Man in the Middle (12 page)

After taking a gulp, Jason Ayers placed the decanter under the sink and made his way across his office. Two fingers of scotch glowed through a crystal tumbler pressed between his white knuckles. Leaving a message wasn’t the smartest move, but since he didn’t intend to spend the rest of the day—maybe the week—waiting, he had no other choice. He took a second sip and closed his eyes as the liquid scorched his throat and raced to his brain. His secretary’s intercom-voice cut through the air, snapping him to attention. He depressed the open speaker button.

“Yes, Carolyn.”

“Ms. Stenman returning your call.”

Ayers’ hands shook. He put the glass down, flipped open a breath mint box, and grabbed and swallowed half the candies in it. With his breath flowing cold across his tongue, he opened the speaker attached to line two.

“Morgan?”

“What?”

“How did Peter Neil do?”

“I’m busy,” she said.

“The polygraph? Did he pass the polygraph?”

“You sound apprehensive.”

“No, no. I only wanted to know what Peter said.”

“Is there something I should know about Peter Neil?” Stenman asked, her words feeling to Ayers like poison-darts. “Perhaps concerning his mother?”

The attorney regretted calling. What if Peter did know something about what Hannah had done? He sipped, and put the glass down, but didn’t let go. “I would have told you—that is, if I thought there was anything else taken from our offices by . . . .” He couldn’t finish.

“If the polygraph were a problem, you would have known by now,” Stenman said.

Ayers flopped down and sank into his chair. Thank God, not a problem. Change the subject, he thought.

“I really called to discuss the new offshore bank accounts.”

“A necessary change because of sloppy security at your law firm,” Morgan said coldly. “I want to hear that there will be no more Hannah Neils.”

“No. No more such problems. I know you’re busy.”

It took another minute to wrestle free of the stress-filled exchange, but once he did, Ayers breathed a deep sigh. Knowing Peter had no additional information came as an enormous relief. Now, with the issue settled, things might work out well for Peter. This was a perfect job for him and, if he thought seventy-five thousand a year was serious money, wait until he realized the boy sitting next to him made ten times that much—and that others were paid well over seven figures a year.

“I really do want to help,” Ayers said to the walls. “And yes, Peter—” he whispered, feeling better than he had in weeks, “—maybe this is how I begin repaying your parents. Give you something they never had. Make you rich.”

With a final tilt of the glass, Ayers finished his drink. Clutching the breathmints a second time, he tossed the rest of the box into his mouth. He then took the glass to the sink, rinsed it with soapy water, and replaced it on the shelf above the wet bar.

All evidence of indiscretions gone, it was time to get back to work.

 
S
HORTLY AFTER ONE P
.
M
.
ON THE
W
EST
C
OAST
—
CORRESPONDING TO THE
close of the U.S. markets—a second contingent of traders began to trickle in. During the overlapping shift, which lasted well into the afternoon, thirteen traders and at least that many support people reconciled positions and confirmed the hundreds of trades done during the morning and afternoon.

Peter learned that traders tossed their completed trade-tickets into out-boxes. Every few minutes, runners—looking like ants hustling after spilled sugar—dashed up and down the rows and collected these tickets. The handfuls of trade-records then made their way down chutes to the first floor, where trade-processing took place. These back-office professionals immediately keyed the information into in-house computers. The traders therefore had computer access to positions with only a brief time lag. The first-floor back-office was also responsible for comparing trades with the hundreds of confirms flooding Stenman Partners’ offices every day from dozens of worldwide brokers. Reconciliation of a trade break, a fail-to-deliver, or a
Don’t-Know-the-Trade
became a life and death priority.

Stuart Grimes, in a brief moment of peace, mentioned that these workers also arranged for share borrowing to facilitate short sales, monitored receipt of rebate income on short sales, negotiated margin interest rates, ADR fees, and a dozen other mumbo jumbo functions, none of which made any sense to Peter.

Close to three o’clock, Stuart spun around his chair and said, “Let’s grab the conference room and begin your education. I’m meeting a New York broker for drinks and dinner at five, so that’ll give us a couple of hours.”

Before rising, Peter asked, “What’s a New York broker doing in San Diego?”

Stuart put a paternalistic hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We’re gods, dude—that’s what they’re doing here: paying homage to the money. We fork-over a hundred million a year in commissions to brokers. Every trade, every time we buy stock in a secondary or IPO, some institutional salesperson makes some serious scratch—we have several sales-traders who make over a million dollars a year, just off our account. These bozos come to town all the time to brown-nose. Wait until Christmas.”

“A hundred million in commission?”

“More than that,” Stuart answered. “I have no idea what Howard Muller pays out on his shit. And that doesn’t even include Stenman’s farmed-out money.”

“What’s ‘farmed-out’ mean?”

