The Last Trade (18 page)

12

Philadelphia

T
he cabbie takes Havens as far as Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard.

“You won't take me to Springfield Avenue and Tenth?”

The cabbie looks at his surroundings, which have quickly deteriorated since they got off I-280. “Why not ask me to drive you to downtown Kabul?”

Havens slips five twenties through the Plexiglas barrier and gets out.

“If you're lookin' for rock, I know some place safer. 'Cause the only reason a white man goes to Newark is to get himself high, laid, or killed.”

He walks on crumbled sidewalks past a cinder-block pawnshop, a discount package store, and a gated bodega. Past row houses with tattered couches on front porches. Mounds of black garbage bags piled along the sidewalk, a ghetto mountain range. A pair of African-American boys on knockoff BMX bikes low ride in slow circles around a pretty young girl in a tube top, chirping seduction smack. Men with brown-bagged bottles turn his way, eyes already homing in on the spectacle of a stopped cab in the neighborhood, a white man holding a scrap of paper. It wasn't hard to find an address for Rondell Jameson's brother Charles. Every time he was arrested—all drug-related—it made the papers. Havens stops in front of a project to get his bearings. On a stoop sits an overweight teenage boy and a skinny kid in a throwback Iverson jersey. Havens takes a breath, preparing himself for the runaround or worse, before approaching.

“I'm looking for Charles Jameson.”

The boys look at each other.

Havens checks the address. This is it. “He inside?”

The skinny kid spits. “You're too geeked to be police.”

“I'll pay.”

“If I want your fucking money I'll take it,” says the heavy kid, who's no more than fourteen. The skinny kid gets up and walks away. Havens watches him pull out a cell phone.

“What's he doing?”

“None of your fucking business. If Sir Chuck wants to find you, he will.”

* * *

The drug pusher drives a hybrid.

A brand-new, tricked-out black Cadillac Escalade hybrid. Gold rims. Blackened side windows.
SIR CHUCK
vanity license, just in case you didn't know.

The back door swings open, classical music wafts onto the sidewalk, and a hand emerges and motions. Get in.

Havens closes the door and nods at the man who is presumably Sir Chuck. He cocks his head as he focuses on the music, then says, “Bach.”

Sir Chuck nods. “Nobody touches him. You a fan?”

“I like classical music. The notes make sense to me like math. And I'm good with numbers. This is what, Brandenburg Concerto Number Three, G major?”

The driver pulls back onto Springfield. Sir Chuck lifts his red Phillies cap off his shaved black head and smiles. “You know what, Mr. . . .”

“Havens.”

“I have no idea what concerto this is. I just like the man's music. Bach by day, to soothe the soul. Hard-core Philly rap by night, to take control. Beanie Sigel. Gillie Da Kid. Now tell me, what the fuck you doing walking on my street?”

Havens takes a breath. “I work for a hedge fund. Your brother's name came up on an account that has some issues. When he died, I saw your name as next of kin.”

“Junkies have no kin. That boy died a long time ago.”

“How do you think his name ended up on that account? Somehow I doubt Rondell was moving millions in tech stock.”

Sir Chuck laughs.

“Because I'm a numbers guy, Chuck, I did some research and see that you dabble in insurance and finance. I imagine selling the occasional policy to the locals here.”

“It's legit. You got thirty seconds to say your piece.”

“The short version is someone is using the identities of people like Rondell to open trading accounts and make stock trades in exchanges around the world. Hong Kong. Johannesburg. Dubai. Then, after the trade is executed, they're killing the people who made them.”

“What the fuck do I care about money people on the other side of the planet?”

Havens nods. “Probably about as much as me. But the people who are killing the money people, they also killed my friend the other day, they killed your brother, and I'm pretty sure they're gonna kill you.”

Sir Chuck tilts his cap back on his head.

“Rondell was easy. The trading account with his name and vitals was directly linked to transactions where at least one broker has been killed. But you, I just did a bit of quantitative reasoning and it added up.”

“We're done here.”

“What did they give you for the info on the skells? Five hundred? A grand? Was it enough to sell what was left of your brother's soul?”

Chuck's eyes flare. He reaches into his jacket and wraps his fingers around a Glock. Havens takes a chance. “How much did Laslow give you? How many names did the bald man get? I hope it was a shitload, Chuck, because he used it to lay down a number with eight zeros and counting. How does that make you feel?”

Chuck stares at Havens but doesn't reply.

“You think he's gonna let a loose end like you dangle when he's got a billion on the line?”

“Don't know about any accounts. Don't know about some bald white fucker.”

“Who said he was white?”

“I don't owe no one . . .”

“Actually, Chuck, you do. Because if I didn't happen to come here today and give you a solid heads-up, you probably would not be here tomorrow. You're a money guy. That's worth something.”

“So what do you want?”

“Confirmation. The bald guy, Laslow, right?”

