The Warning (20 page)
She gave him an uncertain glance, checked the page, and said dully, “Try one forty-two.”
“Perfect.”
“Hey!” This time without the edge. “You got a name?”
“Indeed I do,” Thad said, moving away.
He found the desk without asking, which was good. He had no intention of talking with anybody. Let them come to him, and in their own good time. He dropped the file, managed to scout the room without seeming to, and spotted the table used as a dumping ground for the financial forecasts and business dailies. He walked over, scooped up a double-handful, and moved back to his desk.
His
desk. Just thinking the words gave him a rush.
Eyes tracked his every move. Totally normal. Anybody new was a threat. Thad opened the first forecast bulletin and scanned the crowd with overt glances. Even without looking directly, Thad could spot all the typical characters. Over there was the girl who brushed her hair continuously and stared at her reflection in the compact mirror taped beside her central screen, as she chattered on two phones. Farther down the aisle was the guy who chewed his way through three combs a day. Next to him was the cigar chomper, not allowed to light up, so he mangled a stogie or two per session. The man who used his tie like a noose, tightening and loosening it in constant jerks. The woman who balanced a tennis racket, or bounced it from knee to knee, pretending she could still run through six sets. The woman who scooted continually back and forth across the aisle on her wheeled office chair. The guy who chanted the news as it flashed along the overhead screen, not even hearing it himself. The pair who compared lies about women and big nights between trades. All the frayed nerves of veteran Street people.
By the time the lunch hour ended and the tension heightened into a full-throated roar, Thad was moving smoothly into the pattern and the patter. He sat like a stone idol before his own bank of screens, tracing the market's movements and listening as the other traders scurried.
He knew he was being inspected; he knew his first move would be watched by four hundred sets of eyes and tracked on screens here and in every other office of Valenti right around the globe. The mystery guy. New to the scene, vetted by Larry Fleiss himself. Not even a hello to the floor manager. Not even a nod to the other traders. The size of his first trade would inform the others of his authority. Thad was determined to make it a whopper. He sat and felt the rusty adrenaline faucets squeak slowly open again.
He perused the file of the last trade by Larry's former top trader and whistled at the size. Almost eight hundred million dollars in yen options spread over a ten-day period. He did not need to check the screens to know the bank took a hit on that one. A big hit. The yen had been dropping steadily, contrary to every pundit the length and breadth of the Street.
He then browsed the financial newsletters and the business dailies. Thad was not looking for answers. If these news sheets contained surefire wins there would be no losers. As it was, the Street was littered with the corpses of traders who had followed sage pundits down to their last bitter nickel. No. Thad was looking for
questions
. Where was the market's attention? What was hot? The biggest action would be focused on the fad of the moment.
Yen. The Japanese currency seemed to be on everybody's mind. Why did it keep falling? Some of the experts claimed it was interest rates, others the Tokyo market, still others the rising U.S. economic forecasts, more still the instability of the Japanese government. Taken together, the sages sounded like a group of New York taxi drivers discussing football.
Thad turned his attention back to the trading file to study the positions the bank had taken more closely. He was still at it when the red light at the top of his phone began blinking. Traditionally, this was the link between every trader and the floor manager or chief trader. Thad grabbed the handset and gave an overloud bark. “Dorsett.”
“Hey, sport, tone it down.” The rasp could belong to only one man. “What looks good?”
“Not a lot. Franc and mark Euros are bouncing all over the chart.”
“Yeah, the market's had a bad case of the heebie-jeebies for weeks. How about the yen, it moving?”
Thad knew the overly casual question was a test, but he was ready; he had watched it ever since reading the file from Larry's former number one and the trade that ended her run. “There's some big money pushing yen all day. In and out. Two big players at least. Could be central bankers on the sly, trying to turn it around.”
“What's your feeling?”
“It's too low,” he said, knowing he was going out on a limb, especially since that was exactly the basis upon which the last fatal trade had been made. “Way too low.”
