Boston is known for managing money, but its approach is staid, strait-laced, perhaps a little uptight, eschewing high-profile public relations. All I had to show for two years as president and chief idea man of my own PR agency — principal (and only) office on Federal Street — were eight small accounts, barely enough to cover expenses and keep me alive. Still, one never can tell. As does everyone, I had my hopes of making it big.

This spring morning, my hopes were boundless. In the first mail, there was a nice-sized check and only two bills. Nancy, my perky (not to mention curvy) receptionist and secretary, looked so good I was having trouble staying in my office. To top all this off, I expected a call from the marketing director of a midsize local corporation. If all went right, I would have a new account.

With a rosy view already in place, I was pleasantly surprised when Nancy’s pretty face appeared at the edge of my half-open office door. She whispered, “Pete, ditch the sports page and put your feet down. I think you’ve got a new client out here.”

“Fine, send him in. No, wait. Who is he?”

She slipped into the office and closed the door behind her. “He says his name is Ludwig Duval. He wants to talk to you about publicity for his investment advisory service.”

“Gee… I don’t know much about…”

She put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Oh, yes you do.”

“Oh, yeah, right, I do, now that you mention it. Still, that’s not my….”

“Well, he says he has an investment formula — whatever that is — and seems very confident about it. We need the business. You better talk to him before he changes his mind.”

“Give me a minute to straighten up in here and then send him in.”

“Will do. By the way, he has a Ph.D.”

A doctorate no less, I thought, as I emptied the ashtray and stuck the bills in my center drawer. I was shuffling some papers to look busy when Nancy reopened the door.

“Dr. Duval, this is Mr. Ritter, our agency president.”

“How do you do, sir?” he said. He may have been an investment expert, but to me, Dr. Duval looked more like a Viennese psychiatrist. He was dressed in a dark brown double-breasted suit, stood about five foot five inches tall, and was about half as wide. When he spoke, his Van Dyke beard moved with a jabbing motion, emphasizing his words. In his left hand, he held a briefcase. In his right, as though he was ready to use it instantly, was a very fancy slide rule. As if sheathing a sword, he tucked it under his arm so he could shake hands.

“Please sit down, Doctor,” I said.

Nancy’s offer of coffee revealed that Dr. Duval preferred his black and unsweetened. After a sip or two, the doctor turned voluble. The caffeine, I guessed. He told me that at age thirty-four, he had just completed postdoctoral work. He went on to expand on his foundational academic work. He had an A.B. in psychology and an M.S. in mathematics. His doctorate combined the two disciplines with economics. All his degrees were from East Coast universities with impeccable academic reputations. His credentials established he addressed the purpose of his visit.

“For some time, Mr. Ritter, I have been interested in integrating certain of the social sciences with mathematics and applying the combination to stock market analysis.”

I nodded.

“For several years,” he said, lowering his voice, “and under elaborate precautions, for secrecy, I have collected data and arrayed it using calculations of my own derivation.”

I nodded. Then, thinking that wasn’t sufficient, I said, “That’s very interesting, Doctor.”

“My efforts have led me to a formula which I use in conjunction with certain economic indicators and stock market-activity metrics. The formula’s results have proven quite reliable and show a remarkable degree of a priori correlation with the price movements of individual shares.”

“I see. How does it work?”

“Naturally, Mr. Ritter, I don’t wish to share details, but I can say that I can now offer a very valuable service to investors.” He held up his briefcase. “I have here a sample of my work. Specific stocks the price advances of which the formula predicted, including the charts depicting market confirmation.”

“You have made money, I take it, with your formula?”

He jumped to his feet. “I’ve made a killing.” He stabbed the air with his slide rule. Then he coughed, resumed his seat, picked up his coffee cup but put it down, apparently deciding that he’d had enough caffeine.

“I see. You can predict the stock market, then?”

“Well, as I say, the formula has proven itself quite reliable in forecasting individual share price movements.

“That brings us to why I am here. I have always felt that Boston is the locus-of-points when it comes to smart eastern money so naturally, this is the place my work will be most appreciated. I want to open an office, offer an investment advisory service, and get the word out. I need a publicist. You are, I believe, familiar with what this entails?”

“Of course.” I felt this was accurate, although despite working in Boston the only thing I knew about investing was a tip I had gotten recently from my barber. He had been quite enthusiastic, too, telling me it was a sure double, a likely triple and maybe even a home run! Interesting use of metaphor, I thought at the time.

