Dead Cat Bounce (7 page)

“Well, all right then,” said the Baron, his eyes flashing. Turning back to the traders, he added, “Did you hear that, lads? Our young guest is doing the breakfast order today … from memory! So don’t make his life difficult, eh?”

The group pressed even closer around Jonah, all of them grinning wolfishly. Dog patronizingly called out, “We’d never do that!”

“Yeah, we had such a nice time together yesterday,” Jeeves added for effect.

“I’m sure you did. Oh, and sonny,” the Baron turned his attention back to Jonah, “don’t forget to get yourself something. My treat. I can afford it.”

The traders’ grins turned to laughter, and Jonah heard Milkshake whisper to Dog, “A hundred quid says the kid fails.” As the group broke up and headed back to their desks, Jonah wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

He started with Franky, since she’d been so surprisingly pleasant this morning (Jonah couldn’t help but wonder if her mood had anything to do with that chap whom the Bunker Boys had said she was seeing). He then worked his way around to the others on the desk, none of whom made it particularly easy. Milkshake was the worst of the bunch, and Jonah suspected that he could sense that being difficult was the name of the game. Five minutes later, he finished with the Baron himself, scarcely managing to contain his surprise at the comparative healthiness of his order.

Back at the Cockpit he dialed up extension 1736 as instructed, and a woman’s voice answered. “Breakfast time, Jammy?” The voice was posh and sexy, not at all what Jonah was expecting.

“Er—it’s not him,” he replied. “My name’s Jonah. I’m working with the Baron today while Jammy is out. I’m learning about trading.”

“Oh!” Jonah’s obviously wasn’t the voice she was expecting either, but she quickly recovered. “Well, welcome to Hellcat, Master Jonah.”

“What do I do?” Jonah asked. The order was a large one, and he wanted to place it as quickly as possible for fear of forgetting something.

“You tell me what you want, and I’ll get it all ready and bring it up to the floor. Give me the name of each person when you give the order, and we can package it all together so there are no complaints.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s it,” she purred. “Hellcat knows its traders are too busy making money to leave their desks, so we here are happy to get you whatever your heart desires.”

“So it’s like room service at a hotel?”

“Yes. But better. Much, much better, darling boy. We can get you food, toothbrushes, clothes, books, newspapers, CDs, jewelry, Christmas presents, birthday presents, apology gifts for wives, girlfriends, children, you name it. We did an engagement ring once. Marriage didn’t last, I seem to recall. But breakfast for the Bunker is a specialty. The Baron likes a show, and the breakfast trolley comes with a certain pizzazz.”

“Sounds cool,” said Jonah. “Well, here goes.” He began to relay the traders’ breakfast demands, using the skills he’d developed playing parlor games on rainy days when his parents were still married. When it came to his own order, he went for another cappuccino, looking for that buzz again, plus a doughnut. Then he had another, riskier thought. He had once done something similar when his school headmaster had sent him to buy sweets from a local shop, and it had worked so successfully that the other older boys had begun treating him as a kind of hero. That time he had used all the
change to buy himself more sweets than he had bought his headmaster. This time he was thinking bigger.

“So the Baron said I can get something on him …” Jonah began.

“Oh, isn’t that sweet?” Amelia singsonged. “What did you have in mind?”

“Can you really get anything?” he asked.

“Try me, darling.”

He told her what he wanted.

“Oh, that will be easy,” she said. “We always have a few of those in stock. Give me twenty minutes, Mr. Jonah, and I’ll be up to make your dreams come true.”

Franky and Dog
were back in a huddle with the Baron when Jonah put the phone down. He watched as every now and then the Baron tapped some keys on his keyboard and the three of them looked at the screen, the acute hunger in their eyes growing as the seconds passed. They were talking very quietly, and Jonah could only hear snatches of their discussion:
stealth
,
option trades
,
Cayman Islands
,
SIVs
,
collars
,
out of sight
,
foreign exchange
,
Rand
,
minimum visibility
, and
gold
.

When they finished, Dog and Franky returned to their desks, and the Baron turned to Jonah. “Now sonny, I gather that Franky has provided you with a more thorough understanding of our technology than I had the opportunity to do before yesterday’s interruption.” He waved nonchalantly at the bank of screens in front of them.