The Escalade stops at a light. Chuck nods, looks at the world outside through dark tinted glass while twisting a diamond ring on his left forefinger. “What makes them sure enough to bet a billion on something?”

“They've figured out a way to game the market, to create an event that will change everything in their favor.”

“For instance?”

“Say you want to fix the World Series for your Phillies. You have Howard, Utley, Lee, and Halladay in your pocket, then you bet big on a Philly win. You've created an event that changes the odds in your favor. But, to be sure, you do something to the Yanks. Like you make sure Sabathia isn't able to pitch, or buy him, too.”

Chuck tilts his head. “So you're talking terrorism?”

“Exactly. These guys aren't gangsters; they're financial terrorists, with global connections.”

“And you're gonna stop them?”

Havens meets Chuck's eyes. “I've lost a child. My wife. My job. My friend. So, you know, why not?”

Chuck takes a breath. “They came down from New York. Bald guy. White guy.”

“Laslow?”

“Laslow. Owns a club there. Found me through another financial wizard who thinks he's king of the world until he needs to scratch an itch at three
A.M.
No different from Rondell. For some time I was providing product in bulk to him. Your bald man. For his club. His clients, he called them. ‘Clients,' like they're any fucking different from any junkie walking these streets. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with two monster-ass motherfuckers who spoke no English. The last time was with the tall guy. I thought it was Russian and said as much. But your man Laslow took that as some sort of fucking offense. Said, ‘Not Russian. Georgian.' Georgian.”

“When did he ask for the info on the identities?”

“Month, six weeks ago. Fucking liar said it was for a phone scam.”

“And you won't tell me the other names?”

“Said he'd kill me if I did.”

“Like I said. He's gonna anyway. Probably a lot of others if you don't.”

“So,” Chuck says after a while, “you lose all that, and you still care?”

“You can dwell on what you lose. What's been taken. Or, you know, what's still there.”

“I hear you.” Chuck closes his eyes as the last notes of the concerto play out. “This may be my favorite. You know the name of this tune?”

“I do. Orchestral Suite Number Three, in D major.”

“D major.” Chuck whispers it. The car pulls back to where they started. Chuck turns to Havens and says, “Before he left, before I gave him the names I'm about to give you, you know what Laslow says? He says he'll only need one or two of them, because after this Friday, it's gonna be all over.”

13

Rio de Janeiro

K
leber Valverde would be willing to bet everything he owns that the name of the client on the other end of the line is not Rondell Jameson.

But if the U.S. trading account out of Philadelphia is clean and the security profile checks out, he could care less. This amount of money does not move through Trek Investimentos often, and never for one of his clients.

He drinks from a paper cup of warm black
café
and taps a soon-to-be-smoked cigarette on his desk as he listens to the specific instructions. The client wants short positions on three of the world's largest advertising holding companies, which cumulatively account for more than 75 percent of all the major agencies in the world, and more than 80 percent of total advertising-based revenue. An industry that spent more than $700 billion last year alone, selling soap, beer, and boner pills, Valverde marvels.

As he processes the information, he wonders what this guy, or at least the guy he's representing, knows to be able to so confidently foretell the death of advertising.

Some new kind of technology or medium? Perhaps a new digital ad model, or an entirely new medium, or entertainment channel. Whatever, he thinks, as he starts activating the first of many waves of shorts. That's for the analysts to figure out.

Under normal circumstances he'd run this by a VP, or at least discuss the novelty and magnitude of it with one of his fellow brokers. But last month his boss was canned along with three of his best friends in a salary purge to make the firm look more attractive for what has become a seemingly inevitable takeover by the Swiss at UBS. All they're waiting on, according to hallway rumor, is the final approval of the Central Bank of Brazil.

Long-term this does not portend good things for Kleber Valverde, but short-term it's fortuitous, because in recent weeks no one at Trek has been paying attention to anything except saving their own ass. The workplace chaos means that he can process “Rondell Jameson's” odd, numerous, and substantial transactions and make a decent pile of cash without attracting the notice of management.

By lunchtime he's programmed the transactions to the point that they are executing themselves, rolling out in small, digitally traded bunches. A hundred. A thousand. Five thousand. Ten thousand and counting.

He looks out the fourth-floor window, oblivious after all these years to the iconic image of Sugarloaf rising like a fist into the sun-blasted azure sky from the darker blue waters of Guanabara Bay.

One of the runners brings his lunch to his desk. Cozido, a stew of potatoes, carrots, and a sliced mango. He tips the young man ten reals, more than twice the usual, and thanks him. Once an entry-level runner himself, Valverde knows that the size of the tip doled out is one of the most accurate ways to judge the kind of day a trader is having. And a group of young runners with a pocket full of reals is a more reliable economic indicator than the jobless numbers or the level of the Bovespa. The boy gives him a thumbs-up with his right hand as he pockets the note with his left.

