Black Fridays (18 page)

MONDAY MORNING.
Spud and I were back in the conference room—rumors were rampant, stocks were crashing, and everyone on the trading floor had the hollow-eyed look of earthquake survivors. Spud didn’t look much better. After a few, stress-filled hours of sleep, I fit right in. Zombie central.

From the moment the Kid and I stepped out onto Seventy-fourth Street until I passed through the well-guarded front doors of Weld Securities, I was convinced that I was being tailed. The two guys from the night before seemed to materialize in my peripheral vision on street corners, in subway stations, ducking into doorways, only to transform into harmless-looking fellow New Yorkers when I looked directly at them.

The Kid had sensed my upset—a situation that had threatened to escalate into a disaster when I couldn’t find him a matching pair of blue socks. I had been pleasantly surprised to find that he didn’t mind mismatched socks on Monday morning, as long as they were both blue.

I needed a day off, a green tea, and a massage. I would have settled for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“How’d you get his laptop?” Spud asked, for what I realized was the second time.

I kept the unedited version to myself. “The roommate let me take it.”

After dropping the Kid at school, I had stopped at the post office and mailed a box filled with almost a quarter million dollars of chips to myself. It could stay in the Ansonia mailroom until I figured out how to cash them in—without going back to jail.

“Let’s get started,” I said.

Lowell Barrington hadn’t shown up. He looked like another runner. When I called over to his desk, the bright, bubbly voice of the Hello Kitty girl informed me that he wasn’t in yet. Maybe he had joined Sudhir in India. Maybe his father had grounded him.

And my lawyer had yet to return my call. Calls. So far, my day sucked.

Spud fired up the laptop.

Other than the breakup e-mails—and the music—the computer was oddly devoid of personal information. There were no drafts of letters to headhunters, no electronic checkbook, not even an address book outside of his Google account. Sanders had not been on Facebook or Myspace, he had no profile on LinkedIn, and he did not Twitter. Either he had been a unique twenty-first-century young man, or he was hiding something.

“I’ve got his calendar,” Spud said.

“How the hell did I miss that?”

“It was sitting in his ‘recycle’ bin.”

I burst out laughing. I had hid the chips in the garbage—the same place where Sanders kept his secrets.

But Sanders kept his secrets in code. Letters and numbers filled the squares for each date. AH2x/EH. 10K/TP. It was a meaningless jumble. I scanned for patterns. Most simple codes give up their secrets because of patterns. Short words, like articles, are used repetitively. S appears at the end of words more often than any other letter. E is next. And so on.

One pattern leaped out immediately. “Ten K? Two K? See this. They’ve all got to be numbers. Amounts. Are you with me?”

Spud wasn’t listening. “Oh, shit,” he said. “This is fucked up.” He sat back, shaking his head.

“What?” I barked.

“Brian’s three-way? With the two hotties from Morgan? I told you the other day.”

“Okay.”

“There they are.” He pointed to an early-summer weekend date. !JF&!GK/Q.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Jill Felder and Grace Knudsen. In Quogue.”

I saw it, but I didn’t like it.

Brian Sanders had kept a diary of his sexual adventures. Less than a diary, merely a scorecard.

“HM? See here?” There were half a dozen or more. HM!/VT. *HM/VT. And so on. “Heidi Miller. I met her. Her parents have a ski house near Killington. Nice girl.”

“And DH/AC?” There were another half-dozen of those in the months before his accident.

“No idea. Atlantic City?”

“Sanders was very busy.”

There were easily a hundred or more different sets of initials.

“What do you think about the punctuation marks?” Spud said.

I ignored the question. I didn’t want to know.

“There’s two different patterns here,” I said. “Look.” I pointed to TNX5K/A. “Focus on the ones that look like this. Five K. Five grand. A. Arrowhead. Must be.”

Spud and I stared at the screen in silence. TNX was a regular. ZNM and ZNH showed up in earlier months. We arrived at the same point by different paths.

