The Teratologist Read Free Page A

thought.
    Bryant didn’t look like a writer. He looked like a kick-boxer or something, he looked like the kind of guy who could clear out a shit-pit bar full of rednecks with one arm. He wore a suit and tie, while Westmore wore jeans, Velcro sneakers, and a t-shirt that read CAPTAIN KIDD’S SEAFOOD MARKET, REDONDO BEACH.
    “ We’re interviewing a billionaire today,” Bryant reminded him. “Did you have to get so dressed up?”
    “ Come on, these Velcro sneakers cost ten bucks. At K-Mart.” Then Westmore raised his overly stiff drink. His hand was shaking.
    “ What’s wrong with you?” Bryant asked next. “Even I’ve never seen you this jittery so early in the day.”
    What could Westmore say? “I’ve just…got a bad vibe, you know?”
    “ No, I don’t know.”
    “ Something’s giving me the willies about this one.”
    “ Who? Farringworth? He’s just another billionaire. We see these guys all the time. They’re like sports stars, they’re all the same and they’re all assholes.”
    “ The guy’s thirty years old,” Westmore pointed out. “How’d he get to be a billionaire by thirty?”
    “ Spot trading on the 4X. On a average there’s about three trillion dollars a day trading. Farrington’s an institutional trader whose clients have to put up a minimum of ten million dollars per transaction. He gauges global monetary fluctuations on a minute-to-minute basis. Farrington watches everything as it happens, from New York to Tokyo, Switzerland to Hong Kong, from Dollar to Yen to Deutschmark to Guilder to Lire to Ruble. His own profits he juggles through authority loan markets, interbank markets, yearling bonds, sterling money contracts, and flexible competitive-range ventures.”
    Westmore’s face scrunched up. “Well, I guess whatever just came out of your mouth answered my question.”
    “ What are you worried about? We know he’s legit. IRS and SEC audit the guy out the ass every year. What, you think he’s secretly funneling biological weapons to Iraq? He a front for white-slavers? That’s what you thought about the last guy.”
    “ I don’t know what it is. I just feel weird.”
    “ Westmore. You are weird. Rejoice in who you are.”
    “ Boy, for a guy who complained about his drink being too stiff, you sure downed that in a hurry,” the barmaid observed of Westmore’s empty glass.
    “ May I have a Corona Light, this time, please?” Westmore asked. The bad scotch scorched his stomach.
    “ Isn’t that also the name for the end of a penis?” she brought to mind, then put an opened bottle in front of him.
    “ That’s on the house, right?” Westmore asked.
    “ No but it can be on your head if you like.”
    Bryant ordered an orange juice; when she gave it to him she said, “Now that’s on the house.”
    “ It’s my karma,” Westmore excused. “But I don’t care. I’m a Kierkegaardian existentialist.” This was what Westmore always said because it was easier and less humiliating that saying I’m a fuckin’ social failure and it doesn’t bother me any more. “So, what? Farringworth’s meeting us here?”
    “ His people are picking us up and taking us to his house in Bloomfield Hills. It’s the highest per-capita-income community in the world. Iacocca lives there, John Ford, Trump’s got a house, plus any CEO of any car manufacturer.”
    “ What else you know about Farringworth?”
    “ He did his undergrad at Cornell, then got his MBA in international finance at the Wharton School, started at Fidelity as an investment analyst, studied under Peter Lynch. Rose through the ranks, got promoted to fund manager. They make a couple million a year. Everything after that was his own creativity. Took him five years in the field, and then—“
    ” Then he’s a billionaire.”
    “ I agree, it’s a little unusual for a guy to get that rich that quick.” Bryant shrugged. “But it happens.”
    “ I guess some guys are just lucky,” Westmore said.
    “ But not you,