“That is not the point,” Mohan said, gnawing angrily on a breadstick.
“It’s okay,” Vinnie replied. “Assurevent Analytics. A small company.”
Prem could not contain his questions. “What kind of investments? How long does it take? Do your clients also leave their jobs?”
Vinnie answered all of them in the same, amiable way, explaining everything to Prem’s satisfaction. When he was done, he dug into his salad.
“So now we know why you can afford a salad!” Yogesh said too loudly.
Vinnie chuckled. “You want a salad? One more salad plate here!” Vinnie said in the direction of the waiter. “Don’t worry, they don’t charge me for the salad.”
The manager himself came over with the plate and greeted Vinnie as though greeting a visiting dignitary. “Please, have more salad, sir, have as much as you want. Take more croutons, the croutons are the most important part.”
For Prem, the crouton discussion cemented his faith in Vinnie’s abilities. When Yogesh declined the salad plate, Prem asked for it and went up to the salad bar with Vinnie, who was getting more.
“How much do I have to put in?” Prem asked.
“Oh, as much as you want,” Vinnie said.
“What if I just put in a little?” Prem said, “Will that still be okay?”
“I think that could be really good,” Vinnie said, seeming quite enthusiastic.
“And when will I see any return on my investment?” Prem said.
“Investment? I thought we were talking about croutons.” Vinnie looked at Prem carefully from the top of his Exxon jumpsuit to the bottom. “You want to invest?”
Prem began to feel self-conscious about his apparent poverty. “I have some money,” he said resolutely.
“Well, you know, there is some risk,” Vinnie said, dousing his salad with ranch dressing. “You have to be brave. Are you brave?”
“I am ready to be,” Prem said.
To Prem’s consternation, Vinnie still seemed hesitant. “You know, maybe you should think it over. I am here every Thursday for lunch. I come to the area to meet with a major player in the market. You can find me here.”
“But I already know my answer,” Prem said.
“Great, boss. Let’s connect soon,” Vinnie said.
Back at the apartment that evening, Amarleen was hosting a rowdy group of women for a card party. They had taken over the roommates’ mattresses, leaving Prem to sit at the kitchen table with Iqbal, the only other person home, who was fiddling with some extremely tiny tools trying to adjust his glasses, which had been sitting crooked lately. Today’s chance encounter seemed to Prem like an aerogram from God. It was the big idea he had been searching for: the stock market. It couldn’t get any bigger than that. This way of making money was what America was all about. He knew with a prescient kind of certainty that this was the path, but he also did not want to be too hasty.
“Do you know anything about investing?” he asked Iqbal.
“I am thinking of investing in a light-bulb factory,” Iqbal replied without looking up. “Who does not need a light bulb?”
There was a clamor of angry, vanquished voices from the card party when Shanta Bhatt took the pot. Nalini Sen cursed a surprising amount.
“Okay, ya, great, light bulbs,” Prem said. “How about stocks and such?”
“Stocks?” Shanta Bhatt said on her way out the door, her pockets stuffed with cash. “Wonderful. My nephew’s wife’s uncle made thousands.”
“The problem is,” Iqbal mused, “how can I fix my glasses without wearing my glasses?”
“Stock market? Who is thinking about stock market?” Tun-Tun said. “Too much of risk. My brother’s friend’s neighbor lost thousands.”
“Uh, okay,” Prem said. “This is helpful, thanks.” He helped Iqbal fix his glasses. That night, as he stared up at his onions, he gave the matter of investing a great deal more thought.
“I believe in America.” Vinnie sprinkled crushed red pepper liberally on his pizza. He was at Pizza Hut on Thursday as he had said he would be and invited Prem to join him. He was certain he was going to take the leap and invest but couldn’t figure out how to convey this to Vinnie, who was delivering an impassioned speech about the promise of their adopted country. “This is a place where anything is possible. For anyone,” he continued.
“Ya, you said something like that last week,” Prem said.
“Exactly. I don’t care about any Colio Volio,” Vinnie said, referring to Pat Jud Colicchio, the former mayor of Wanaque who opposed housing development because it would attract “all these Dotheads” to the area. “We cannot be scared. We have to show Americans what we are capable of, that we can contribute to the nation’s greatness.” He squirted hot sauce on top of the layer of red pepper and served Prem a slice.
“Ya, that’s good, we should do that,” Prem said.
“So, tell me,” Vinnie plied.
Prem had a moment of hesitation, wondering if he should find a safer option. But time was passing quickly and he had nothing to show for himself. He had to go for it.
“I’m going for it,” Prem declared.
“What telepathy, man! I knew you were going to say that!” Vinnie came around to Prem’s side of the table and shook his hand heartily. “I’ll have my secretary Mary draw up the papers for you to sign and then you can give me the cash you want to invest—”
“I have it here,” Prem said, pulling from his jacket a large envelope full of cash, secured with a rubber band.
Vinnie was surprised but quickly recovered. “I’m going to take good care of this, don’t keep any tension,” he said. “I’m going to have my best associate working on this with me, John, he is my A-one guy. And call me anytime, two-oh-one, triple three, double zero, double one,” he said, jotting the numbers down on a napkin. They agreed to meet again the following Thursday to sign the papers and have a celebratory onion-pepper.
17
