Chapter 33
The week before Easter, his share minus taxes appeared in Colin’s account. All of it.
Roland was almost apologetic when he called. “Aaron and I discussed it. There may be issues with the authorities, having so much money show up in the account of a minor. If anything arises, you refer them to me. Aaron and I will handle it.”
Colin stared at the numbers on his online account page. Trying to digest its full meaning. “What should I do?”
“Several things. Speak with the branch manager. Set up an investment account. Park all but your petty cash there.” Roland hesitated, then added, “I feel a bit foolish, advising you on matters of finance.”
“This isn’t the same,” Colin replied. “This isn’t investment. This is money.”
“Indeed it is. Well then. I would suggest we insert me as cosignatory on the investment account. Or Aaron, whoever—”
“You. Definitely.”
“I am honored. Very well, just a moment.” There was the sound of rustling pages. “How does two o’clock Thursday afternoon sound?”
Colin was very nervous going into the meeting.
He had met several of the bank managers during his visits.
They and the tellers, men and women alike, seemed to enjoy finding reasons to stop by, speak with the child who always appeared on his own, always kept several thousand dollars in his account, always managed his affairs without adult supervision.
He thought their cheery greetings carried the false gaiety of clowns.
Mateo Garcia was something else entirely.
He carried himself with the balanced ease of an aging boxer.
In that regard, he was very much like Colin’s father.
But from the very first moment, he treated Colin with an almost courtly grace.
There was no hint of derision or doubt to his greeting.
He shook Colin’s hand and ushered them into his office, stood by the edge of his desk until they were seated, offered them coffee, drew over a chair on their side of his desk, ignored the stares that followed their motions through the interior glass wall, kept Colin at the center of his attention.
Even so, once the formalities were out of the way and all documents signed, Colin sensed a reversion to type.
The experienced funds manager doing his best not to talk down to his newest and youngest client.
All the brochures were stacked up there on his desk, ready to be laid out in a colorful array.
Explaining why Colin had been right to come here, correct in trusting this man and Wells Fargo with his money—
“I don’t want any of these funds invested anywhere,” Colin said.
Even now, when his carefully prepared spiel was shattered, Garcia maintained his composure. “Excuse me?”
“You can put them into money market funds only. Make no investment that will delay movement of funds when I’m ready.”
“When you are ready.”
“Correct. And another thing. I’ve been studying your investment strategies, at least what I’ve found online. In the future, I may decide to grant permission for you to take certain steps. But nothing you do, no fund you choose, may charge an up-front commission.”
The older gentleman responded by turning his caramel-colored gaze toward Roland. “That would severely restrict the number of options available to us.”
“It might be a good idea if you took notes,” Roland said mildly. “I am here to bear witness to my client’s wishes.”
“Your client.”
“Did nothing I said on the phone break through your expectations?”
“Of course, Roland. Don’t talk silly. But—”
“Everything you see there in this young man’s account, the entire sum, is due to his calculations. His actions. He started with nothing. Do you understand what I’m saying? Nothing.”
“That’s not possible.”
Roland nodded. “Finally, we are on the same page. Nothing about what has happened over the past year is possible. Starting with how we met. A young man, little more than a child, asking to borrow money. Then impressing me and my partners to the point where we trusted him with our own funds. Granting him a fund manager’s commission.
Standing by and watching as he made one absurd investment decision after another.
Wanting time and again to tell him he was wrong to do what he did.
And yet, our investments continued to rise until … ”
“Yes? Until what?”
When Roland remained silent, Colin said, “I was duped. I almost lost everything.”
“Because of criminal activities,” Roland said. “Nothing about this was your—”
“It was all my fault. If I hadn’t been such a child—”
“Stop with that nonsense.”
“If I hadn’t been so blind,” Colin insisted. Releasing the shadows and the guilt. “If I hadn’t been so certain that I knew everything. That I could trust my calculations in every situation. That I could trust the market.”
“Blind is the absolute last word I would ever use to describe you,” Roland said mildly.
“And what happened. I came within four days of watching the account sink to zero. End up owing money I didn’t have. Needing to choose between bankruptcy and seeing everyone—”
“Colin, these accusations are simply—”
“Everyone who trusted me. Everyone who relied on me. Everyone who gave me their savings.” He panted softly, standing at the end of a nightmarish race, fleeing shadows which threatened to catch up every time he fell asleep. “Everybody in the fund going into debt. Because of me. Being a child.”
Roland watched him with unblinking solemnity. “Nineteen members of my law firm. Eleven accountants and their support staff. Trustees for the academy. Professionals at the business of investment. Every single one of them also blind, if you insist upon using that terrible word.”
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, drawing so near Colin could smell the heavily sugared coffee on Roland’s breath.
“And then what happened. Right in the nick of time, this so-called blind child caught sight of what we had all missed. A person we had known and trusted for almost ten years was perpetuating an act of criminal fraud. Not against you, Colin. Against us all. Do you hear what I’m saying? You. Saved. Us.”
Roland stayed like that. Inches from Colin’s face. Driving home the message with a silence so intense he forced his way through Colin’s painful guilt. Not healing the rift. But at least offering a hint of solace.
Finally, Garcia broke the silence by saying, “So. No upfront commission on any future investment. Anything else I should be made aware of?”
Through the long super-heated spring and summer, into the cooler autumn months. Winter came and proceeded smoothly into yet another spring. Almost abruptly, he turned fourteen. More seasons, pushed and crammed and segmented by studies and exams and new responsibilities.
The next seismic change struck the week before his fifteenth birthday.
Fremdt suggested it was time to find a thesis topic.
It took him a long moment to understand what the professor was talking about. When he remained silent, Fremdt unleashed his trademark ire. “What, you think I will let you coast here forever?”
