The Day Trader (11 page)

“So you’ve been at Bedford now for a few months,” I say, trying to distract her. The melancholy look in her eyes tells me that she’s dwelling on Jacob’s death, and I’ve had enough of death. “How’s the trading going?”

She grimaces. “Not very well. It’s not as easy to make money in the stock market as I thought it would be.”

It’s exactly as all of the magazines warn. Most people who get into the day trading game lose. “What do you mean, not very well? How bad has it been?”

She sighs. “In four months I’ve lost a million dollars.”

A million dollars. I’m only just beginning to understand what it might be like to
have
a million dollars, let alone to
lose
it.

“Pretty sad, huh?” Mary picks up the second glass of wine the waiter placed on our table a few moments ago. “But I’ve still got plenty left, and things will turn around,” she says optimistically. “Fortunately I’ve got the capital to ride out this bad streak.”

She sounds like an amateur gambler who naively believes that if she can just stay at the table long enough, the odds will turn in her favor and she’ll win back everything she’s lost. Which is exactly what the casino wants her to believe.

“Jacob taught me all about riding out downturns,” she continues. “He lost almost everything he had in the late eighties when the Washington real estate market crashed. But he had staying power and when the market came back in the mid-nineties, he made tens of millions. The same thing will happen to me,” she predicts confidently. “He tells me all the time not to worry.”

I notice her use of the present tense, but say nothing. I’m not going to be drawn into a discussion about being able to contact loved ones on the other side. “Did you have any experience analyzing stocks before you came to Bedford?” I’m still amazed at the size and speed of her losses.

“No.”

“What kinds of stocks have you bought?”

“Mostly high-tech companies.”

“But how did you—”

“I invested a lot of my money in a company named MicroPlan right at its peak,” she explains, anticipating my question. “This past April. I’m sure you heard about what happened there.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That was a tough lesson.”

“I’ll bet.”

Several months ago MicroPlan was a white-hot northern Virginia–based data-mining software company whose arrogant twenty-something CEO had become a national celebrity thanks to his multibillion-dollar net worth and his penchant for throwing outrageous jet-set parties. The stock rose to over three hundred dollars a share with all of Wall Street shouting that even at such a stratospheric price the company’s shares were still a bargain. MicroPlan’s software enabled large and small companies alike to effectively scour their networks for data concerning customers and suppliers, making them incredibly efficient like no other software could. Everyone would buy the product, the Street argued, because if they didn’t, they’d be at a severe competitive disadvantage. In a few years MicroPlan would be as important as Microsoft, so investors needed to get in now if they expected to reap the huge returns later on.

But in late April the story broke that the company had overstated revenue for the previous year, and in the blink of an eye the net income printed in MicroPlan’s glossy annual report turned into a huge loss after the accounting storm troopers sent in by the regulators crashed the corporate offices and revved up their calculators. Worse, customers began to complain to the press that the software wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. That there were bugs. Within two weeks the share price had tumbled below ten and the brash, wunderkind CEO was under investigation for fraud.

“I read tons of reports written by people who were supposed to be experts,” Mary fumes. “Wall Street analysts who, in the end, didn’t understand the company any better than I did. Snakes,” she mutters.

I happened to see MicroPlan’s price this morning. It was trading at five dollars and fifty cents a share. A bloodbath for most investors. “Where did you get in?”

“Almost right at the top. At three hundred and nineteen dollars a share,” she answers grimly. “Before I could react, the stock had dropped to a hundred and fifty.”

“You should have ditched then,” I say automatically, quoting what I’ve read in all of the financial textbooks.

“Of course I should have,” Mary snaps. “But hindsight is always twenty-twenty. At that point I’d lost close to half a million dollars, and people on the trading floor were saying that it was a great buying opportunity. That the market was just overreacting to bad news like it always does. Max told me I’d be crazy to get out at that point. So I bought more shares to average down the cost of my position. That’s the last time I’ll ever listen to him,” she says bitterly. “And if I had ditched the stock at that point and the price had gone back up, I’d have felt like a fool. Though not as big of one as I feel like now.”