“Come up with anything yet?”
In four hours? Who was Fleiss kidding? “Working on it.”
“Deadline's been moved up. First thing tomorrow, in my office. Be ready.” Larry hung up.
Thad Dorsett left the Turner Building in the breathless moment between evening and night. No need to stay any longer. He knew what he was going to tell Larry. Hanging around would only tempt him to give in to worries, which was death for a trader. Thad pushed through the outer doors and glanced up. The sun had set, light was fading, and the little strip of sky visible between the buildings was awash in rosy hues.
As he started across the plaza fronting the bank, a voice behind him called, “Mr. Dorsett?”
“Yes.” Warily he backed away from the slender man in the dark uniform. He could never be too careful. Not here in New York.
“I'm Jimmy. Your driver.”
“My what?”
“I've been assigned to be your driver, Mr. Dorsett.” Taking no notice at Thad's surprise, he pointed at the suit bag Thad was carrying. “Is that all your luggage?”
“Yes.” Reluctantly, Thad allowed the stranger to take his grip. He had only brought one change of clothes, not expecting to be here longer than a day. “Where are you taking me?”
“Wherever you want to go, Mr. Dorsett.” The man started down the broad marble stairs toward the dark stretch limo parked in front of the bank. “But you've got a suite reserved at the Plaza. Maybe you'd like to stop off there first.”
“You don't say.” Thad allowed the driver to open his door, and he slipped into the backseat and smiled at the leather-lined space. When Jimmy was behind the wheel, he said, “Go down Broadway, will you?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Dorsett.”
He sat back and enjoyed Broadway as it unwound about him. The garish carnival of night was gradually waking up. He felt as though it were all coming alive to welcome him.
This was the way to live in New York. No jamming into subways filled with a solid wall of flesh. No cringing over the dictates of a boss frightened for his own job. No struggling to live with impossible city prices on an impossibly tight budget. None of that. Thad sighed and settled himself deeper into the luxury. He was made to see life from the backseat of a limo. It was his destiny.
When he had just been starting out, he had heard somebody say that it was time to move to New York when one didn't need to ask the price of anything. Thad slid his hand over the limo's walnut paneling, and decided that the time had almost arrived.
Twenty-Five Days . . .
The telephone's red light was blinking when Thad Dorsett arrived at his trading desk Friday morning. He did not bother to pick up the receiver; he just walked back through the doors and into Larry's office, feeling eyes follow him the whole way.
Larry greeted him by waving a hand at the seat opposite his desk and saying, “Okay, let's have it.”
Though he had steeled himself for this moment, still his hands were suddenly slick with sweat. His chance to grab the ring and rise to the top depended on the gamble he was about to take. Larry had demanded three surefire trading deals. No limits, no defining boundaries. Just a guaranteed profit.
Thad took a breath and then began with, “We could make a major trade and arrange to front ride it.” Then he stopped.
Fleiss blinked slowly, his only reaction.
Thad gave him enough time to object and then plowed on. “We've got control over large pension funds. Arrange for them to buy a block of stocks. Several stocks, because we couldn't make more than a quarter-point off each buy without alerting the SEC's watchdog group. We precede the fund's purchases by acquiring these stocks ourselves through dummy corporations. Ones far removed from the bank. Then we sell the shares on to the portfolios after tacking on a hit.”
Thad watched Fleiss retreat behind his mug. Only the tiniest flicker of his eyes gave any indication of the intense thought being given to his suggestion. This in itself was a good sign. Very good, in fact, as it meant the idea was being taken seriously. Despite the fact that front loading a trade was highly illegal, Larry was earnestly considering the possibility.