“I’m not coasting.”
“I see you in class. Bored and idle and mooning over the pretty girls twice your age.”
“I don’t moon.”
“You’re not struggling.” He gripped the air between them with ham-sized fists. “I want to see you sweat.”
Colin had no idea how to respond.
“There, you see?” Fremdt dropped his hands and his gaze to the papers littering his desk. “I give you until the summer. Either you find something worth struggling over, or I find it for you. I tell the dean you begin graduate studies next fall.”
Colin remained where he was. “But I won’t graduate for another eighteen months.”
“You think you are the first person who is ready before the university system says?” Fremdt did not bother to look up. “You keep earning credits. You do both degrees together. Now go. It’s time I make other students sweat.”
It was during his birthday visit to the barber that Colin was introduced to his next passion. The diminutive hairdresser’s name was Angelo, and he revealed himself to be a true fanatic when it came to vinyl. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard the difference.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, this is too important to discuss in pieces.” Angelo seemed almost angry, the way he snapped the towel off Colin, then brushed him down with harsh drumbeats timed to his words. “And too complex to handle in dribs and drabs.”
The younger barber, the man who had cut Colin’s hair that second time months and centuries ago, said, “You best run while you still can.”
Angelo demanded, “Remind me why I don’t fire you.”
“’Cause you know I’m the voice of reason here.” The younger man made a shooing motion to Colin. “Fast as you can. Out the door. Don’t never look back.”
Angelo led Colin up to the front. “We close at seven. You want, get back here after all these heretics have gone home.”
Colin was not certain what he was going to do, nor could he say how he felt about Angelo’s invitation.
He ate a solitary dinner at the mall’s Italian restaurant, bought a ticket to the film he’d spent two weeks looking forward to seeing.
But as he passed through the cinema’s lobby, he veered around and went back to the circular booth where the cinema manager observed the evening crowd.
He handed the woman his ticket and said, “Something’s come up.
I need to change this for another night. ”
Colin wasn’t certain how he felt about this next step, meeting a man he really didn’t know behind the closed doors of a business after hours.
When he knocked on the shop’s glass doors and Angelo peered out at him, he realized the barber felt exactly the same.
Instantly his unease vanished. He waited while Angelo relocked the door, then followed him past the empty leather chairs into a back office.
Angelo pointed him to a leather office chair positioned directly in front of a stereo system that climbed a series of steel and glass shelves. “Sit there.”
Angelo left the office and returned with one of the chairs meant to hold waiting customers. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”
“Neither was I.”
Angelo seemed to like that. He cut on the system, made numerous adjustments, then said, “Ever heard the work of Keith Jarrett?”
“No.”
“Good. I want to start with someone you don’t know.” He started to punch a button, then said, “We’re going to use piano because it best illustrates what I’m going to show you. This is a first-class digital recording. Ready?”
“Yes.”
He pressed the button, then seated himself. “This is from The Cellar Door Sessions, recorded with Miles Davis in 1970.”
Colin felt the music wash over him, invading his space in a manner that headphones did not allow. It rose up in solid yet quiet waves, filling the room. When the cut ended, he breathed a quiet, “Wow.”
“Save your wows. Now listen to this.” Angelo lifted the cover to a turntable, started the motor, set the needle in place, adjusted the amp, and settled back. “Same track.”
When the music ended and Angelo lifted the needle, Colin just sat there. Trying to come to terms with what he had just heard.
Apparently Angelo found what he desired in Colin’s stunned expression. He stepped around the desk and returned with a cigar and ashtray. Another trip, this time to bring out a bottle and cut-crystal glass. “I take it you’re not interested in single malt.”
“No.”
“Cigar?”
“Yuck.”
“Nix on the cigar. There’s cold Coke in the fridge up front.”
“I don’t … No, thank you.”
“Do I need to show you any more examples of the differences?”
“No.” Colin pointed to the turntable. “I want more of that.”
“Stick with Jarrett?”
“Absolutely.”
From that point, the evening took on a timeless feel, at least for Colin.
Between cuts, Angelo explained the key differences dividing digital from analog.
He used terms like warmth, richness, and depth.
He drew graphs in the air between himself and the system, showing how digital recordings by definition cut segments from the music’s vibratory patterns.
How as a result, the digital recording did not capture the complete sound wave.
Each set of comments was limited to only a few sentences.
As if the real reason for their time together was the music.
Only the music. Then another track was played.
Another album slipped from the cardboard sleeve and set on the turntable.
As the music started, Angelo settled back, relit his cigar, sipped from his replenished glass.
If the barber was in any way affected by the whiskey, he gave no sign.
Angelo returned time and again to his personal favorite album, The Survivors’ Suite, recorded under the guiding hand of Manfred Eicher, the producer behind the young ECM label.
Colin personally preferred the orchestral arrangements Jarrett put together under the Impulse label.
When he said so, Angelo simply replied, “This young man is seriously addicted to swing.” He switched albums and turned the volume up to where the music vibrated in Colin’s chest.
It was almost eleven when Angelo led him back to the front of the store. Colin found himself reluctant to step into the almost empty mall and release himself from the magic. He stood there by the entrance and said, “The name on your equipment. Bowers and Wilkins.”
Angelo nodded approval. “Some people like to mix and match. I prefer a system built to fit together. Or so it seems to me.”
“I like that idea. Very much.”
“So remember it, tuck it away for when you’re rich and famous.” Angelo offered his hand. “Young man, it’s been a pleasure.”
Colin thanked him, wishing there was something stronger he could say. He walked the silent corridor, phoned for an Uber, and carried the scent of Angelo’s cigar out into the night.