The doctor went on. He briefed me on the Dow, price-to-earnings ratios (which he also referred to as “multiples”), compound growth rates, and several economic indicators plus the Dow/gold ratio. I thought the latter a rather helpful concept. We chatted on and by the time he left, I had a new account with a $10,000 budget and a mandate to promote “Dr. Duval’s Investment Advisory Service.”

We agreed that I would not begin the campaign for two weeks, during which time he would rent the suite next to my office and set up his equipment. The doctor proposed that my fee would be based upon how long it took him to become established, which was to say how long it took me to make him a recognized figure in the investment community.

Once I had positioned him, he planned to focus on a private fund specializing in “high flyers.” As soon as he said this, he amended it by saying, “Growth, I mean — accelerated earnings growth.” Apparently that was where the money was to be made. He spoke confidently, and I was impressed with his assurance. He made it all sound like a sure thing.

I devoted a good deal of thought to the initial campaign. I even read a brokerage firm’s pamphlet on investing in the growth of the American economy and started another on how to prepare a point and figure chart. Feeling able to talk cogently about the stock market at that point, I prepared a publicity piece:

Dr. Duval’s Investment Advisory Service

What do you want from an investment advisory service? If a fast play on your money is uppermost in your mind, you’ll want to know what Dr. Ludwig Duval’s high-powered investment formula can do for your stock portfolio. Mail the coupon below to get the latest list of sleeping high-flyers so you won’t miss the moves.

When I showed this to the doctor for his approval, he nixed it right away. I tried again.

What do you want from your investment portfolio? Dr. Duval, through years of exhaustive research at several of the country’s leading academic institutions, has perfected a remarkably reliable mathematical approach to investing in the stock market. His formula enables him to project with the accuracy of scientific rigor the short-term price movements that will boost your returns.

This time I showed it to Nancy first. She thought it sounded professional but wasn’t sure about the last sentence. The doctor seemed to like it but agreed with her and told me to change some of the wording. He was comfortable with the last sentence himself but thought it might not pass muster with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Neither Nancy nor I had heard of the SEC, but the doctor said it was very important to stay right with it.

Things dragged a bit during the summer with only a trickle of subscriptions coming in, hardly enough to pay the office expenses. In September, though, two of his plays (recommendations) went into orbit — outperformed. The number of new subscriptions to the service grew daily.

The doctor increased my fee substantially after I pointed out that his address to the Electronics Securities Analysts’ Society — which I arranged — led to an excellent photograph appearing in a major financial publication. This was quite unusual and a big boost to his reputation.

He was quick to reply that his early forecasts of a monumental price appreciation in the share price of Ferro-Electric hadn’t hurt either. I’m sure it hadn’t. The stock made fifteen successive highs. The doctor was pleased with this. But he seemed puzzled his formula didn’t account for some of the overall market skittishness at the same time. He spent some time tweaking his calculations but didn’t seem concerned. Assuming that he had things figured out, I didn’t worry about it.

The Ferro call did more than enhance the doctor’s reputation. He was becoming a topic of Wall Street chatter. The only thing people wanted from their brokers was what his formula was projecting. An older lady called from Madison, Wisconsin to offer cookies and a shiny new penny, too, if the doctor would tell her what to buy.

The inquiry would be a great PR piece, I thought. I ran it past Nancy, but she seemed hesitant. Over lunch — we were having lunch together several times a week now — she questioned me about it.

“She’s a little old lady, Pete. Should the elderly put their money in the stock market, especially the one where all those small company shares trade — the one they call ‘over the counter?’”

“Most of the stocks that the doctor’s formula identifies trade there, and things are working out fine,” I said.” Anyway, doesn’t everyone like a play on their money, even little old ladies?”

Actually, I thought things were going swimmingly. The doctor’s advice always worked out. To reassure Nancy, who still looked doubtful, I added, “The doctor knows what he’s doing, and he’ll do all right by her.”

“I hope so, Pete.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. To provide reassurance, I held her hand for a minute — maybe it was a little longer. After that, we began to see each other socially. Even so, her uneasiness was increasing. At dinner one evening, she just nudged her potatoes Julienne around her plate with her fork and didn’t even touch her lobster Savannah.

“Out with it, Nan.”

