Final Option

It was viewed as natural that Bart, unable to lure his son into the family business, would choose his nephew, no matter how limited in his abilities, to be his acolyte and keep his secrets.
    Beside Tim a plump and tidy older woman sobbed into her handkerchief—Bart Hexter’s long-time secretary, Mrs. Titlebaum—crying the first tears I’d seen shed for the dead man.
    Once Barton finished the group broke up quickly. After all, the markets were open. While most of the Hexter employees sprinted back to the trading floor and the cacophony of the phones, some of the administrative staff shuffled forward to express their condolences. I hung back quietly, waiting for Barton to finish.
    I could not help but notice a young woman standing at the back of the room. Wearing the gold jacket of a runner over a plain black dress, she leaned against the wall, arms wrapped despondently around herself. Framed by dark hair, her face was extraordinary. Her skin was translucent, her cheekbones high, her lips full and perfectly shaped. Her eyes were smoky, fringed with thick lashes and big enough to drown a man.
    Another woman—fortyish and tremendously chic with a sleek bob of dark red hair and a daring lavender suit—walked up to her. Their conversation—if you could call it that, seeing as the younger woman never spoke—was brief and conclusive. The older woman said only a few words, but when she turned away her face was alight with malicious triumph. The younger woman stood absolutely still until the older one had passed out of sight. Then her pale face dissolved into tears, and she fled down the corridor.
     
    “You know he always loved this view,” said Barton Jr., looking out the broad window opposite his father’s I desk which faced north up LaSalle Street. “I’m sure he I sat here and felt like the lord of the markets.”
    The dead man’s secretary had come and gone, bringing us coffee and returning to her desk, her face streaked with tears.
    “It’s so ironic. Do you know what my father wanted more than anything in the world?” demanded Barton Jr.
    “What?”
    “He wanted me to come and work for him. We even fought about it the last time we were together, Friday night when we went out to my parents’ house for dinner.”
    “At least you were all together.”
    “It was a disaster. Dad was late, and my kids were starved and cranky, but Mother wouldn’t let dinner be served until he came home. We were all testy to begin I with. Margot was there. She’d brought her friend, Brooke.”
    “What’s wrong with Brooke?” I asked. “You say her name like she’s an ax murderer.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with Brooke. I really like I her. It’s just that at Christmas Margot announced that I she had decided, as she put it, ‘to explore the lesbian I life-style.’ Brooke is the person she’s exploring it with-Personally, if Margot’s happy, I’m happy. But my parents are slightly less open-minded. So Brooke made a rather strained addition to the family dinner.
    “When Dad finally walked through the door I could tell he was just spoiling for a fight. He got like that sometimes. Something would set him off at the office and he’d come home ready to lay into the first person who crossed his path.”
    “And he layed into Margot?”
    “No. You could tell that Margot bringing Brooke was bugging him, but Margot usually gives better than she gets. So Dad picked an easier target—me. He started in on the old lament. All the people whom he had working for him were thieves, they took their paychecks and spent their time thinking of ways to stab him in the back, and on and on. Dad always swore a lot. It was a habit from his days as a trader, but Jane, my wife, hated it, especially in front of the kids. And I agree with her. It’s no fun getting a phone call from nursery school saying that little Peter’s been using the f-word again. So Jane asked him if he’d watch his language. Well, he went crazy. He started yelling at Jane, shouting that he wasn’t going to be lectured at his own dinner table.
    “Well, you don’t know Jane, but it doesn’t work to raise your voice to her. She just stood up and said, ‘Very well, then we’re leaving.’ In two minutes she’d gathered up the boys, put them in their coats, and was out the door. I was on my feet to go with her, but you should have seen the look on my mother’s face— practically begging me to stay....”
    “I thought your dad told me that you’d