The Day Trader (7 page)

“How’d you do?”

“I quadrupled my money in a year.” The portfolio’s performance was really closer to a three-bagger—I almost tripled its value—but one of the things I’ve learned about the financial world is that everyone exaggerates. Performance inflation is standard operating proedure. If you don’t juice your results, you’re only shortchanging yourself because you better believe everybody else is stretching the truth.

His eyes widen. “Quadrupled? Really?”

“Yup.”

He takes a slow sip of gin, eyes fixed on mine. “And you think you’ll have the same kind of performance with real money.”

“Absolutely. Maybe even better,” I answer confidently. Suddenly I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life and I can tell the scotch is starting to affect me. I’ve always been guilty of gaining confidence by the glass. “I earned almost eight times my money on Unicom, and that was in one day.” Vincent has no idea that I’d tried to win IPO lotteries for six months before finally hitting with Unicom. No idea that it might be six more months before I win another one. That I might
never
win another one. And he wouldn’t get it even if I did take the next hour to explain it all. Sometimes you have to keep things simple for Vincent. “I have you to thank, by the way.”

“For what?”

“You’re the one who got me to seriously consider day trading as a career. I wouldn’t have quit without you pushing me.”

His posture stiffens. “Hey, I don’t want to be blamed if things don’t turn out okay at Bedford.”

“Don’t worry,” I assure him, placing one hand on his shoulder, a little surprised that he remembered the name of the firm right away. His attention to details isn’t usually that good. “It’s the best thing that could happen to me. If I had to go back to my old job now, given everything that’s happened, it would be terrible. Too many memories there. This is good for me right now, even if it doesn’t work out in the long run.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then. Hey, I might even know some people who would invest with you,” he says, lowering his voice. “Maybe you could charge them a fee for managing their money.”

The idea of managing money for other people never occurred to me before, but as I start to think about his suggestion, it seems like a natural. The more money you control, the better your access to transactions. The better your access, the better your odds of success. Suddenly you’re one of those preferred clients the brokerage houses cater to, and people pay big fees if you deliver good returns. “Who are these people?” I ask.

“Friends.”

Since dropping out of professional football nine years ago after a career-ending knee injury, Vincent’s working life has been a mystery to me. At different times he’s claimed to run a sports agency, own an event marketing firm, and provide bodyguard services to celebrities. However, he’s never had a physical office that I know of, and he’s never been specific about the athletes he represented, concerts he promoted, or celebrities he protected. But he’s always had a wad of big bills in his sterling silver money clip, always paid for everything when we’ve gotten together, and always driven a late model sports car.

His pals call him “Vinnie the ticket guy” for his ability to find tickets to any important event in the world—from Wimbledon to the Democratic National Convention—within twenty-four hours. From what he’s told me he charges outrageous prices, but his clientele is wealthy enough not to care.

“Can you be a little more specific about who these people are?”

The brunette Vincent has been checking out has now spied him, and he’s enjoying the attention. “Don’t worry, you’ll meet them,” he says absentmindedly.

I notice that the brunette’s companion, a petite blonde with blue eyes, is smiling at me. My gaze stays on her a moment longer than it should, and suddenly I get the guilts. Like I did this morning when I checked out Anna sitting behind Bedford’s reception desk.

“She’s cute, Augustus.”

“Who is?” I ask, looking away and taking another long guzzle of scotch.

“The blonde over there. I saw her smile at you. You saw it too.”

“I did not,” I say defiantly.

“There’s no reason to feel guilty,” he says, patting me on the back.

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” he says. “I can tell. Look, I’m just trying to help get you back into the swing of things.”

“By picking up women a few weeks after I buried Melanie?”

“Hey, this is a bar. That’s what you’re supposed to do here.”

“At least I wouldn’t try it at a memorial service,” I mutter.

Vincent gives me a strange look. “What do you mean by that?”

“I saw you talking to that redhead in the parking lot after Melanie’s service. You and she were getting pretty chummy.”

“I was comforting her.” He grins. “Who was she anyway?”

“You mean you didn’t get her phone number?”

“Nah, the Carlucci charm failed me. First time in a long time too.”

