Black Fridays (15 page)

“Brian came to us in the beginning of the year with the trade idea. He was convinced that the mortgage mess was going to get a lot worse before it got better.”

Neil took over. “I argued against it, but he persuaded me. He was right.”

Wheeler continued. “We put the trade on. We sold some mortgage-backs and we bought credit default swaps and T-notes. When the trade started moving in our direction, Brian came back and asked if he could get some credit for the idea.”

Kirsten spoke for the first time. “He came to me, actually. I told these guys we should let him come along for the ride. I watched him every day. He traded around the position, but basically he just rode the trade for just south of ten mil.” She grinned. “He did a nice job.”

“What did the three of you clear on the trade?” I asked.

“Just under a yard.”

One billion dollars.

“That’s not public information,” Barilla said.

“Nice trade.” It is one thing to call the market right—to find a strategy or a trend that will make good money. It requires a whole other skill set to put on the trade in a big enough way, and to ride it long enough, that it turns a flash of insight into that kind of money.

“Look, Gene, we just didn’t think you needed to be bothered over a hundred-million-dollar position.” Wheeler wasn’t pleading, he sounded bored. Exasperated, maybe. “If we got your dick in the wringer with Stockman, we apologize, but, honestly, it just wasn’t worth talking about.”

Barilla blew out a long stream of air. “No, Rich, you’re right. If you had come to me, I would have thought there was a problem. But while we’re on the subject—are there any other little land mines over there I should know about?”

The three traders shared looks for a moment. Neil spoke for them. “Not a thing.”

I believed him. So did Barilla.

“Satisfied?” he said to me.

It was time to mend some bridges. “I’m sorry. All of you. It looks like I set off a fire alarm when I smelled cigarette smoke.” I turned to Barilla. “I’ll talk to Stockman. Tell him this was all a touch of hysteria on my part.”

“Screw him. He’s annoying, that’s all. He’s got much bigger turds than this raining down on him right now. If he ever remembers to ask, I’ll take care of it.” He leaned forward and beat a rapid tattoo on the desk with his index fingers. “Anything else for these people?”

“I’ll make it quick.”

He nodded.

“Arrowhead? A small hedge fund that seems to be unusually active. Sanders did some business with them. Ring any bells?”

“Never heard of them,” Wheeler said.

“Kirsten?”

“We don’t do customer business. We trade direct with the Street. I know Brian dealt with the sales force—a little. But we’re a proprietary desk—we trade for the firm. Legal would rather we stayed away from the clients.”

Legal would not have wanted to explain how the firm made close to a billion dollars on bets they had sold to clients.

Neil had not answered.

“How about you?”

He put his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I am quite sure that I would remember.” He looked over the top of his glasses. “And I don’t.”

I tried not to sigh. I felt like I was in hot pursuit of a wild goose down a dead-end street.

“Did you know about these casino trips? Atlantic City and so on?”

“I did,” Kirsten said. “It surprised me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Brian did not gamble. He once said he would rather save his money and buy a casino. I suppose he went along for the camaraderie. Networking.”

I was back to nowhere. Sanders had been a good kid with a great future, right on the cusp of making his mark on Wall Street. The SEC would find nothing. It was all a waste of time and talent. The only one who would benefit was me. I had another $25,000 check waiting.

“Gene, I’m sorry. Let me get out of your hair. Thanks for all your time. If I come up with anything else, do you mind if I just drop by and run it by you?”

“Not a problem,” Wheeler said.

“Then we’re done,” Barilla said. “Back to the trenches.”

We filed out. Neil Wilkinson stopped me just outside the door.

“I don’t know if you remember, but we worked together at Case some years ago.”

“Of course I remember.” It was like asking a nuclear physicist if he remembered working with Oppenheimer. “I thought you were wasted there. They tried to squeeze you into the research department, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t a good fit.”

Understated as always.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said. “You and your department did brilliantly with the euro conversion. You cleaned up quite nicely.”