Jonah nodded, his fingers itching with excitement. This was what he’d been waiting for. He was finally going to get to help the Baron for real.

“Based on our discussion yesterday, I assume you’ve already had substantial experience using a computer before. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Jonah said, flattered that the Baron had picked up on his prodigious familiarity with the subject. “I even write my own programs.”

He immediately regretted his enthusiasm when Dog looked up from his own computer screen and yelled to whomever would listen. “Did you hear that, everyone. He writes his own programs. La de bloody da!”

“Does that mean that some basic inputting is beneath you?” Jeeves sneered.

Jonah reined himself back, his eyes darting between the Baron, who seemed slightly aggravated by his underlings, and the Bunker Boys. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted the Baron to know that I know how to use computers. Inputting’s fine. Sorry.”

“I thought I told you to never apologize, mate,” said the Baron more brightly than Jonah would have expected. “I like a bit of chutzpah. You need that to work here.”

“Hah!” Dog snorted, and under his breath he added, “That kid’s got more chutzpah than is legal for a twelve-year-old.”

The Baron ignored the murmuring. His focus was now solely on Jonah. “Maybe one day you’ll do a bit more than basic data inputting, eh? But today it is just inputting, so why don’t you give me a demo of these skills of yours.” He grabbed a handful of old trading tickets that were in a tray on the top of the partition and handed them to Jonah. He looked at his watch and said, “Three. Two. One. Hit it!”

Jonah whipped through the tickets, reading each one over and
inputting the details as quickly as his fingers could type. He finished inside a minute. “Done,” he called out and pushed the pile of tickets back toward the Baron.

The Baron nodded, still looking at his watch. “Swift, sir.
Très vite
.
Mucho speedio
. I like what I see.”

Jonah was about to say thank you when a sudden bout of whistling erupted around the trading floor. He looked out across the floor to see what looked like an electric golf cart cruising toward them. It was driven by a woman dressed in a housemaid’s black uniform with a white apron and hat. The skirt was short, the heels were high, and the legs were clad in black stockings. Bright red lipstick provided the final touches to a very different dinner lady than the ones at his school.

“Ah! The gorgeous, pouting Miss Amelia is here with our breakfast,” the Baron called as she came to a halt next to his desk. “You are looking particularly gorgeous and particularly pouting this morning if I might say so.” He adjusted his prominently displayed neck tie, and Jonah instinctively drew his hand up to his collar, wishing that he had one of his own.

“All to keep you boys happy,” Amelia singsonged. “All to keep the wheels of finance suitably lubricated. I am here to please.” Jonah recognized the voice that had been at the end of the phone earlier. She stepped out of the cart and stood, one hand on her hip, posing provocatively for her audience. She was probably in her late twenties. “But enough of this idle talk. It is breakfast you need to keep the money flowing, not chatter.” With that, she sashayed around to the back of her cart and began to withdraw boxes from a heated compartment.

Jonah began to feel butterflies in his stomach. He hadn’t thought about the order since he’d placed it. What if he hadn’t gotten it right?

“So true, Amelia. So true,” the Baron replied. “And we also need to find out whether our young friend here has been able to deliver on his confident statement that no pen and paper were necessary to ensure that my loyal foot soldiers receive their correct rations.”

Heat rose to Jonah’s cheeks. He watched anxiously as Amelia strutted around the desk and delivered the first box to Dog. “One double decaffeinated cappuccino, with just a dab of foam. One egg and bacon sandwich, lovingly made with brown bread, expertly toasted on one side only, and with a side order of tomato ketchup,” she announced.

“Correct,” responded Dog. He made a rude sign at Milkshake.

Jonah sighed inwardly, ignoring the sign which he knew wasn’t for him. One down.

Amelia delivered the second box to Jeeves. “One chai latte, a subtle blend of Indian spices mixed with steamed milk. One bacon sandwich on white bread with the bacon grilled to perfect crispness and not a trace of tomato ketchup. And one freshly squeezed orange juice, no ice.”

“Correct,” Jeeves proclaimed.

Two down,
thought Jonah.

