I care, but said nothing.  Given the nature of their work, it would have sounded like bullshit.  He waited him out.

Neither of them, after a day of three hundred calls, just wanted to make pleasant noises. 

Fonseca sighed.  “I asked Marina to marry me.”

Junior had met Marina when he went with her brother Alberto and Laurindo to a Celtics game.  She was from the old country, Cape Verde.  “Well, good – I think – She said ‘yes’?”

Laurindo almost smiled, wistfully.  “She said ‘yes’.”

Junior wondered what was up.  “So?”

“Junior, it’s the work we do.  I may be good at it, but it doesn’t feel right anymore.  It’s not something I’d tell my grandmother about.  I don’t see myself coming home to a wife, going to church, raising kids, and doing this.”

It had never felt right to Junior, though he might have thought differently if he’d had Laurindo’s success.  “You mean self-respect?”

Laurindo nodded, relieved that Junior was on the same wavelength.  This conversation would have degenerated into ridicule with any of the others.  Laurindo deliberated, then admitted, “Especially after the way that last Boston campaign ended.”

Junior repeated the phrase in his mind, the way that last Boston campaign ended.  Gil and Vinnie had dismissed it as a legal hassle, too complicated to explain.  “What do you mean?”

Laurindo said, “Junior, this is just a summer job for you.  You’re going back to school in a few weeks.  For me, well, this is my living.  What we do for a living says something about who we are.”

Junior was surprised to hear a rep talk this way.  Fonseca was talking about truth.  Junior tried not to sound too collegiate.  “Yeah, well, they say our work defines us.”

Laurindo was pensive.  “That’s a good way to put it.”

It seemed he wouldn’t say any more. 

Junior asked, “Why’d we drop the Boston campaign?”

Fonseca looked at him.  “You really don’t know?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“We were busted.  By the F.B.I.  They had a search warrant.  That’s why some of us went to New Hampshire, and you went to Rhode Island.”

“Busted for what?”

“As far as I know, fraud.  They shut us down in Massachusetts.  You didn’t know?”

Junior was stunned.  “No.”

Laurindo opened up.  “I talked with Alberto – you remember?  Marina’s brother?  I talked with him about it.  He graduated from Suffolk, law school, is studying for his exams, the what’s it called?”

“The Bar.”

“He said all of us could be arrested.”

Junior was coming around.  “Really?”

“Berto said no one would believe we were so stupid that we didn’t know what we were doing.”

“You mean what we’re selling is a crime?”

Laurindo laughed.  That was his answer.

Junior asked, “You mean we’re breaking the law?”

“They call it ‘telemarketing fraud’.”

They didn’t talk for a while, then Fonseca said, “I was going to Berto’s after dropping you off.  Do you want to come?”

At Alberto’s apartment, they talked in the study.  Walled in by books, Junior felt he were back at school, though these were thicker compendia than general library volumes. 

Alberto cleaned his glasses.  “When you told me, I thought you were too small an operation to bring down the F.B.I.  After reading the news, I saw it wasn’t the volume, but the nature of your work.”

Fonseca mused, “The nature of our work.”

“This kind of scam’s become a priority at Justice.”

Junior looked from one to the other.  “Scam?”

Neither answered. 

They didn’t speak for a while, then Laurindo said, as if talking to himself, “I don’t like the way this job’s changed me.  The way I become.  My personality.  Having to win.  Always.  Everything.  Even simple differences of opinion become arguments to win.”

Junior knew what he meant.  He’d seen himself unable to wind down after work.  He felt he was always carrying a full charge. 

Alberto only sympathized a little.  “Well, you weren’t always so aggressive.  But you’re going to have bigger problems than personality.  Maybe they didn’t get you in Boston, but sooner or later they will, and that’s when you’ll have to use wedding money for bail.”

Laurindo was impassive.

Alberto went on, “Seems to me you guys would have wondered.  The S.E.C. allows commissions of five percent.  And you’re getting twenty percent!”