The Stochastic Man

11

There was one frosty day late in March ‘99 that started like most of the other days since I had gone to work for Paul Qui

“Mr. Lombroso has a visitor in his office,” the receptionist told me, “but he’d like you to go on inside anyway.”

Lombroso’s office was a fitting stage for him. He is a tall well-set-up man in his late thirties, somewhat theatrical in appearance, a commanding figure with dark curling hair silvering at the temples, a coarse black close-cropped beard, a flashing smile, and the energetic, intense ma

His visitor was a faded-looking little man, fifty-five or sixty years old, a slight, insignificant person with a narrow oval head sparsely thatched with short gray hair. He was dressed so plainly, in a shabby old brown suit out of the Eisenhower era, that he made Lombroso’s nippy-dip sartorialism seem like the most extreme peacock extravagance and even made me feel like a dandy in my five-year-old copper-threaded maroon cape. He sat quietly, slouched, hands interlocked. He looked anonymous and close to invisible, one of nature’s natural-born Smiths, and there was a leaden undertone to his skin, a wintry slackness to the flesh of his cheeks, that spoke of an exhaustion that was as much spiritual as physical. Time had emptied this man of any strength he might once have had.

“I want you to meet Martin Carvajal, Lew,” Lombroso said.

Carvajal rose and clasped my hand. His was cold. “A pleasure at last to encounter you, Mr. Nichols,” he said in a mild, numb voice that came to me from the far side of the universe.

The odd courtly phrasing of his greeting was strange. I wondered what he was doing here. He looked so juiceless, so much like an applicant for some very minor bureaucratic job, or, more plausibly, like some down-at-the-heel uncle of Lombroso’s here to pick up his monthly stipend: but only the powerful were admitted to Finance Administrator Lombroso’s lair.

But Carvajal was not the relict I took him to be. Already, in the moment of our handshake, he appeared to have an improbable access of strength; he stood taller, the lines of his face grew taut, a certain Mediterranean flush brightened his complexion. Only his eyes, bleak and lifeless, still betrayed some vital absence within.

Sententiously Lombroso said, “Mr. Carvajal was one of our most generous contributors to the mayor’s campaign,” giving me a suave Phoenician glance that told me, Treat him kindly, Lew, we want more of his gold.

That this drab, seedy stranger should be a wealthy campaign benefactor, a person to be flattered and curried and admitted to the sanctum of a busy official, shook me profoundly, for rarely had I misread someone so thoroughly. But I managed a bland grin and said, “What business are you in, Mr. Carvajal?”

“Investments.”

“One of the shrewdest and most successful private speculators I’ve ever known,” Lombroso offered.

Carvajal nodded complacently.

“You earn your living entirely from the stock market?” I asked.

“Entirely.”

“I didn’t think anyone actually was able to do that.”

“Oh, yes, yes, it can be done,” Carvajal said. His tone was thin and husky, a murmur out of the tomb. “All it takes is a decent understanding of trends and a little courage. Haven’t you ever been in the market, Mr. Nichols?”

“A little. Just dabbling.”

“Did you do well?”

“Well enough. I have a decent understanding of trends myself. But I don’t feel comfortable when the really wild fluctuations start. Up twenty, down thirty — no, thanks. I like sure things, I suppose.”

“So do I,” Carvajal replied, giving his statement a little propulsive twist, a hint of meaning beyond meaning, that left me baffled and uncomfortable.

Just then a sweet bell tinkled in Lombroso’s i

Lombroso glowered at me. “Well?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay in there. Who is he, Bob?”

“Just as I told you. Big money. Strong Qui

“I don’t want to be alone in there with him. He’s like one of the walking dead. He gives me the creepies.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. It’s like some kind of cold deathly force coming from him, Bob. He makes me itch. He gives off scary vibes.”

“Oh, Jesus, Lew.”

“I can’t help it. You know how I pick up things.”

“He’s a harmless little geezer who made a lot of money in the market and likes our man. That’s all. ”

“Why is he here?”

“To meet you,” Lombroso said.

“Just that? Just to meet me?”

“He wanted very much to talk to you. Said it was important for him to get together with you.”