“What do you make of it, Pete? I mean, what do you really think about all of this?”

“All of what?” I said, refreshing our glasses of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin before taking a bite of my Siberian duckling cassoulet.

“You know what I mean. How can someone come from nowhere and make so much money?”

“He went to school, for a long time.”

Nan shrugged. “So do medical doctors, but every so often, one makes a mistake.”

She had a point. I wish she didn’t. We said good night slowly, at her apartment, and I went home. But her question began to nag at me. How did the doctor’s mathematics really work? The doctor had never discussed the adjustments he made in his algorithms. He had always been dedicated to the accuracy of their predictions, however, and he did seem more confident in them the last few weeks.

I didn’t doubt his integrity. He was an honorable guy. While he had talked about opening a fund, so far he wasn’t handling anyone’s money. All he was doing was selling investment advice that worked. Still, everything depended on the formula, and nothing is perfect. I wondered what would happen if it came up wrong one of these days. I plumped the pillow again. Hoping that Nan’s intuition wasn’t on to something, I tried to let the doubt go, but sleep was a long time coming.

In the next several months, the doctor identified just about every stock that went up 10% or more. Subscriptions were flooding in, and my fee was increased again, and very nicely.

I finally had real results. Ritter was becoming a recognized name in PR. There were more accounts now, so I hired several people and put them in an office suite on another floor, to focus on the new business. In less than a year, Nan and I had come a long way.

She had done well by me — and I by her, I reflected as I listened to the clacking of her typewriter just outside my office door. Always pleasant, cooperative and helpful, she really was terrific. Maybe one of these days we would take our relations to the next level. I’d ask…

My thought was pleasantly interrupted as its subject walked through the doorway.

“Yes, Nan?”

“Pete, there’s a man, two men actually, here to see you.”

“Did they say…”

“That’s all right, sister.” He didn’t take off his fedora when he came in or even when, uninvited, he sat down. “Why don’t you go back to your typing while me and Mr. Ritter here have a chat?” He shot the next part back over his shoulder, “Joe, keep the lady company and your eyes on the door.”

I was used to unusual dress in the PR business. but my guest was dressed beyond that. He wore black and white two-tone shoes, black slacks, a black shirt with a white silk tie and green suspenders. The cigar looked expensive but didn’t smell that way.

“Good morning, Mister, ah…?”

“Mr. Julius will do, but my name ain’t important. I just dropped by for some information.”

“Yes, Mr. Julius, of course. What kind of information would be helpful?”

“I’m interested in investments.”

“Well my secretary, outside there can give you a brochure and sign you up for a subscription to Dr. Duval’s investment advisory. Or you can take a form and send it back to us with a check.”

“Maybe I better explain.”

“By all means.”

“Can your secretary hear us?”

“I doubt it, but she’s confidential.”

“Well I’m gonna close the door anyway. You get the picture? What I got to say is just between you an’ me.”

I nodded.

“Good, ‘cause here it is. I represent my… cousin. He’s got a big income and he wants to invest some of it. Naturally he heard about Duval and so I’se made… inquiries, you, uh, know what I mean? Your name came up, Mr. Ritter. We thought maybe you could get the doc to handle some money for him.”

“At this time, the doctor doesn’t actually invest money. He just sells investment advice. I don’t think…”

“You don’t get my drift, Mr. Ritter. My cousin wants to participate in the growth of the American economy and he don’t take no for an answer. He wants a piece of the action. You, uh, know what I mean?”

The picture was getting clearer, fast. “How much money are we talking about?”

“Ten.”

“Well ten thousand dollars doesn’t seem out of the question. I’ll talk to…”

“Uh-uh.” Mr. Julius shook his head. His cigar trailed smoke like an imp. “I meant ten million.”

“Ten million… dollars? We don’t…”

He leaned over the desk and whispered a name.

“I see,” I said.

“We’ll bring it over tomorrow. My… cousin… will come along too, to say hello. You, uh, know what I mean?”

I did now. After they left, I told Nancy I was going out for a while.

“It’s only two o’clock.”

“Never mind that. I need a drink. Maybe you better come with me.”

As I described the interview, Nan first sipped at her drink, but when I got to the part about Mr. S., she downed it. “Don’t you know who he is, Pete?”

“Shhh, not so loud! He’s a big man locally. Very big — you, uh, know what I mean?”

