Saving Jason by Michael Sears

languages, sounding like the survivors of the destruction of Babel. We may have been the only New Yorkers on the street. I filled her in on my meetings with Larry and Virgil and the somewhat bizarre few minutes with Nealis that had ended with the invitation.
    “We’re in, we’re out,” I said.
    “We’re sauerkraut,” she said. “Will Virgil be there?”
    “I don’t know. Why?”
    “Because then I will know at least one person who will talk to me about something other than the market.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you. Most of the people here won’t talk to me anyway.”
    “So tell me again, why are we going?”
    “We’re here.”
    There was a line of Town Cars and limos waiting to discharge their cargo of wealthy New Yorkers while a pair of Filipinos in dinner jackets attempted to keep the horde of traders, managers, lawyers, politicians, minor celebrities, bankers, and all their plus-ones moving across the sidewalk and into the lobby of a six-story loft building. I ignored the line and guided Skeli directly to the door. A woman in an ankle-length fur began to make an objection to our cutting the line, but hercompanion—a senior trader from the structured loan desk—shushed her with a murmur in her ear. Her eyes widened as her mouth closed. Some days being the Darth Vader of Becker Financial wasn’t so bad.
    “You know, sometimes you are such a jerk,” Skeli whispered as we shuffled onto what had once been a freight elevator but was now a mirrored mini-palace that rose with barely a whisper.
    “Why? Because I cut in front of those people?”
    “You could have charmed them. Instead, you just convinced them that their opinion of you is the right one.”
    “That presupposes that anything I could do would ever change their ideas about me.”
    “You miss the point. You can be a nice guy anyway, simply because it feels good. You don’t have to be a jerk just to please them.”
    I opened my mouth to respond and closed it again. There wasn’t much I had to say that would have stood up to such emotional logic.
    “Think about it,” Skeli said.
    “I will,” I heard myself respond.
    The doors opened directly onto an anteroom that would have easily held my whole apartment. Two identically dressed Japanese women—white tights and leotards with pink crinoline tutus—took coats and directed the throng through a set of double doors wide enough to admit grand pianos without fear of scratching the finish. We surrendered Skeli’s London Fog and entered the upstream flow.
    Nealis stood just inside the doors, greeting everyone by name—a feat that became less impressive when I realized that the woman just behind him held a tablet and wore a Bluetooth device. She was feeding him lines over his shoulder.
    “Jason! Great you could come. Thanks so much. Wanda, isn’t it? I hope we haven’t taken you from your clients. Pain management? I’m right, aren’t I? That’s your specialty. Great work. There’s someone here you must meet.” He turned to an attentive young woman who was hovering a few steps away. “Jill, make sure Dr. Tyler is introduced to Doc Pettis.” He turned to Skeli and spoke quietly, as though impartingsome great secret. “Get him talking about his Chihuly collection. He’s a bore, but he’ll send you more referrals than you’ll be able to handle.”
    And with that he turned to the couple behind us, and we found ourselves following the perky-eyed Jill through the crowd. There must have been three or four hundred people and yet the space didn’t feel overcrowded. The loft took up half a city block.
    “Doc Pettis?” I asked Skeli as I struggled to keep pace.
    “Spinal guy. One of the best. He did the Olympic high-diver two years ago. You read about him.”
    I hadn’t to my knowledge read about anything like it, but I kept my mouth shut. One learns more from listening than asking questions.
    “All his patients go through PT and rehab before he’ll cut. He’s one of the few