“Morgan’s taken some of the money she’s raised offshore—that means money domiciled abroad—and turned it over to outside money managers. You remember that guy Stanley Drucker? The one that blew himself up?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

“He was one of the managers that had a small chunk. Guys like Drucker charge us 1% for their efforts. We still get to keep 20% of the profits. Between you, me, and these walls, even though the money is supposedly invested at the sole discretion of these outside managers, Muller and Stenman tell them what to buy and sell.”

“Why not manage it ourselves?” Peter asked, confused by such a convoluted scheme.

Stuart took his hand off Peter’s shoulder. Across the room, Howard Muller filled the doorframe of his office. “I don’t know,” Stuart said, sounding tense.

“Neil! At five. That’s when I’ll have time for you.”

Peter nodded. “Fine . . . good. Five. Okay, Mr. Muller.”

The CIO shook his enormous head as if what Peter had said was idiotic. “Fine, good, okay,” he mimicked. Muller turned and shut his door.

“Is he always such a prick?” Peter asked.

“Pretty much a two hundred forty-pound blood blister,” Stuart confirmed.

“A misanthrope,” Peter said.

“A what?”

“He’s a misanthrope. Someone having an aversion to his fellow man.”

“What’re you? A dictionary?”

“He’s a jerk,” Peter said, wishing he hadn’t stretched his vocabulary. “That sound better?”

“Yeah, he’s a hammered-shit jerk. But—and it’s the almighty
but
— Muller’s got contacts in high places, and he’ll pay you some big-bucks if you learn how to make him and this firm money. What’d you think of his hobby?”

“The Civil War stuff?”

“Strange, don’t you think?”

“Is there a story to that?” Peter asked.

“Muller is a closet bigot, I think—wishes the South had won. He’d like to have slaves working these phones.”

“That’s funny,” Peter said, smiling at the thought of traders chained to computers, and Muller, in a golf cart, whipping them to make more money.

“Not that funny. The man’s schizo in the head. Last time he overindulged in my presence, he talked about his Nimrodic war theories. That was after the SEC dropped the Treasury manipulation investigation. Morgan treated us to Dom Perignon—a case of the stuff. A small reward for all of us circling the wagons.”

“Treasury investigation?” Peter asked.

“A long story with a happy ending. I’ll tell you about it another day. Anyway, Muller drank too much and let his hair down. I had to endure a profane lecture on why the South lost the Civil War. He thinks the Southern generals weren’t, in his words, ‘fucking ruthless enough.’ When Northern generals like Sherman marched through the South, they burned plantations, raped women, murdered everyone in their path. If Lee and the South’s other gentleman-generals had done the same thing, the North would have capitulated. At least that’s Muller’s theory.”

“Sounds a tad revisionist. The South lost because they had limited resources, no manufacturing, and—”

“Who gives a rat’s-ass, dude?” Stuart said, hiking his shoulders into his neck.

Peter felt stupid for debating the issue. “You’re right. Who cares? I used to collect baseball cards.”

Stuart leaned back and said, “Anyway, with Muller it’s more than a hobby; it’s life. He looks at creating wealth as warfare—and in a way, he has a point. His theory about the effectiveness of ruthless tactics applies. This is a business where the weak perish. Scruples are . . . anyway, it’s all about making scratch, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Okay. Since you brought it up, how the hell does one make all this money for the funds?”

“Good question. I should write a book, but then I’d end up in jail.” Stuart grinned.

“Jail?”

“I’m kidding, dude. Back to making money. First, you gotta learn the various trading vehicles: options, futures, stocks, bonds, currency, commodities, whatever. Then you gotta develop relationships with CEOs, specialists on the floor of the exchanges, analysts, syndicate managers, anybody and everybody. Find out what punches their button, then punch away. That’s why I go out with these brokers when they travel to San Diego—that and occasionally getting laid. Then squeeze everyone and everything for all their worth. Gain access to the best sources of information. Use money as leverage to acquire what you need to know—commission dollars are as good as cold, hard cash. If commissions aren’t an option, then . . . well, you’ll figure that out in due time.”

“To that end,” Peter said, “let’s get me up to speed.” He pointed his head at the empty conference room.

“They told me to take you under my wing, so might as well get started. By the way, when you finish with Muller, you ought to come join me with the salesperson from Gordon, Ashe. She’s a hotty and she’s bringing along a co-worker.”

Peter thought he saw a shameless leer overtake Stuart’s grin.

Once inside the conference room, Peter plowed through his list of questions, but each answer produced a new set of questions.

Another two hours later, standing outside Muller’s office and waiting to be summoned, Peter felt his head ache with an overdose of information.

Peter waited a couple of minutes for Attila the Boss to notice him. He leaned against a pillar off to one side. Once Muller made eye contact, his brows furrowed and his eyes rolled. Peter took that as an invitation to enter.

The moment Peter stepped in, Muller snatched a phone and pasted it to his ear. Turning from Peter, not bothering to excuse himself, he said, “At 4:07 Pacific time, the dollar cross-rate was: 3.32. I buy one billion. Sold at . . .” Muller lifted and bent his left arm, exposing a heavy gold wristwatch. Peter noticed he wore a wedding ring. Poor woman.