Refreshed, she joined Visconti in the kitchen.
Now dressed in a red velour track suit, no shoes or socks, he was busily engaged in the preparation of a large jug of ice cubes, orange juice and vodka. He waved and smiled, then resumed his focus on the contents of the jug. He poured the entire concoction into a blender, held the cap on top with one hand and plugged the machine in with the other. When he was certain the blender had done its job, he turned it off and filled two crystal wine glasses with the finished product. "I'm sure there's an official name for this," he said as he handed one of the glasses to Kerri. "I call it a vodka slushy. I hope you like it as much as I do."
Kerri took a minuscule sip, then licked her lips. "Delicious. I can't even taste the vodka." She took a larger sip to confirm her initial report.
"Then I've done it right." Visconti pointed to the bar. "Let's sit up there and talk." He helped Kerri climb into one of the white upholstered captain's chairs, then hoisted himself into the one beside her.
"Do you mind answering a personal question?" Kerri asked.
"Hell no. Go ahead."
"How did you get so rich?"
"I don't really know...I guess it was because I hated being poor. Maybe I was just lucky." He gave Kerri a mischievous grin. "How would you define luck?"
"Let me think about it," Kerri said, then drank more of her slushy. "I think luck is a fortuitous event."
"Very good," Visconti said, then poured another drink for himself and refilled Kerri's. "Do you have any idea when luck occurs?"
Kerri giggled, unaware that alcohol had begun to affect her. "That's a tough one. Give me some more time."
"Take all the time you need."
"...I think luck occurs when preparation meets opportunity."
"Brilliant! I couldn't imagine a better way to express it. Do you think it's impossible for luck to occur without a collision of those two factors?"
"I don't really know. I think luck is a subjective thing. One person might think he's lucky to be alive. Another person takes his health for granted and never thinks about it."
Visconti nodded. "Maybe you have to consider the degree of preparation and the size of the opportunity."
"Why?"
"Somewhere along the path of a healthy individual's existence, he must have prepared himself for the opportunity to survive."
Kerri nodded, then took another sip.
"We could carry the argument to the infinite level of resolution, but that's not why I introduced it. I did it because I wanted to give you a better answer to your first question."
"Okay," Kerri said, then took another long sip. "What was my first question?"
"How did I get so rich."
"Right. How did you?"
"For the longest time in my life I considered myself unlucky to have been born to poor parents. Later, I thought I was unlucky not to have married into wealth. When I finally stopped feeling sorry for myself, I realized that the only way I was ever going to be wealthy was to prepare for it. So I did."
"How did you prepare for it?" Kerri asked, fascinated.
"Most people who knew me thought I had the world by the tail, a lovely wife, a good education and a great job with Green-Waltrum, one of the biggest houses on the street. They were wrong. The world had me by the tail. It was confiscating every dime I could make, and I knew it would continue to do so unless I got off the treadmill. I think that was the beginning of my preparation. The opportunity came when Gerry Mara and Allen Greisdorf invited me to fly with them. At that very moment, an opportunity collided with preparation. The rest is history. We started managing other peoples' money at a time when it was like taking candy from a baby." Visconti refilled Kerri's glass. "You could say I was lucky."
"May I ask you another question?" Kerri asked, astounded that she would even consider asking it.
"Sure."
"I'll understand if you'd rather not answer it."
"Don't worry about it. I'll answer any questions you have."
"Miles told me that you lost a half a billion dollars of one client's money in the crash of eighty-seven...Is that true?"
Visconti frowned, clearly indicating that Kerri had introduced a very sensitive subject. "It's true," he said, frown persisting. "Why did you ask that question?"
"I'm sorry. Obviously you don't want to talk about it."
"Sure I do. Why did you ask that question?" Visconti insisted, tightening his lips and facial muscles.
"I had difficulty understanding why you took that big short position on crude oil."
"So what are you getting at?"
Kerri looked away, desperately trying to think of a way out, then took another drink. "I don't even know why I brought it up. Can we change the subject?"
"No," Visconti said with an intense icy gray stare. "We can't change the subject. I want to know why you asked the question, and I'm not going to let it go until you tell me."
"It just seemed to me that you were betting an awful lot on one horse."
"Are you suggesting that I don't know what I'm doing?"
"No. That's not what I'm saying. I have no right to doubt the investment decisions of someone with your experience and track record. I was just curious to know the reasoning behind your decision."
"My track record is no accident. I have it because I wasn't afraid to follow my first instinct. Whenever I did, I won big. Whenever I second-guessed myself, I was almost invariably wrong." Visconti's eyes appeared to burn with resolve. "My decision to short crude oil was a first instinct. I'm absolutely convinced I'm right. If there ever was an immaculate case of preparation colliding with opportunity, that's it." He smiled and raised his glass in the direction of Kerri. "Will you join me in a toast to five dollar crude oil?"
Kerri lifted her glass and clinked it against Visconti's. "To five dollar crude," she said, relieved, then took another gulp of her slushy. "How did you explain the loss to your client?" she asked, unaware of the enormous significance of her question.
"Fortunately, I didn't have to. I pulled out all the stops after the crash. I took some enormous risks and was able to recover most of the loss before I had to send a year-end report to the trustees. They didn't miss what they didn't know."
Visconti's explanation was so convincing that Kerri believed his story without question. She had no idea he was lying through his teeth, or that her question had been tantamount to driving a stake through his heart. To that moment, she had correctly assumed his breathtaking plunge into crude oil futures was a desperate attempt to recover the loss his client had sustained in the crash of eighty-seven. "You can't know how happy I am to hear you say that."
"Why?"
"I was wrong. I thought saving face was your motivation."
Visconti glanced at the empty jug. "My goodness. The slushies are gone. Time to make another batch."
"No," Kerri retorted, her head spinning. "That stuff is delicious but it's lethal. I think I'm smashed. I can't even form my words."
"Then they worked."
"What worked?"
"The slushies. They took your mind off what happened to you tonight."
Visconti was right. Kerri had, for a brief wonderful interval, actually forgotten her ordeal. She raised her empty glass and smiled. "Thanks to you."
"We should get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow's a busy day."
Kerri welcomed the suggestion. She climbed from her stool and watched as Visconti placed the glasses and jug in the sink, then turn and reach for her hand.
"May I walk you to your door?" he asked.
A sudden wave of consternation swept over Kerri. All evening she had assumed Visconti would sleep in a separate bedroom. Perhaps her assumption was wrong. She stiffened as she accepted his hand. He led her up the spiral staircase and stopped at the door to the master bedroom. "I'm serving breakfast in the kitchen at nine. Would you like a wake up call?" he asked.
"No thank you," Kerri said, greatly relieved. "I'll be there on time."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow. Just knock if you need anything. I'll be right next door. Sleep well. You're safe now." He kissed Kerri's forehead, then turned and walked to the door to the adjacent bedroom.
Within minutes, Kerri had washed, brushed her teeth and removed all of her clothing. Happy and naked, she climbed into the warm comfortable bed. She reached to turn off the final light, one of the two beautiful, cut glass lamps flanking the bed, then flopped her head onto the fluffiest of the many pillows. Sleep was seconds away.