I lean forward over the table. “Teletekk,” I whisper.

“Here you are,” the waiter announces, placing Mary’s salad and my club sandwich down on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

I flinch at the sound of his voice. I had no idea he was there. I don’t want anyone hearing me give Mary this tip. Regulations regarding insider trading are ridiculously strict. From what I understand the authorities can come after you even if you don’t know the information you’re giving someone else is privileged. The laws are too severe, but brutally enforced, so it’s best to be careful.

“I’m fine,” I answer quickly. “Do you need anything else, Mary?”

“No.”

The waiter darts off.

“So what’s Teletekk?” she asks loudly.

I grin nervously, looking around to see who might have heard her. “I think we ought to keep our voices down. You never know who’s listening, and I’d hate for this information to get out and the price shoot up before you’ve had a chance to take advantage of it.”

“Right,” she agrees, pushing her salad to one side and leaning over the table. “So what’s Teletekk?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

“It’s a company that makes advanced telecommunications equipment. Cutting-edge laser stuff. I bought a thousand shares this morning. It’s trading around twenty-one bucks right now, but I think it’ll run to sixty very soon. The company is about to announce an initiative into the satellite arena.”

The market is so damn fickle. I finally bought a thousand shares of Teletekk this morning at $21.25, right after Reggie left. By the time Mary and I headed out for lunch the price had dropped to $19.75. So I lost fifteen hundred dollars in a little over an hour. But you have to be able to take the good with the bad in this game, or you’ll end up like Slammer—on the brink.

It’s crazy. I risked twenty-one grand on a thirty-second recommendation from a guy I’d never met before on a company I knew very little about. All because Trainer
seemed
credible. Suddenly I can’t wait to get back to my cubicle to see how the stock is doing, and here is the sinister nature of the business. Sooner or later it consumes you. Sooner or later you become addicted to your computer screen—you might as well be chained to it—constantly checking and rechecking prices of stocks you’ve bought.

“How do you know all of this?” Mary asks.

I don’t answer.

“What’s wrong?” she wants to know, searching my expression.

I gaze at her without answering. Now I’m recommending Teletekk to this poor woman, and I wonder if I’m doing so because I’m trying to help her, or because I’m just trying to convince myself that I’ve made a good move buying it. “Nothing. Look, maybe you shouldn’t—”

“How much money are you playing with?” she interrupts.

“What do you mean?”

“I heard a rumor on the floor that you’re a real player. That your roll is well over seven figures.”

“Roll” is short for bankroll on the trading floor. “Well, I . . .” My voice trails off. After the insurance money comes in I’ll have over a million, but
well over
sounds much better, and I like the fact that she seems impressed.

“Is that true?” she asks. “Are you really trading with that much?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, picking up my sandwich. Hoping she doesn’t ask how I got the money.

She smiles at me. “You know, I thought it would be that way with most of the men at Bedford when I started, but it really isn’t. Most of the guys are spinning less than fifty thousand.” She leans forward. “Not like you.”

I like the way she’s looking at me. Like I’m powerful because of my brain and my bank account. I can’t recall a woman ever doing that.

“Tell me about yourself, Augustus,” Mary says, moving the salad back in front of her and picking up her fork. “Are you married?”

“No,” I answer cautiously, uneasy about the sudden turn in the conversation.

“Ever been married?” she asks.

I hesitate. “No.”

“Oh.”

Mary turns strangely quiet, and though I try hard to nudge her into conversation on several different topics, she won’t engage. As she picks at her salad, she gives only abbreviated answers to my questions and refuses to look up.

“What’s wrong?” I finally ask.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.” She’s almost finished her second glass of wine so I ought to be able to get her to talk. “Tell me.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

I almost choke on a bite of my sandwich. “What are you talking about?” I manage, swallowing a big gulp of Coke to wash down the food.

“You said you’d never been married, but I know that’s not true.”

“Huh?”

“I know you were married to that poor woman the police found murdered near the Capitol a few weeks ago.”

