The Day Trader (6 page)

“Hey, pal.”

Leaning back in his chair, a man appears out of the cubicle beside mine. He has a crew cut and small, intense eyes. “You going to be joining us?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Max Frasier. Good to meet you.”

“Augustus McKnight.”

Max stretches and shakes my hand with a grip like a vise, then stands up and leans over his desk, resting his palms on the four-foot-high partition. “Hey, come here,” he says, motioning to someone I can’t see.

“I’ve got to go,” Seaver announces, giving me a friendly pat on the back. “Slammer will take care of you,” he says, pointing to Max as he hurries away. “See you in the morning, Augustus.”

“Okay.” I nod good-bye to Seaver as Max saunters over to where I’m standing. “Why did Seaver call you Slammer?” I ask.

“I’m ex-military,” Max replies, as though that explains it. “Special forces. I served with the Army Rangers for ten years. Did most of my tour down in Central America.” He rolls up one sleeve and shows me an ugly scar and a tattoo of an angry devil on his upper arm. “Shot up pretty good in Nicaragua back in ’eighty-seven, but it was worth it,” he says. “I love my country.”

Max is short, no more than five-six, but he’s built like a Sherman tank. “Yeah, but why did Seaver call you Slammer?”

Before he can answer, a woman with sandy blond hair sidles up beside me. “Hello, I’m Mary Segal,” she says.

The first thing I notice about Mary is that she’s wearing lots of expensive-looking jewelry. I mean, it’s dripping off her. “I’m Augustus, it’s nice to meet—”

“We call her Sassy around here,” Max interrupts. “We keep her around for her sex appeal. Dresses up the place.”

“Stop it, Slammer.” Mary reaches over and pats the ex-military man on his scrub-brushy head. She’s an inch or two taller than he is. Despite her protest, I can tell she enjoys his teasing. Though not beautiful, she’s still striking and she was probably accustomed to being the center of attention in her younger days.

“And I call this guy Freak Show.” Max laughs loudly as a young man wearing an earring in his left lobe, a ring in his eyebrow, and sagging, baggy jeans appears beside Mary. He has shoulder-length hair dyed a dark purple, and I take an obvious second look. “Freak Show is our rebel without a cause,” Slammer adds with a smirk.

“Daniel Jenkins,” the young man says loudly, clearly pissed off at Max for assigning the nickname. Despite all of the decoration he has a serious demeanor about him.

“Hi, Daniel.”

“Freak Show still has some maturing left to do,” Slammer says arrogantly, “but I’ll teach him what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“Shut up, you—”

“Easy, boys,” Mary says, placing a hand on each man’s chest. “Lord, Augustus will get the idea we don’t get along.” She smiles at me when Daniel stalks off. “When will you be starting, Augustus?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good,” Slammer says gruffly, giving Daniel the finger behind his back. “We can use some new blood around here. We lost two people in our group last week.”

“Lost?”

“They went bankrupt. Lost everything they had,” he explains with a chuckle. “It happens all the time.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Six months,” Slammer replies. “The longest of the three of us. Sassy came in the spring and Freak Show joined a few weeks ago. It’s churn and burn at Bedford, Gus. Seaver has no mercy if you can’t pay your bill. He seems nice and all at first, but he’s a prick about being paid on time. You eat what you kill, and that’s the bottom line.”

Slammer’s rapid-fire voice fades as I move slowly into my cubicle, sit down in the chair, and gaze at the dark computer screens. This is it. Suddenly it’s up to me and me alone to make it happen. No more events I can’t control, like pricing discounts by big competitors, getting in my way. The only thing that matters from here on out is what my scoreboard says at the end of every day. Up or down. And that’s totally up to me. Bedford is everything I hoped it would be, and it already feels like I belong.

CHAPTER 5

The Grand is a pricey steakhouse located on the ground floor of the same office tower that’s home to Bedford & Associates. Dimly lit and tastefully furnished, it has all the extras one would expect of a hangout for movers and shakers or those who want to be. There are always tables—and even waiters—reserved for regulars, magnum bottles of wine and champagne, and a cigar menu fit for Jack Kennedy. The walls are covered by caricatures of national and local celebrities who frequent the place—professional sports team owners, politicians, and prominent venture capitalists who’ve led the area’s technology explosion.