She gave me a funny look and nervously fingered her glass. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to do business with someone like that. Isn’t it dangerous? I mean what if the market goes down and takes the doctor’s recommended stocks with it? What happens if someone like Mr. S. loses money?”

“Uh, it means big trouble for us, know what I mean?”

“Why do you keep saying ‘uh’ and ‘know what I mean?’”

“Nerves. Want another drink?”

“Yes, a double,” Nan said, “on the rocks.”

That was another thing I liked about Nancy. She always made a lot of sense.

Later, when I told him what to expect, the doctor seemed to have the same concerns I heard from Nancy. He shook his head and fingered his slide-rule. “This will never do,” he muttered, “but I’m sure they’ll listen to reason.”

When Mr. S. showed up, it wasn’t that he repeated our carefully worded PR prose, or that he had a certain urbanity his companions lacked that convinced me we should invest his money for him. It was the snub-nosed .38 in his shoulder holster I saw when he leaned over my desk and said quite clearly, “I expect great results from the doctor’s formula, Mr. Ritter.”

What else could I say but, “Uh, sure thing! He’s looking forward to meeting you. He’s going to join us now.”

At the doctor’s appearance, Mr. S. snapped his fingers and a dozen of his associates walked in. All except two carried satchels. The others carried violin cases, marked “Rickey’s, Chicago.”

“I never buy on margin, Doc, and I don’t have a checking account. My operation works on cash. How does your operation work?”

Unfortunately, the question brought out the pedagogue in the doctor. “Its workings can best be explained, sir, in terms of my own special mathematics. In my office, I have a computer connected to the trading floors in New York. Information is fed to my computer and my equations screen for stocks with potential for gains. My formula further analyzes this data, selecting from it shares with excellent prospects for large price moves. It then prints a list of these stocks and the anticipated price changes. All I do is read the printout the computer generates to see what to buy. It’s quite simple, really.”

“You mean, Doc, all the information you need is just printed by the computer?”

“In a word, sir, correct.”

“By reading the printout you know what’s going up, or down?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, just make sure nothin’ goes down, Doc,” he said, slapping him on the back. But his jovial camaraderie was lost on the doctor.

“Naturally we don’t want that to happen.” The doctor tried to chuckle, but it sounded like a chain dragging over a cement floor. “You do understand, however, that there is no guarantee that it won’t.”

“Did you hear that, boys? The Doc’s a great kidder. Ain’t you, Doc? Well, me and the boys gotta go now.”

“But what about all this money?” I said. “We can’t keep it here. We’ll have to be deposited before it can be invested. Can your associates help us carry it to the bank?”

“Sorry, Mr. Ritter, we don’t go near banks these days. No percentage. You handle it any way you want. We’ll be back in a week or two to see how my money’s doin’.”

“Well it’s been very nice to meet you, sir. And don’t worry, we’ll take good care of your funds.” The doctor changed his slide rule to his left hand and extended his right to shake on it.

But Mr. S. only clapped the doctor on the back again and said, “Sure, Doc, take good care of my money. Make sure my stocks don’t go down.” He winked, “You, uh, know what I mean?” He winked again. Mr. Julius guffawed. It looked to me as though the doctor gulped, but he did nod.

He also gave me a questioning look that I’d never seen before. He had never actually invested money for a client. Perhaps that was making him a little edgy about personally delivering good results. On top of that, the markets hadn’t been acting all that well lately, and a well-known analyst, although long out of favor, was predicting a major correction.

Nevertheless, there was nothing for it but to move forward. The doctor tweaked his calculations, made an improvement or two in his equipment and put a chunk of Mr. S.’s money into the market. Maybe he tried a little too hard. The funds went into some really high-multiple stocks.

The market was choppy the day Mr. Julius dropped by to tell us his boss would be visiting in a day or so. This seemed to unsettle the doctor. He put Mr. S.’s remaining funds into T2L1 Semi-Phase. It was a very big position in a very small company with a very, very high multiple on its earnings. The market followed along, but there was a great deal of buzz about it. I had a couple of drinks at lunch, maybe it was three. I couldn’t look Nan in the eye.

The next day the exchanges opened higher on early news, but the major indices had flattened by lunchtime. Around two o’clock, the markets were looking for leadership and decidedly skittish. We hadn’t seen this before, and I was in and out of the doctor’s office to keep abreast of things.