I stare at Mary, an eerie feeling crawling up my spine, and Reggie’s admission about someone anonymously providing him information echoing in my ears.

“How did you find out about my wife?”

“Max did a search on the Internet and you showed up as the woman’s husband in a bunch of articles.”

My shoulders sag. Of course. Information is so easy to come by these days. “You’re right, I should have told you,” I agree. “It’s just that Melanie’s death is still so recent. I guess I’m doing my best not to think about it. I miss her very much,” I say, my gaze dropping to the table. I feel Mary’s warm fingers on mine. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I shouldn’t have asked a question I already knew the answer to. That wasn’t fair. It’s just that I want you to trust me. I’ll be here if you ever need someone to talk to.” She hesitates. “I realize that’s a forward thing to say, but I was attracted to you the moment I saw you. I told you, I’m a very intuitive person.” She smiles. “It’s almost as if I knew you before you came to Bedford.”

I stare at her, wondering what that means.

Her smiles grows wider. “I just know we’re going to be great friends.”

CHAPTER 8

Vincent is standing in Bedford’s lobby when Mary and I get back from lunch, and he’s exactly where I’d expect him to be. Leaning way over Anna’s reception desk, making time.

He smiles broadly when he sees me, as he always does. “Hi, Augustus.” He’s dressed in his typical loose-fitting warm-up suit, Reeboks, and gold chain. He must buy a pair of those Reeboks every week because they always look brand-new.

“Hello, Vincent.”

I introduce Vincent and Mary, then she excuses herself with a parting smile. “What are you doing here?” I ask, watching her move through the swinging doors and disappear into the trading room. In the time it took us to have lunch, she has intrigued me, I have to admit.

“I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d stop by, champ,” Vincent replies, chuckling. “I wanted to see if you’d been back to the Grand to kick anybody else’s ass.”

Anna glances up from her desk.

“Why don’t you come inside?” I ask quickly.

“Let’s go for a walk instead,” he says, gesturing toward the glass door.

Vincent wants something. I can always tell by the tone of his voice. “Let me check out something on my computer first.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for you out here.” He smiles at Anna. “The scenery is so nice.”

I jog down the aisle to my cubicle, eyeing Slammer’s briefcase sitting in its customary position on his desk beside his computer. As usual, he’s banging away on his keyboard, complaining about something to someone out there in cyberspace.

Mary smiles at me from her chair when I go into my cubicle, and I give her a quick return smile as I sit down and tap out my password to unlock my computer and access everything behind the colorful picture of a Yosemite waterfall I’ve chosen as my screen saver.

I’m quickly through to my portfolio page. I’ve bought only ten stocks after a week at Bedford, and I don’t intend to sell them anytime soon. In the week it’s taken me to execute ten trades, Slammer and Daniel have bought and sold thousands of times. I’ll be doing the same thing, but I’m being cautious for now. According to everything I’ve heard, the kind of churn and burn strategy Slammer and Daniel employ can consume a lot of cash in a hurry if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Sometimes, even if you do.

I scan down the page and curse under my breath at the latest Teletekk quote. Since I left for lunch the damn thing has fallen two more points to $17.75. In a few hours I’ve lost almost thirty-five hundred dollars on this dog. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and Jack Trainer is a no-good son of a bitch.

Mary slinks into my cubicle. “I did what you told me,” she says.

“Did what?”

“I bought Teletekk,” she whispers, kneeling down and squeezing my hand.

“How much did you buy?”

“You said it was going to go to sixty. I didn’t want to make the same mistake I made with MicroPlan by putting too much into one stock, but I didn’t want to miss out on a sure thing either.”

“How much?” I repeat impatiently.

“Fifty-five hundred shares.”

“Jesus, that’s almost a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.” I roll my eyes until my gaze meets Daniel’s. He’s standing up behind his desk, staring down at me. His eyes move slowly to Mary’s hand in mine, then back up as he toys with the ring protruding from his eyebrow. “That’s a lot of money,” I say after he sits down.

“I trust you, Augustus,” she says anxiously. “You wouldn’t give me bad advice.”