When the euro was first introduced, the EU announced how each of the various party currencies would be converted, following months of speculation. I was the youngest managing director at the firm and running the foreign exchange desk. We had cleaned up.

“I thought you had left the firm by that time,” I said.

“Yes. I was with Rothkamp in London—trading sovereign debt—but we heard about your trade. You managed to nail each currency.”

It had been one of my biggest coups.

“Thanks. But we missed Italy by a good margin.”

“You are modest. Modesty never pays dividends. At any rate, it was good to meet you again. We should have a drink some night. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. Brian Sanders was not always a pleasant person—he was young and aggressive—but I do not believe he was a crook.”

He walked away, leaving me confused and conflicted. Wilkinson was not only a market genius, but a genuine human being as well. He had ignored the deficits in my past and my transparent manipulations with Stockman and Barilla, and had simply congratulated me on one of the greatest successes of my professional career. His decency humiliated me. I felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia. The ceilings felt too low, even the arena-sized dimensions of the trading floor seemed to be closing in on me. I needed to be outside—outdoors—with a breeze in the air and the sun on my face.

—

THE HEBREW NATIONAL
hot dog vendor on the sidewalk outside the Weld building already had a line waiting. Wall Street eats lunch early.

I pushed past the small group of smokers and wove through the crawling traffic on Trinity Place. There was a stretch of sidewalk drenched in late-September sunshine. I leaned up against the building, closed my eyes, and raised my face to the sky.

I felt my heart rate slow and my throat open up again. It was a beautiful day. How many beautiful days had I missed in my life? My two years in prison were nothing compared to the twenty years of self-imposed incarceration, sitting at a trading desk, staring at a computer monitor—or banks of them, as we had in the early years—not even aware of weather or what season it happened to be. For ten hours a day, or more, I had been able to tune out all aspects of life that did not immediately serve the needs of the great god Mammon, so that a phone call from my beautiful but often very needy wife was an annoyance, a distraction, taking me away from the obsessive clutches of the market.

I thought about taking the Kid and escaping New York once and for all. With the money from selling the apartment, we could get by for a long time in Vermont, or Idaho. I could study yoga, or become a housepainter, or buy some land and go into organic farming.

Ridiculous. The pieces of my life came sliding back into place. I could handle them. The Kid needed a very special school, and would for years to come. He needed stability, his routine. And what did I need? I was a New Yorker and therefore spoiled beyond belief. What would bagels be like in Boise? In Bennington, pastrami comes pre-sliced in little sealed plastic packets that hang over the bacon at Foodtown. I would have to mow grass and shovel snow.

But most of all, I would miss the buzz. That sense of urgency that New York imparts to all its denizens. That knowledge that, no matter the time of day, I knew where to find the best bagel, the best pastrami. And I would know it when I found it.

I was myself again. I was fine. I had no idea what was next in my life, but I had absolutely no doubt that I could handle it. I was ready to do battle once again.

I saw Sudhir come out the front door of the Weld building and head downtown toward the subway.

“Hey! Yo, Sudhir! Over here.” I waved.

He turned, saw me, and ran.

—

MOST OF THE CORPORATE
bond traders were busy loading up paper plates from a makeshift buffet of Chinese takeout spread across three trading desks. Carmine was already back at his station, his plate mounded high with dumplings, twice-cooked pork, a shrimp roll, chicken with black bean sauce, and a dollop of assorted vegetables in lobster sauce.

“Got a minute?” I said.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Is that the message I’m supposed to take back upstairs? The hothead junior trader doesn’t want to talk to me.”

There had been fear in his bravado the last time we spoke. It was gone, replaced with a seething anger. “My boss says I don’t have to talk to you. You got a problem, go through channels. Now, fuck off. I’m working.”

I briefly considered making a scene, getting loud, forcing a confrontation with the arrogant little prick—and discarded the idea. Let Stockman deal with it. I was being paid to conduct a polite, professional look into accounting issues. Now I had a junior trader running from me in fear and another furiously flipping me off. Life’s too short for this shit, I thought.