Amelia worked her way around the Bunker, dropping off the boxes with a variety of pouts, hair tosses, and hip sways. Each time she arrived at a new trader’s desk, she’d repeat their order aloud and receive a “correct” in response, until she was back at the Baron’s side. “And finally, one herbal tea and fruit salad for the king of the
Hellcat trading floor, who wishes to keep his instincts sharper than a leopard’s claw.” As she handed the Baron his box, Jonah noticed she brushed against him like a cat does against its owner.

“Correct on all counts, Amelia. Extraordinary scenes indeed, as the sports commentators say!” the Baron pronounced. “Which means that young sonny here has delivered the goods.” He stood up and faced Jonah. Clicking his heels together, he raised his hand in the flat-handed salute Jonah had seen all the traders give to him the day before. “I am impressed.”

Jonah smiled nervously back as Amelia presented him with his own box, giving him a conspiratorial wink, her lips pursed, trying hard to conceal her own smile. She turned to the Baron and presented him with the bill.

Jonah’s stomach plummeted as the reality of what he’d done sunk in.

“Your receipt Mr. Baron. One hundred and ninety three pounds and thirty-five pence, service not included,” announced Amelia to the whole trading floor.

“How much?” cried the Baron, grabbing the leather folder she was proffering him. The Baron’s face reddened as he opened the check case. “What is the meaning of this?”

Here goes
, thought Jonah, his heart quickening.
Do or die time.
“Well,” he piped up, “you said I was to get something for myself. And you said you could afford it. So …” He stood up and extracted a plastic container from his breakfast box. “I bought myself an iPod!”

The Baron was speechless. The rest of the Bunker, however, was in an uproar as guffaws of laughter exploded from the mouths of the traders.

“Hey, Milkshake!” shouted Dog. “That’s a ton you owe me!”

Franky yelled out, “I reckon we’ve got his nickname now. He’s IPOD!” There was even more laughter, and a chant of “iPod, iPod, iPod” started up.

“You cheeky little f—” the Baron started and then stopped, con-trolling himself and nodding. “But nice. Very nice. Chutzpah indeed. Chutzpah indeed.” He peeled off four fifty-pound notes from a gold money clip and handed them to Amelia as the chanting of “iPod! iPod! iPod!” continued. “You’ll be needing some music for it, though. I might be able to help you there,” he added, turning back to Jonah.

Jonah glowed. It had worked. He felt the same as he had at school after the candy incident—accepted, appreciated, valued. He looked toward Drizzlers’ Den wanting to tell his dad what had happened, but he was hunkered away on his phone, oblivious to the two Neanderthals throwing a ball of paper to each other back and forth over his head.

Jonah glanced down at his brand new iPod and back up at the Bunker Boys, who were even now dancing around him, shouting their approval. If Jonah had been ever so slightly confused before, now he was filled with absolute certainty—he was no Drizzler.

At eight thirty
A.M.
precisely, the Bunker went into overdrive. The comms screen in front of Jonah lit up like a cruise ship leaving port: lights flashing quickly; lights flashing slowly; lights on constantly. Everyone on the desk was attached to a phone: murmuring, cajoling, buying, selling. It was clandestine and secretive, and Jonah found himself at the center of the action.

He was sitting to the right of the Baron, as he had been the day before, but this time he was the keeper of the trades. Franky would bring him the trading tickets that the traders filled out, and it was his job to input them on the computer. First, he’d enter the stock’s ticker code—every stock had a code—then the price and then the amount. If it was a buy order, he gave it a plus number; if it was a sell order, a minus number.

The biggest trades came from the Baron. He was a general who led from the front. He had two phones in his hands at all times, and somehow he could carry out two conversations at the same
time, flicking the mute switches alternately with his thumb. Every now and then, he would add his cell phone into the mix, always holding it a few inches away from his ear. His concentration was intense, but his voice gave nothing away to the person at the other end of the phone. He might have been booking a holiday for all Jonah could tell, or at least it sounded that way when he closed his eyes. It was only when he really watched him that he could see the focus.

One thing that Franky and the others hadn’t told Jonah was that the Baron didn’t write tickets for his trades. He just looked at Jonah and told him the deals directly. He’d say things like “40k short Anglo at 1254,” and Jonah would have to deduce the meaning. Fortunately, Franky helped him get started, explaining the traders’ language to him as they went along. “40k short Anglo at 1254” meant that he had sold (short) forty thousand (K) shares of Anglo American (a massive mining company) at a price of 1,254 pence.