“You must be losing your touch. Or maybe she just had too much class.”

Vincent shakes his head like the whole thing is a mystery. “Weddings are such good opportunities to get numbers from chicks. All that emotion really gets to them. So I thought Melanie’s thing would be a good place too. Everybody being so sad and . . .” His voice trails off. “Sorry, Augustus. I didn’t mean to make light of what’s happened.”

“It’s all right.” Sometimes Vincent ought to think before he speaks. But that’s just not his style. He’s always been impulsive. “I—”

“Hey, Jack. Over here.” Vincent waves at a young guy wearing a sharp sports jacket and pleated khakis who’s threading his way toward us through the crowd.

Finally the guy makes it to where we’re standing. “Hey, Vinnie. How are you?”

“Good.”

“Thanks for those Oriole tickets you got me the other night. Christ, they were right behind the Birds’ dugout.”

“No problem.” Vincent nods at me. “Jack Trainer, this is a good friend of mine, Augustus McKnight.”

Trainer is an inch or two shy of six feet with light brown hair that falls below his collar in the back. He’s got a slim, tennis player’s body, and his Brooks Brothers clothes fit him perfectly. His shaggy hair seems like a hint of rebellion in his otherwise preppy good looks.

“Jack owns an Internet company that he’s selling to one of the big boys,” Vincent explains loudly over the hum of conversation. “He’s about to cash in on the American dream.”

“Keep it down,” Jack warns. “The deal isn’t done yet. You’ll jinx it.” He turns to me. “What do you do?”

“He’s a day trader,” Vincent answers, stealing my thunder.

“Oh.”

I can tell by Jack’s expression he isn’t impressed by my new career. He probably knows how few people succeed. “What kind of Internet company do you own?” I ask.

Without thanking him, Jack grabs the drink Vincent ordered for him. “It’s an Internet service provider.”

“Which one?”

“PlanetLink.”

Jack can tell I’m impressed. “I just read an article about your company in
Washtech
. It said you had signed up almost a million customers in less than two years. That’s tremendous.”

“Thanks.” Jack gulps the drink down, showing no appreciation for my praise of his company. “How long have you been day trading?”

“Just a few—”

“Augustus made big money on a company called Unicom,” Vincent interrupts.

“Really?” Jack moves a tiny step closer, worried that he might have underestimated me. “Did you get in on their IPO a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

“How the hell did you do that? I have a pretty big account over at Morgan Stanley and I couldn’t pry any shares out of them.”

“I—”

“Jack’s pretty connected in the technology world, Augustus,” Vincent says. “Not only here in northern Virginia, but out in California as well. Silicon Alley in Manhattan too. I don’t know much about this technology revolution, but I bet he could help you identify some interesting companies to invest in.”

I’m relieved not to have to answer Jack’s question. He would understand that I’m no mover and shaker if he found out how I got my Unicom shares.

“Couldn’t you, Jack?”

“Maybe.” But Jack doesn’t offer any immediate tips.

“Well, I’m going to chase some tail,” Vincent says. “Be back in a while.” He heads off toward the brunette and the blonde, who have worked their way closer to us through the crowd.

People automatically move aside as Vincent heads toward the brunette. I wonder if he knows more about the technology revolution than he’s letting on. He knew the difference between Silicon Alley and Silicon Valley. Anyone who pays attention would be aware of the difference, but I didn’t think Vincent paid attention to much of anything except women.

“How did you meet Vinnie?” Jack asks.

The blonde glances in my direction as Vincent corners the brunette. “We lived on the same street in Richmond from the time we were in fourth grade,” I answer, watching her watch me. “How do you know him?”

“I met him one night a few months ago at a club downtown,” Jack explains, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing me a business card. “I’ve got a dinner reservation, so I need to get going. Give me a call sometime.” He turns to leave, then hesitates. “So you want a hot tip?”

My attention snaps away from the blonde. “Sure.”

“Buy shares of Teletekk. The company designs and produces next-generation regenerators for fiber-optic networks.”

I raise one eyebrow and nod as if I’m intimately familiar with next-generation whatevers. “Sure.”