The transactions continue to process. Ten thousand. Fifteen thousand. He had planned on setting aside two hours this afternoon to contact existing high-end clients and cold-call leads, but he's transfixed by the accumulation of numbers, the promise of commission. For every short position, he has to find someone to make the market, to counter with a long. And today this is proving easy. Apparently more people are willing to bet on the life of advertising than on its death.

Elsewhere in Brazil the numbers are also good today. The Bovespa in Sao Paolo is up .09, and his hometown exchange, the Bolsa de Valores de Rio de Janeiro, is also up, .05. For this, Valverde thinks, you can thank the coming Olympics and World Cup, a mildly recovering U.S. economy, some good trade news out of Brazil's largest partner, China, and a surge in the prices of Brazilian billionaire Eike Batista's OGX oil conglomerate.

When he first graduated from Universidad Federal, Valverde wanted to be the next Batista. Now, so many recessions and crashes and recoveries later, he's happy to have a paycheck, a house near the beach in the Botafogo district, and his beloved red 2010 Moto Guzzi Griso 1200, a picture of which sits on his desk beside a picture of his wife and two daughters.

Out of curiosity he checks the up-to-the-second trading status of three of the top advertising holding companies. Nothing dying there. In fact, they're each up on the session, more than 2 percent.

When it's apparent that the automatic program has matters in hand, he gathers his belongings and heads for the elevator. It's only 2
P.M.,
but Valverde doesn't care. It's beautiful outside. His bike is waiting and he's had a good day. Why not?

He rises out of the underground garage and lifts his head toward the brilliant sun hanging over the palaces of Avenue Rio Branca. Rather than turn for home, he decides to get out on the bike for a bit and heads toward Avenue Beira Mar. At a stoplight next to the Biblioteca Nacional he takes his cell phone out of his pants pocket and calls his wife to tell her he'll be home early, and to put on a nice outfit, because he'd like to take her to dinner. Three years ago they dined out three, four nights a week. When the economy went bad, they cut back to once a week, and when the takeover rumors began to swirl, they cut back entirely.

“Are you sure?” asks his wife, Celina.

“Absolutely,” he answers. “It's been a good day.”

When he reaches Beira Mar, he opens up the throttle and takes an exaggerated breath of the sea air that has been a part of so many memories in his thirty-four-year life. He drives along the crescent rim of the bay until traffic begins to build. At Praca Paris he angles to his right, away from the water, and loops back toward the Catedral de São Sebãstiao and one of his favorite landmarks in the city.

The Lapa Arches, also known as the Carioca Aqueduct, was built in the early eighteenth century. They span 270 meters and the forty-two soaring arches connect the hills of the Santa Teresa and Santo Antonio neighborhoods. They rise into view, ancient and spectacular in the afternoon sun. He gets off the bike in the shade of one of the lower arches and unwraps a piece of mango leftover from lunch. When he was a child, his father would take him here and tell him about the swamps that surrounded the old city and of a great-great-grandfather who worked on the aqueduct, which brought fresh water from the Carioca into neighborhoods and fountains throughout the city. He thinks about the old city and his father and the fathers that preceded him as he eats the fruit alone beneath the great structure.

While he is wiping the mango juice off his hands, a late 1990s model white Peugeot minivan pulls up in front of him and the driver rolls down his window. Valverde approaches the Peugeot, still wiping and smiling. “Are you lost?”

“No,” answers the driver, a man around the same age as Valverde, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “I was just looking at the aqueduct. How old?”

“Almost three hundred,” Valverde answers. “Still here, while all this twenty-first-century modernity crumbles all around us.”

The driver considers Valverde and the two arches directly overhead, and he smiles. “This is the truth, my friend. Today, nothing lasts as it was promised to us.”

Valverde nods, says, “Good luck,” and takes one last look at the aqueduct before turning back toward his motorcycle. As his fingers touch the handlebars and he is about to swing his right leg over the seat, he's distracted by the roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel. He turns, sees the van bearing down on him, and lunges away from the motorcycle. The van's right bumper hits the bike first and then the left clips Valverde in the hip. He's lifted into the air and smashes into the concrete abutment more than ten feet away. The driver shifts into reverse, points the vehicle back toward Valverde, and races forward. Valverde hears the van shift gears and start to bear down on him, but he cannot stand to run or turn to see it. He begins to crawl toward the abutment through the dust and gravel with his arms only, dragging his shattered hips and slack legs.

The driver stops short of the abutment. Valverde is halfway around the corner, bleeding from the legs and now his mouth. The driver slams his hand on the dashboard. This is not how it was supposed to happen. He grabs a meter-long length of steel pipe and opens the door. Valverde looks up and sees a dark silhouette surrounded by powerful sunshine. The driver looks at Valverde and wonders if he needs to do more. Probably not, but probably is not acceptable. He turns to make sure no one is there to see him raise the pipe.

Valverde is already dead before it crashes down on him.