Cabot Wright Begins: A Novel by Purdy James

Author:Purdy, James [Purdy, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Liveright
Published: 2013-07-21T20:00:00+00:00

CYNTHIA’S CONFINEMENT IN a mental institution paved the way for Cabot’s successful return to Wall Street more than any other event could have. His playing the role of a youthful Orpheus around the office prevented anybody’s “reviewing” his future for a while.

“Warby,” as Cabot Wright recalled in one of his long police-tape interviews, “like nearly any American you could hit by spitting from a high building, was a congenital sentimentalist. The thought of Cynthia going mad made him all gooey and got him out of my hair for a while.”

The day before Cabot’s second tragedy, he and Mr. Warburton were seated in one of the old man’s favorite restaurants, on Fulton Street, an oaken-panelled place as big as four barns, with private rooms upstairs and downstairs. They were in one of the private rooms now, and Warburton was pouring Wild Turkey down his throat almost as fast as he could gulp it. “Cynthia will come out of it, she’s that kind of a girl,” he assured his General Partner. “Will fight her way back. Determined chin, if I ever saw one.

“Laddie,” Mr. Warburton now got down to business, “we’re going to put you in charge of Monthly Reports.”

Cabot’s face fell, to use one of Mr. Warburton’s own favorite ways of describing the reaction of his colleagues, and of course, it was a facial expression never to assume in the old broker’s presence. But when he remembered what Cabot had been through, he forgave his having allowed his face to fall.

“Wonderful training for a chap like you,” Mr. Warburton was in full and loud enthusiasm. At a look of uncertainty from Cabot, he elaborated: “Monthly Reports are a damned serious phase of our work. Be great to have you on them.”

A few months back, Cabot had told Warburton he would resign rather than be in charge of Monthly Reports. “It’s a stenographer’s work,” he had shouted then at the end of that interview. “Am I a frigging typist?” And though Mr. Warburton had cautioned him then about exploding in his presence, Cabot had been firm: “I’ll be goddamned if I do your Monthly Reports.”

And even now, with all his great fatherly interest in Cynthia’s going off her rocker, both Mr. Warburton and Cabot appeared to be hearing again their row of a few months past, as if on play-back tape, and at that moment they might have posed for an advertisement for dictation machines.

“Agreed then, my boy!” the old broker vociferated over his Ramon Allones cigar.

Cabot said nothing, and did not even go pale. Later he wondered what would have happened if he had repeated his earlier tantrum, and refused to write Monthly Reports. This time, drinking his French cognac, sinking into the rich leather of his chair, with the soothing ubiquitous oak-panelling behind him, he could only say yes of course to Monthly Reports.

Mr. Warburton had immediately slapped him on the back, spilling a long ash, and crying, “That’s the ticket, boy!”

Cabot had smiled faintly and Mr. Warburton, wanting to

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