Jack leans closer. “The company is based out in the Valley and the CEO is a good friend of mine. He told me confidentially that in the next few weeks Teletekk will announce its first product with applications in the satellite arena. The fiberoptic business has stalled lately, but the satellite stuff is the sizzle. The stock’s trading at around twenty right now, but he thinks the price will triple after the announcement.” He pauses. “But don’t hold it long. Don’t try to ride the pop to the top. Take a quick profit and run. Remember, buy on rumor, sell on fact. You’ll never get better advice.”

I commit the name Teletekk to memory as Jack heads toward the dining room. My new coworkers—Slammer, Mary, Daniel, and Roger—will be impressed if I score big during my first few days at Bedford. The question is, do I share the tip with them, or do I keep it to myself? And how much of my Unicom profits do I risk on Teletekk? After all, I just met Jack Trainer. How do I know if I can trust him?

“Hi, I’m Laura.”

It’s the blonde. “Hi.” I try not to seem interested. Laura’s attractive but I still feel like I’m married. Like Melanie’s watching me from across the room.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Augustus.”

“That’s an interesting name.”

“Mmm.” I notice that Laura seems suddenly distracted by something behind me, so I turn around. And there’s Frank Taylor, Melanie’s old boss, right in front of me. He’s not a small man—six feet and maybe a hundred and ninety pounds—but he’d be no match for me in a fight. I’m sure of that.

Taylor glances at Laura, then back at me, his eyes narrowing as he comes to his mistaken conclusion. “My God, Augustus, you just said good-bye to Melanie forever and here you are, already out chasing women.”

“You’re wrong,” I snap.

“Couldn’t take it, could you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You couldn’t take the thought of Melanie and me together,” he says, “so you killed her.”

“I’m warning you, Taylor.”

“I was tempted to ask to speak to Melanie all those times you picked up the phone on weekends, but I didn’t. I hung up like she asked, but now I wish I hadn’t listened to her. You didn’t deserve her consideration. You didn’t deserve her.”

“Get out of here!” I shout, my anger spiraling out of control.

“You killed her before she could sign her will, didn’t you? Now you get the insurance money instead of her parents. She wanted them to have it.” Taylor glances past me at Laura, whose mouth has fallen open. “Two weeks ago this man killed his wife, then dumped her body in an alley downtown,” he says to her. “You sure you want to get involved with him? You never know, he might do the same thing to you.”

The room turns crimson as my fist splits Taylor’s upper lip and smashes his nose. But before I can hoist him up to hit him again, I’m wrestled to the floor by two huge men. All I hear are people shouting and screaming, then I’m lifted to my feet roughly, my left wrist wrenched up my back almost to my neck, sending searing pain through my shoulder. The two men hustle me past astonished patrons and into the building’s lobby, then out the front door and into the summer heat.

“Don’t ever come back here!” one of them yells as they hurl me down on the pavement. They stand guard at the door until I’ve made it back to my feet and staggered away toward the parking garage connected to the building.

The cashier eyes me from inside her glass-enclosed booth like I’m O.J. as I slip around the end of the flimsy yellow-and-black-striped gate. I head toward the stairs in a far corner of the building and walk to the third floor, where I parked my Toyota. As I make it up the last flight of steps and come through the door, I spot my heap at the other end of the garage.

I’m halfway to it when I hear the screech of tires and the whine of an engine. I stop and instinctively turn toward the noise. Racing around a pillar close to where I came out of the stairway door is a sleek silver Mercedes with darkly tinted windows. As I watch in disbelief, the car fishtails around the pillar, straightens out, then swerves so it’s coming directly at me.

The alcohol has made me light-headed and unsteady, and the parked vehicles I sprint toward don’t seem to get any closer. I hear the Mercedes’s high-performance engine growing louder as the car quickly closes the gap. There isn’t much time.

I put my head down, sprint the last few yards, and hurl myself desperately at the first vehicle in line—a huge Suburban—sliding across its dark blue metal hood and tumbling onto the cement floor between it and the next vehicle in line, jamming one wrist as I hold out my arms and try to cushion my fall. A split second later the silver Mercedes roars past, grazing the Suburban’s front bumper.