“Those are futures contracts,” I said. “M, H, U, Z. Those are the exchange codes for the delivery months. They’re the same in foreign exchange. March, June, September, December.”

“And ZN is the ticker symbol for the Treasury ten-year-note contract. I should have caught it right away.”

“And TNX?”

“The options contract,” Spud said.

We had it.

Strewn amid the coded details of Brian Sanders’ sex life were the bits of evidence of his trading transgressions. Once or twice each week, there was an entry that concluded with A. Spud compared the dates and securities with the firm’s records. In each case there was a corresponding trade with the Arrowhead account.

The payoff was almost as clear. I could see it, because I knew about the bagful of chips, but I might have caught the pattern anyway. The math was simple.

“Look,” I said. “There are three A entries over this two-week period. Five K, seven K, twenty-two K. If we go back over his book, I know we will find the matching Arrowhead trades. All right, so that’s thirty-four thousand dollars. Four days after the last trade there’s this—17K/FX. That’s Sanders getting his cut. Fifty percent.”

“How can you know what his cut was?”

“Because it is the exact same pattern every time.”

“Every time?”

“Check it out.”

He did. I was right. There would be a string of two to five smaller numbers, then one substantially larger, followed sometime in the next week by a figure exactly half of the total. Every time.

“So what’s FX? Or TP? Or MS?” He pointed to other weekend coded figures.

“The casinos? Foxwoods. Trump Plaza. Mohegan Sun?”

Spud gazed at the screen in awe. “No shit. It’s all right there, isn’t it?”

“Almost,” I said. “You’d need to see all the trades from Arrowhead to be sure. But the SEC can subpoena them and wrap it all up.”

“But there would be no way of tracking the payoff, right? I mean, it was at a casino. Hochstadt could just slip Brian cash each time, and who would know?”

Or chips. My brain was racing ahead—counting up the payoffs. Exactly $233,000. Whoever had the chips would know.

—

“THE WHOLE PURPOSE
of your employment with Weld is the
avoidance
of scandal. Did you not understand that?”

Stockman sounded as arch and overbearing as my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Goodier.

“Allow me to educate you to one of the salient events in the history of this firm, Jason. Philip Barrington was one of the three founding partners of Weld Securities back in 1975. He is still on the board. His elder son runs our emerging markets debt trading desk in London. Lowell was his second son.”

I had waited half the morning to get in to tell Stockman what Spud and I had turned up. He had listened with half an ear and then began removing the skin from my body in thin, delicately carved strips, one finely honed word at a time.

“What could you possibly have said to the boy?”

Lowell Barrington had left Weld on Friday night and taken the New Haven line as far as Stamford. There he had inexplicably exited the train, a full three stops before reaching Rowayton, where his father was waiting to meet him. According to a half-dozen conflicting witnesses, Lowell had waited on the platform until the arrival of the next fully loaded commuter train and then seemed to step out in front of it. Traffic on the New Haven line had been held up for almost an hour.

“Jack Avery tells me that he spoke to Lowell late Friday afternoon—after you interrogated him—and that the boy was severely depressed. In shock!”

Waiting patiently to get a word in for my own defense was not turning out to be a winning strategy. “Just a minute, Bill. I had a two-minute conversation with the guy. He was stressed. He was guilty about something. But I didn’t do anything or say anything to push him over the edge.” I was sure about that. Reasonably sure.

“Guilty! Of what? Going to Atlantic City with a customer? Is that what you are claiming?”

Standing up for myself didn’t seem to be a winning strategy either.

“Those guys—the whole crew—were up to something illegal. If I found it, so will the SEC.”

“Jason, there are much bigger issues involved. If what you say is true, it is all so penny-ante I will be surprised if anyone even cares! And even so, you say you have no proof other than these notes in a calendar. Notes written in some kind of
code
, which you claim to have broken. Where is your proof? Show me the money trail. Where were the payoffs?”

In the mail. I wasn’t about to hand over two hundred thousand dollars just for the limited pleasure of having Stockman believe me.