The Grand also has a large bar, even more dimly lit than the restaurant, where people wait for tables or simply their next martini. I’ve read about this place in the
Washington Post
but never had the money to afford the menu. Until today I’ve been a midlevel, old-economy sales assistant with a negative net worth. But now things are different. Now I’m a day trader with a bankroll.

Vincent Carlucci stands with his back to the Grand’s dark wood bar, nursing his standard gin and tonic. Dressed in a blue warm-up suit and white Reeboks, a thin gold chain hanging from his neck, Vincent looks out of place in the middle of the business suits all around him. There’s disdain for him in the expressions of some as they glance his way, but he doesn’t care. We’ve been friends for a long time and so I know he’s never cared what others think. It’s a trait I’ve always admired.

A wide grin lights up his broad, olive-skinned face when he sees me. “You’re looking good, pal,” he says as we shake hands. “As always.”

“Thanks.” Years ago Vincent and I were teammates on our high school football team. After we won the state championship our senior year, he went to the University of Virginia on a full scholarship and played pro ball for two years, while I rode the Roanoke bench and then went to work for Russell in paper sales. But Vincent always stayed in touch with me and visited whenever he could. When he moved from New York City to D.C. five years ago, we started getting together regularly. “You look good too.”

“Hey, Joe.” Vincent motions to the nearest bartender, who interrupts the order he’s about to take from another guy. It’s after seven and the place is packed with people trying to get a drink, but Vincent is served right away. It’s always been easy for him to get attention. “My buddy needs a scotch and water.”

After so many years, Vincent knows that scotch is my drink of choice, and a moment later I’m holding a glass of Dewar’s.

“Good to see you, Augustus,” he says, gently tapping his glass against mine. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.”

“This place turned out to be really convenient.” Vincent called me at home yesterday to arrange dinner this evening. “And it was time for me to start getting out again,” I add softly.

His expression turns somber. “I’m sorry about Melanie.”

“Thanks, and thanks again for coming to her memorial service. I needed you there.”

“Sure.” He takes a sip from his nearly empty glass of gin. “Are you holding up okay?”

“Some days are better than others.” I take a couple of large gulps to catch up. God, the scotch tastes good. I can feel it relaxing me immediately. “I’m doing all right for the most part, but it’s been tough.”

“Sure it has.” He shakes his head sadly. “Melanie was a wonderful woman.”

“Yes, she was. I miss her.” I want to tell Vincent how Melanie asked me for a divorce the night before her murder, and how she let Frank Taylor fondle her as she walked away from me for the last time. But I don’t. Saying those things might make him think I’m bitter, or change his memories of Melanie, and I don’t want that. “She was so beautiful too,” is all I say.

He nods several times. “She was a stunner all right. I always said that if you hadn’t married her first, I would have.”

Vincent has told me that many times, but I don’t buy it. I doubt he’ll ever get married. His wavy jet black hair, gray eyes, boyish grin, and football player’s physique allow him to captivate many women with just a lock of the eyes. He uses his looks relentlessly to get women into bed. I noticed him even trying to pick up Melanie’s coworker after the memorial service, the redhead who showed up without an invitation. Vincent’s told me on several occasions that the thrill of the chase is what makes life worth living for him, and I don’t think any woman will ever be able to change that.

“I just want to get the monster who killed her,” I say grimly.

“Right,” Vincent agrees, elbowing aside a small man to make room for me at the bar. “Any progress in the case?”

“Nothing yet.” Detective Dorsey stopped by the house twice last week. He told me that he and his men were following up on several leads and said he was confident they would solve the case. “A guy named Reggie Dorsey is the lead detective, and he seems capable. He’ll figure out what happened.”

“What do you think Melanie was doing in that part of the city so late at night?” Vincent asks, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. “That’s a pretty rough neighborhood.”

“I don’t know.” I take another large swallow of scotch. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Vincent finishes what’s left in his glass and motions to the bartender that we need another round. “Have you been involved in the investigation?”

“No, I’ve stayed out of it and let the police handle everything.”