Front loading a buy meant that the stocks bought for a customer actually were drawn from another accountâan account controlled by the trader. This meant the trader could tack on an extra half-point or so per share and pocket the difference. On an actively traded stock, this much of a differential was found within every trading day. If questioned, the trader could simply claim to have caught the stock on the upswing. A 100-million-share purchase could result in a five million dollar instant profit. Front loading had been a favorite scam during the late twenties, when the market had heated up to the point where such frauds would rarely be detected. Pulling a trick from the history books might well work, at least once.
Thad allowed himself the first full breath of the morning and let his mind roam. Trading was the empire of the nineties. The futures market was transforming itself so rapidly that regulations and laws could not hope to keep up. Such trading was totally invisible to the common people, yet it was beginning to control their destinies like an economic puppet master. This was where Thad wanted to be, where he
belonged
, running a massive empire built on trading.
Financial trading knew neither borders nor loyalties. Patriotism was an outdated joke, as practical to a trader as a steam locomotive. Money circled the globe in an electronic sea, with tides and currents determined by the highest rate of return.
Windows of opportunity opened for seconds only. New information surged like geysers. Traders discounted companies before factories were built. They took their profits before the products hit market shelves.
They bundled Iowa mortgages and sold them to buyers in Paris or Calcutta or Baghdad. Computers were trained to fire off contracts as soon as enemy tactics were spotted. Millions were lost or gained in the blink of an eye. Cash was never touched. Zeros proliferated on daily balance sheets like goose eggs.
Larry shifted in his chair. “And the next alternative?”
“Door number two.” The file remained unopened in Thad's lap. He had no need to review his notes. “We set a rumor in motion. You've got contacts at the
Journal
and other places.”
Larry shrugged casual agreement. “So?”
“So at the next auction of U.S. treasury bonds, your connections report that the yen is so low and the Japanese banks are in such bad shape, they're not going to buy. Have the rumor start in London. Feed it through viable trading operations to your
Journal
friend so he's covered.”
Thad waited. If his first suggestion was illegal, the second was totally outrageous. Being caught would stain the reputation of the entire financial community. Not to mention that it would result in felony charges and sky-high fines for all involved.
But all Fleiss said was, “How do we cover ourselves?”
Thad felt the band of tension around his chest tighten another notch. So close. “Both bond and stock markets will react, we go short in both. A one-time rake-off. Everybody knows the Japanese hold to the blue chips; we take short positions through other traders in different countries on the major utilities and federal treasury notes.”
Again he waited while Larry mulled it over. Thad wondered if this was just an exercise or the real thing. What kind of pressure would push a major Street player to take such a risk? Thad could not imagine it, which was why he figured the exercise had primarily been to show one thing: that he was willing to go all the way and do whatever it took to succeed on the Street.
Another slow blink, a single nod. Then, “And the third?”
“The third.” His breath quickened. “The third needs a little more work, so I can't talk about it yet. But it's good. And big. Bigger than the other two combined. And what's more, it's totally legit.”
And more than that, it was too good to give up without being able to implement it himself. Thad had decided that in the sleepless hours of the previous night. He would give it up, but only in exchange for the gold ring. He readied himself for a battle over this and was determined not to give in.
But Larry did not object. “Okay. Good work.” Larry gave another nod, then slid a folded newspaper across his desk. “Now take a look at this.”
Thad picked up the paper and saw it was the business section of a Philadelphia paper. Then his eye spotted a name in the lead article, and he sank into the seat. “I don't believe it.”
“Had it couriered up this morning by one of the branch managers. Seems your man Korda's got some of our local people running scared.”
“Don't lay the goofball on me,” Thad objected, reading swiftly. “Korda is not my anything.”
The headline read, “Now Get Ready For A Real Bear.” The lead paragraph began, “For months the market has been celebrating the longest running upturn in history and thumbing its nose at all those who predicted a downward correction of 10 percent or more. But Valenti banking official and economic pundit Buddy Korda insists otherwise. After addressing close to a thousand like-minded people at a standing-room only affair, Mr. Korda stated in an interview with this paper that . . .”