“I’m not done,” I said. “If the SEC goes after Arrowhead’s records, they’ll see both sides of all these trades. They’ll be able to put it all together.”

“If this is the limit of what you have found, the firm is in no danger.”

That was Stockman’s bottom line.

“What do you want me to do about Barrington? Talk to the father?”

He waved his hand as though chasing away a gnat. “No. Leave it. As I said, there are bigger issues and I have already devoted too much valuable time to this today.”

“I DON’T GET IT,”
Roger said.

Vinny looked over at me and rolled his eyes.

“No, listen,” Roger continued. “You tell me he’s a crook, but I don’t see who’s the loser.”

The three of us were huddled in Vinny’s corner of the bar, talking in half-whispers. I had been trying to explain what I’d been working on—without giving up the names of any of the players.

Vinny took a turn at explaining it. “It’s not that tricky. It’s the same as any small-time putz stealing from the boss. Like the bartender who doesn’t ring up your drink and lets you overtip instead.”

Roger gave a quick, furtive look in Rollie’s direction.

“It ain’t like that.”

I waded back in. “A trader owes his allegiance to the house. They set him up with all the tools, computers, information sources, and boatloads of cash. He gets to make bets all day long—buying and selling. He is supposed to buy low and sell high. That’s it. He works for the house and takes their check.”

“But these guys wanted a little bit more,” Vinny added.

“So they work out a little plan,” I said. “They give this hedge fund, who shall remain nameless, a guaranteed winner. Locked-in profit. And in return, the guy who runs the fund gives them a kickback.”

“You still haven’t told me who the loser is.”

Vinny threw his hands up. “The house, Roger!”

“Every once in a while, the trader buys high and sells low,” I said. “This hedge fund books the profit from his intentional ‘mistake.’ The firm takes a small loss.”

“And this is illegal? I thought it was all free market.”

“It’s fraud,” I said.

“It’s stealing,” Vinny added.

“As long as the traders are making money for their firms, no one notices when they take a small loss on a trade—which is the beauty of the whole scam.”

“How much money we talkin’ here?” Roger asked.

“According to the guy’s notes, most of the trades were two to ten grand,” I said.

“Chump change. Right? These guys trade millions every day.”

“Right.”

“Roger’s got a point,” Vinny said. “Five grand a week on average. A quarter mil a year—maybe. Let’s say there’s as many as two dozen guys involved. Gross is six mil. The house takes three—before expenses. I can see why it might make sense for all the small-timers. If these guys are slick, they can keep this little machine running forever. They only get busted if they fuck up, or get greedy. But I don’t see why some hedge fund would be involved. They’re only clearing a mil or two a year after expenses and the first time somebody rats, they’re out of business. Shut down. Don’t they have better things to do than run this elaborate skim job?”

Roger turned to him. “So how come you know so much about this securities shit, huh? You been reading books?”

“Hey. It’s no different than a jockey taking money to hold a horse back.”

Vinny was right. I still had more questions than answers.

Roger still looked unconvinced. “And some guy steps in front of a train over this? Over a few grand? I don’t buy it.”

“He was about to get caught,” I said. “It would’ve been a huge embarrassment for him and his family.”

“No. He was about to come clean. That’s what you said, am I right? He was doin’ the right thing.”

Roger was right, too. Lowell Barrington had certainly acted like a guilty man, but not a suicidal one. He had believed he was about to do something noble. But there was no point in speculation. The man was dead.

“I don’t know what to say, Roger. The guy walked in front of a train.”

Vinny checked his watch. “I gotta go. Am I paid up, Rollie?”

The bartender was huddled over the crossword puzzle with MaJohn. “You’re good.”

Vinny slipped a twenty under his glass and left. Roger waited until he was out the door before leaning over and speaking in a confiding tone. “And you still won’t say who’s involved here? Come on. A hint. This is good dirt.”

“Not a chance,” I laughed. Roger had a strong streak of noodge. “You’ll know when the story hits the
Post
.”