The doctor was incessantly running his fingers through his beard and asking for coffee. At 3:30,, with Mr. Julius and another associate right behind him, Mr. S. arrived. His mood was buoyant.

“Well, Doc,” he said with the customary slap on the back. “Have you doubled my money for me?”

Despite the coffee, the doctor was hesitant. “Um,” he said, “I’ll take a look.” Just as he got to the printer, it stuttered then chattered, almost violently. The printout cascaded onto the floor where it undulated like a snake. The doctor read the first set of figures and worked his way toward the printer. When he got to the newest data, his face was ashen. He said, “My word, I hadn’t anticipated this.”

“Gimme that.” Mr. S. grabbed the sheet and scanned it. “What the hell does this mean?” He shook the printout in the doctor’s face.

“Um well, ah, you see, sir, the entire market is… seems to be… in a reversal — you, uh, know what I mean?”

Mr. S. looked confused; Mr. Julius got it. “Jeez, boss, it’s fallin’ outta bed.”

That added some clarity, but so far Mr. S. still didn’t know that his money had been invested at just about as close to the highs as anyone can get. Holding shares priced at a high multiple in a market undergoing what appeared to be a correction or worse meant big losses. Later, when I reconstructed the scene in my mind, I think Dr. Duval realized this before I did. But there were no flies on Mr. Julius. He put his finger on the crux of the matter by yelling, “Boss, boss, the mothers got you in at the top!”

Mr. S. hadn’t taken his eyes off the printout. As the machine clattered, he followed the lines of figures, standing transfixed, his face reddening like a sunset with each heave of the report.

To the doctor’s credit, he did his best to save the situation. “Perhaps, sir, this would be a good time to either be more liquid or, if you’re not entirely risk-averse, go into some good defensive stocks — utilities, perhaps?”

All he got was a stare.

“Of course, there are treasuries. Or, if you’re decidedly bearish, we can close your current positions and go into cash…”

“It’s goin’… down.”

The doctor hesitated but then captured the sheet and scanned it. “Well, yes, you’re down but only by a million and a half or so. We can work it out with this.” He held up his slide rule. “Fourteen-point-nine percent — well, why not call it fifteen?”

“You… you….”

“Don’t worry, though, there’s still time to put on several good shorts and…”

“You… didn’t see this comin’?”

“Well, I’ve done my best, but formulas aren’t perfect. I’m still working on the…”

“You fuckin’ screwed me.”

The doctor blanched but rallied, “Really, sir, that’s not quite fair now, is it? After all, in this business there are no guarantees.”

Mr. S.’s face was now beet red. “I’ll give you a guarantee, you sonovabitch!” He lunged at the doctor. “I’m gonna… I’m…uhhurgh….” He clawed at his shirt collar with one hand and pawed his chest with the other. His associates had been reaching under their jackets, but as their boss slumped to his knees, they turned their attention to him in an effort to help.

The doctor’s calculation on this must have been put two and two together and the answer was then or never. He bolted for the nearest window. It was stuck, but — and this may have been my imagination — he levered it open with his slide rule, vaulted over the sill to the fire escape, and disappeared.

I didn’t need any arithmetic to figure things out. If Nan and I stuck around, we’d be in deep molasses. I hustled her out the back.

We stopped at the bank to clean out our accounts and then, except to fill the gas tank and grab something to eat from the racks inside, we didn’t stop until we were west of Shreveport. That was a day and a half later. We found a motel, parked the car in back, smeared its plates with mud and hid out for a week.

To be on the safe side, we moved around a bit more and now live in the Midwest. I don’t think it’s a good idea to say exactly where. Nan works as a secretary at the local hospital. I’m a copy editor for a small newspaper. We’re expecting.

I’ve followed the financial news carefully since we left Boston. Nothing was reported about Mr. S. I’m not asking. Dr. Duval’s disappearance caused quite a stir, but that seems to have settled down. The other day, though, in the Kansas City Star, I saw a small notice. It claimed a highly advanced, scientific approach to obtaining results in the stock market.

There are bills. The car needs work. When the baby arrives, we’ll need a bigger apartment. I haven’t had Veuve Cliquot Ponsardin or Siberian duckling cassoulet for a long time. The American economy is still growing. I read the notice once more. It had a familiar ring to it, but there was a no-charge introductory offer, a toll-free number, and, after all, everyone likes a play on their money…