“That’s probably best.” I can tell Vincent has more questions, probably about how Melanie and I were doing near the end—Melanie’s father subtly asked me the same thing at the funeral home—but Vincent doesn’t push. “They can’t let the trail get cold. You’ve got to stay on them.”

“I intend to,” I say, finishing my scotch as the bartender hands us two more.

“It’s eerie the way you and Melanie took out those insurance policies on each other just a few months ago,” he says out of nowhere. “And now this.”

I look up and Vincent’s eyes dart away, apparently diverted by a tall brunette across the room. I told him about the million-dollar policies when Melanie first mentioned that she wanted them. I wanted to gauge his reaction to see if he found the whole thing as strange as I did. “I never understood why she did that,” I answer.

“I didn’t either,” Vincent agrees, still focused on the brunette. In the midst of the noisy bar there’s an uncomfortable pause between us. “It was all Melanie’s idea. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yeah.”

He picks the lime up off the rim of his fresh glass and squeezes it into the gin and tonic, then runs it around the rim. “So, now that you’ve only got yourself to support, when are you going to take that plunge into day trading you’ve been talking about for so long?”

I know he asked the question just to be polite and expects the same answer he’s always gotten. “As a matter of fact, I took it today.”

Vincent’s eyes flash back to mine. “Are you serious?”

“Yup.” A smile I can’t repress plays across my face. “The firm is on the ninth floor of this building. It’s called Bedford and Associates.”

“You quit your job of eleven years to be a day trader?” he asks, astonished.

“Yes.” Vincent’s amazement only makes me more proud of my decision. He’s teased me for years about being too risk-averse and it’s satisfying to see newfound respect in his expression. You don’t surprise a friend of more than twenty years very often.

“That’s incredible. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“But don’t you need money to—” He interrupts himself and a dark cloud drifts across his face.

Vincent knows that Melanie and I lived paycheck to paycheck, and he’s assuming I’m going to use the insurance proceeds to fund my day trading adventure. Worse, as he bites his lower lip—the way he always does when he’s uneasy—I sense that down deep he’s worried I might have had a plan.

“A couple of weeks ago I made a bunch of money on a stock market investment,” I explain. “On a company called Unicom. I used some cash Mom left me when she died to buy the shares. In one day I made almost eighty grand on a ten-thousand-dollar investment.” If I had been able to invest the insurance proceeds from Melanie’s policy in Unicom’s IPO, I’d have grossed almost eight million dollars. I couldn’t resist doing that math last night.

“Wow.” His expression brightens. He seems relieved by my explanation.

“You should stop by Bedford sometime,” I suggest. “People are crazy, yelling and shouting all day on the trading floor. It’s capitalism at its—”

“Can you do it again?” he interrupts.

“Do what?”

“Can you keep making money fast like that in the stock market?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a system or something?”

“Yeah,” I say hesitantly, “a system.” So far my “system” consists of one lucky roll of Internet dice, but I’ll never tell Vincent that. Besides, now that I have some money banked I think I can do pretty well. You have to have money to make money in this racket, and I’ve learned a few tricks with all the studying I’ve done.

“How did you figure out all that stock market stuff?” he asks.

Like Russell, Vincent considers the stock markets—numbers in general, really—a mystery. He’s always claimed that it’s because they bore him, but I know the truth. They
terrify
him. I’ve never seen Vincent physically frightened of anything. I’ve seen him take on three men his own size at the same time and crush them—he has a volcanic temper that can explode without warning due in part to the steroids he takes to maintain his muscles. But numbers are a different story. He almost wasn’t accepted into the University of Virginia because his math SAT scores were so low. I tutored him every night for a week before the fourth and last time he took the test, and he finally got a decent score.

“I studied everything I could get my hands on, and I’ve been running a ghost portfolio for the last twelve months,” I explain, swallowing more scotch.

“What do you mean, a ghost portfolio?”

“I gave myself a hundred thousand dollars of Monopoly money to play with, then pretended to buy and sell stocks with it. I would spend hours every night figuring out which stocks to add and which ones to dump.” It’s occurred to me maybe that’s one of the reasons Melanie started working late. “I kept precise records, even charging myself brokerage commissions when I made believe I had bought or sold shares.”