“All right, but listen, I gotta tell ya something. You sent Wanda flowers? The other day? After you two, uh, you know.”

I had sent the dozen roses a few days after our date.

“Yes?”

“She don’t like flowers. I’m just telling ya.”

“Okay.” I was decidedly uncomfortable having a conversation about my love life. Successes or failures. “I won’t send her any more flowers.”

“It’s not you, ya see. It’s her ex. Guy was a schmuck. He sent her flowers every time he fucked someone else. He’d come in late with an excuse and a bouquet, and she’d know.”

“Thanks for the tip. We’re having dinner again tonight. I’m bringing the Kid.”

“I know. Big step.”

I had been trying to convince myself that it wasn’t. It was just dinner. It wasn’t a test. The world wasn’t going to change if it didn’t go well. Then again . . .

“It’s a meal.”

“Ahuh.” He took a long pull of cognac. “You mind if I ask you something personal?”

Offering advice on my love life wasn’t personal? “Go ahead.”

“You miss all that shit, don’cha?” Roger said. “I mean the trading. The action. The market. Being smart. On top of the world. The money. All that.”

“Not the money. I had a lot and now I don’t. Life would be easier with more, but after a certain point, the money is just a way of keeping score. It’s not a business you should go into if all you care about it is the money.”

“I think most people would disagree with you there, sport. Wall Street is where the money is. That’s why they go there.”

I laughed. “No question. If all you want to do is make money, then you gotta go where the money is.”

“Amen.” Roger swallowed some cognac and gasped. “That’s nice.”

“I’ll tell you what I miss. I miss waking up and checking the markets even before I get in the shower. That feeling of plugging in. Being part of something really huge. And when you’re doing it right, feeling the flows, anticipating the turns just right, it’s like playing improvisational jazz while skydiving. It’s a rush.”

We sat in silence after that for a few minutes. I felt all my regrets crowding round, seeking my attention. Roger must have sensed them as well.

“And then you fucked it up.”

“Royally.”

“So, why’d ya do it?”

There had been plenty of long, uncomfortable nights, lying on my bunk, up at Ray Brook, when I had plenty of time to think of an answer to that question. But recounting the slow slide of incremental events that got me there only left me angry and frustrated.

“I don’t know. You know the old line about doctors? They all
think
they’re God. Well, traders know better. Traders
know
they are gods.”

The truth was that I had been afraid. Afraid that I was no longer a god. That my time had passed and that my center, my core, had burned away to ashes. And everyone would know.

“I guess it’s complicated,” I finished lamely.

“Looks that way.”

“Maybe I just never thought I’d get caught.” I checked my watch. It was time to meet Skeli for dinner. With the Kid. Anything could happen.

“You know,” I said, “maybe I don’t miss it.”

“Still, you had a nice run, ya know. Not many get there.”

—

DINNER WAS AT
a Chinese-Latin place around the corner, where they didn’t mind making a grilled cheese and fries upon occasion. Skeli and I shared an avocado salad and two plates of their crackling chicken.

The place was small and the noise could get to the Kid on a crowded night, but the early-Monday dinner rush consisted of us and a pair of Spanish-speaking cabbies, fueling up for the night’s work.

“What’s your favorite car?” I asked her.

The Kid’s antennae went up.

“A car? I don’t know. I’m not that into cars, I guess.”

The Kid went back to his fries.

“You never had a car that you thought was just cool beyond all others? Never?”

She gave a confused shake of her head. “No. Wait. I thought of one. My favorite cousin has an old Karmann Ghia. She keeps it in her barn and only takes it out to wax it. It’s cute.”

“Type 34?” My little auto encyclopedist spoke up.

“Excuse me?” Skeli said. She gave me a look for assistance.

The Kid continued. “The Type 34 has the 1500cc engine. Very few were imported into the United States. It was made up until 1969. The same factory made the Porsche 914 after that.” I recognized my father’s intonations.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was the other one.”

The Kid nodded seriously. He was used to adults who knew little about automobiles.