“Hey, you got some problem here?”

A flashily dressed bantam had appeared at my elbow.

“Sorry?” I chose not to have heard both his words and the attitude.

The guy was mid-forties, fighting a widow’s peak and other inevitable signs of aging, with a George Hamilton tan, a sculpted comb-over, and a few thousand dollars of Armani silk. He had the narrow-shouldered, slim-hipped build that too easily develops a basketball-shaped paunch. It was just starting to show. Twice-cooked pork and white rice weren’t going to help.

“I asked you what’s your problem.”

“Who are you?”

“Who am I? You got some set. This is
my
department. You are bothering
my
trader. I told him, anyone bothers you, you tell him to go through channels. Well, channels is
me
!”

The scene I had hoped to avoid was unfolding for me despite my good intentions.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know you.”

“Well, I know you. You’re the crook who got off way too easy a couple of years ago. You must have ratted a dozen of your buddies to get a deal that soft. You give up a couple of your traders? Old friends?”

We had an attentive and growing audience. They were all on his side. It was not the forum I would have chosen to discuss my past. A full retreat was in order; I just wanted to do it with a few shreds of dignity.

“I was just on my way. I’ll leave you to your lunch.”

Carmine grinned up at me, enjoying my defeat. I vowed that if I ever had the chance to do him harm, I would take it. No qualms.

The bantam stepped back, overplaying his moment with a bow and a sweep of his hand. I tried not to look hurried as I passed him.

He spoke to my back. “You tell Stockman if he’s got a problem over here, he can come talk to me himself. Jack Avery has been all over this department and didn’t come up with a thing. I run a clean operation and I take care of my own.”

The traders actually applauded his speech.

—

THE STOCK TRADING FLOOR
was just on the opposite side of the building, but judging by the change in atmosphere it could have been the other side of the planet. There was no screaming, no calling out of prices or orders, just the constant tap, tap, tap of computer keys. Row upon row of traders sat staring into monitors, shoulders hunched, necks thrust forward. Typing. The few murmurs of conversation were hushed and monosyllabic. It looked like some Victorian clerical nightmare—only with computers rather than quill pens and green ledger books.

“Lowell Barrington?” The trader I had approached waved me away without speaking.

“Next row.” A pretty assistant with a big Hello Kitty hairclip pointed the way. The traders on either side gave her brief scowls as though she had disturbed their monastic trance.

Barrington looked up as I approached. He made no pretense of disinterest. He knew who I was and what I wanted. He nodded, removed his headset, and stood up. He looked like three centuries of good breeding, wrapped in Brooks Brothers.

“Jason Stafford,” I announced. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

I followed him to the water fountain at the end of the row. He took a long drink before turning to face me.

“Would it be all right with you if we put this off until Monday?” He spoke in a quiet, respectful voice, as though he’d just been brought up before the headmaster.

“What’s going to be different on Monday, Lowell?” I played his game. Quiet, restrained, but authoritative.

He transformed in a blink. His shoulders sagged, his face looked drawn and very tired. “There are things I want to tell you. Things I have been waiting to tell. But there will be repercussions. I need some time to prepare my family.”

I had no objection—in theory. In practice, however, I could feel his need to confess. “Look, we can get help. Whatever it takes. Legal or otherwise. The sooner you come clean, the faster we can start fixing things.”

He stood straighter and gave me an angry, almost insulted, look. “I don’t think you understand. I need to discuss this with my father before I speak to you. I tried to make that clear to Freddie last night.”

“Before or after you started ordering doubles? You’ve had plenty of time to talk it over with Dad. Now’s the time to fess up. Get it over with.”

“Brian was my friend. I want to get all this straightened out. I will help you. But not until after the weekend.”

He was adamant. But when he met my eyes, I saw a different story. They were the deeply sad eyes of a man confronting shame. I lost the willingness to push—he was already punishing himself, more than the world would ever do.

“Come find me Monday morning,” I said.