“The original 1200cc engine was identical to the Beetle, producing only thirty-six horsepower and a top speed of just over seventy mph, but later models generated sixty horsepower with a sportier ride. Close to half a million were sold over the twenty years of production, with only minor exterior design changes. In 1974, the Karmann Ghia was replaced in the VW fleet by the Scirocco. Ketchup!”

Skeli had been watching his flawless performance with a slightly stunned look. She gave a start at his barked order and slid the bottle of ketchup over to him.

“Wow. I didn’t know all that.”

The Kid was focused on his ketchup. I waited until he had a small puddle and gently traded the bottle in his hand for a large French fry.

“You must be very proud of your little genius.” The compliment was for his benefit. She needn’t have bothered. The Kid was intently swishing his fry through the ketchup. Once we stopped talking about cars, we lost all interest for him. He wouldn’t have noticed if we both burst into green flames or sprouted wings and flew around the restaurant.

“Yes and no,” I said. “He’s repeating—exactly word for word—from a book my father read to him. It takes the place of relating. It’s a good trick, but it’s not conversation. I’m supposed to encourage him to engage and talk any chance I can, but he is a master at avoidance.”

The Kid dropped the fry onto his plate and checked out. One second he was there, happily playing with his food, needing no help from a constantly fretful dad, content, with his five tiny cars lined up across the table in a perfectly spaced row. Then he wasn’t there at all. His eyes were closed, his body slightly rocking, his fingers tapping out his repetitive, irregular rhythm.

“Oh my God,” Skeli whispered. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“Something here is getting to him,” I said. “Who the hell knows? It could be the fluorescent lights, your shampoo, or the wrong brand of ketchup.”

“What do we do?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. He’s trying. He wants control. Watch his fingers. That’s one of his ‘tricks.’ He tunes out the bad by focusing on something he can control. They call it ‘stimming.’ He’ll either pull out of it, or escalate.”

I was nowhere near as calm as I made myself sound. The Kid could come out of his trance relaxed, exhausted, energized, or manic. I never knew what to expect. The whole thing left me feeling helpless—useless. Heather had the skills and the discipline to confront him. I knew I had neither. It wasn’t enlightenment that allowed me to quietly observe, it was cowardice.

The Kid hummed his long single note.

“Does it help to talk to him? Should we talk about cars?”

“He doesn’t know we’re here.”

Skeli was watching his fingers.

“Skimbleshanks,” she said.

“Say what?”

“‘Skimbleshanks, the Railway Cat.’ It’s from
Cats
. That’s what he’s tapping.”

“I don’t know that he knows that song,” I said. I didn’t.

“It’s in thirteen/eight time.”

“Wait. Are you saying there’s a pattern to his tapping?” How had I never noticed?

“Of course. It’s three sets of eighth-note triplets, followed by a set of four. Believe me, you don’t hear that eight shows a week for two years and then just forget it.”

“I don’t know where he would have developed a taste for Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

“Well, don’t worry. It’s probably not contagious.”

I scootched my chair an inch or so closer to catch him if his rocking became too energetic.

“I’m supposed to watch his pupils while he does this. If they get really big, it indicates he’s having waking fits. Mini-seizures. Then he’ll need more testing and so on.” I let out a long sigh. “Unfortunately, he closes his eyes every time.”

She laughed gently. “I think he’s charging his psychic batteries.”

“Maybe so.” I relaxed just a touch. “Do you know what some high-functioning adult autistics call us? You and me and the rest of humanity, I mean. We’re ‘NTs.’ Neurotypicals. We suffer from an inability to conceptualize outside of a very finite set of strictures. We have problems concentrating at deep levels and we are hobbled by an obsession with emotional issues.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Maybe they’re right. Maybe these kids are the future. Their brains are evolving, processing things in ways you and I can’t. Maybe they’re preparing for a digital world, a virtual world, a place where string theory and nanotechnology join up in some way that the rest of us can’t even imagine. Someplace where the ability to read emotion on a human face is an annoyance—an evolutionary throwback, like an appendix.”