The Adored (15 page)

As a roommate, at first Barnes found the obnoxious Mr. Crane amusing. Unbred, as wild as he looked, but disciplined when he focused. Leonard Crane would die for a true friend, and he told Barnes he felt that way about him. That statement, that outpouring of need by Crane, allowed Barnes to go beyond Crane’s faults and accept him without reservation.

Others did not always see Crane that way. Part of his success at Morgan and Blackthorn Investments came from his large network of people in the financial community. He was surprisingly charming to those who could help him, and he freely shared knowledge with all of his associates. He was not selfish; he was very giving. But when pressed, when he felt trapped, like the time a client called his managing director at Morgan and complained about the promises Crane had made to induce an investment that utterly failed and was far too risky for that client’s profile of risk tolerance, he would lie. Crane was working in product sales then. He did sell his products well, and he did tend to inflate possibilities since they were only that, possibilities. Confronted by his manager of the client’s claims, he denied promising the outsized returns the client said he had. There was a bit of ping pong as the managing director went back to the client, but when the client produced a tape recording he had made of a phone call with Crane stating what sounded like promises, Crane was trapped in his lie.

He was quietly let go. Many of the brightest MBAs take unusual risks on Wall Street; it is the nature of the financial community. Many are let go, but discretely, without malice, as everyone has secrets and alienation is not an attribute wanted with exiting employees.

But also because of that silence, characters are easily able to slip under the ethical radar and pop up elsewhere. With Crane’s experience as a trader, before his promotion to marketing at Morgan, he was eagerly sought at Blackthorn, many of whose younger executives and traders he knew. Trading was profitable at Blackthorn. He was earning in the low three hundred thousands.

However, the character problems persisted. As might be expected with a deeply insecure person, with a history of reacting without thinking when cornered, he would continue his pattern and lie. A series of these incidents had been accumulating at Blackthorn, and the sun was setting on Leonard Crane’s financial future.

This particular morning, before his meeting with Parker Barnes, Leonard Crane had been thinking about that future. With time on his hands until their lunchtime meeting, Crane walked up from his apartment on West 112th St, to Olive’s at West 116th St and Broadway, directly across from Columbia University’s main gate, where he experienced his greatest joys in life.

He sat in the window nursing a cup of coffee. Outside, snow was in the forecast, and it was cold. This was all a game he thought: school, his job, this city. The game, the scam, it was everywhere in the city. Open and galling and people were still falling for it. On the corner of 116th St, he watched as two tall black men played homeless tag. This was their corner. One would work it for four hours, holding the cup and accumulate change from the guilty, and then be relieved by the other. The first man reached in the can, took his earnings from begging and handed the can to the second.

There was no sign on the can, neither man spoke during the hand off. The second began his shift just thrusting the can out to the steady stream of the throng. And the guilty among them, Crane figured about every twentieth person, put something in the can. Occasionally, someone would strike up a conversation. Not to be rude, the can man would quickly end it. This was business, and the can would be thrust out again.

The previous day on 3rd Ave, near 44th St, just up from the UN he passed by a beggar, a Latino, who was holding his can out while talking on a cell phone. As he watched in disbelief, occasionally someone would put money in the can. The Latino would stop talking on the cell phone for a moment and say, “Thank you. God bless you.”

Crane wondered now, looking into his coffee, is this where I’m headed, becoming one of the con men of the earth. They were everywhere with their hands out.

Mr. Crane did learn that these men were
everywhere
, not just on the streets but in the offices where he worked. They ran the big banks, they were his managing directors, they were who he was to become. And the lying would help him get there.

In the meantime, he had been on notice at Blackthorn; the next instance of dishonesty or lying and he would be history. That was the way his team leader, Sidney Rogers, put it, “You’ll be history, Crane.” The pit bull in Crane reared up in Rogers’s office. He went chest to chest with the taller man, who was more than shocked at this behavior.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Crane?” he asked, somewhat fearfully.

And with a further chest bump that moved the man back two feet, Crane replied, “Just letting you know what’s in store if my trading desk is suddenly no longer mine.”

“What?” Rogers yelled. It was the wrong approach.

“Did you not hear what the fuck I just said?” a Hulk-like character now loomed beneath the incredulous Rogers.

Somewhat trembling, Rogers walked by Crane, opened the door, and did not say another word. Crane smartly took the cue and left.

That was two days before, and he was now grateful that Barnes had been receptive to him interviewing with Brunswick Fund, since his exit paperwork at Blackthorn was probably being prepared at this moment.

McDales’s was one of a thousand Irish bars in the city that were located in neighborhoods. In a long narrow room in front, it had two rows of tables looking out on 2nd Ave. Inside a second side street entrance, a large dining room had tables spread about, but back maybe fifteen feet or so from the bar that ran the full length of the dining room. The space was for the four thirty crowd that stood three deep until eight or so in the evening.

At the end of the dining room, there was a short passageway with restrooms on both sides and an entrance into the kitchen on the left. The end of the passageway had a private dining room that seated ten to twelve comfortably at a French country maple table. This evening there were just six at the table; the quarterly meeting of the BF was underway. It was a rite that had been ongoing for nearly ten years. The location floated, many times to accommodate members, but mostly it was held in the city, after work since six of the partners worked or had offices in the city. The other, Traynor Johnson, was a Navy Seal fighting in Afghanistan. This evening only Traynor was absent. Gideon Bridge came up from Wall St., Sebastian Ball, Edward Wheelwright, Kish Moira, Parker Barnes, and Winston Trout had offices for their businesses in midtown.

“On the agenda that I shot out to you in the e-mail last week is a consideration that we take BF to the next level,” Wheelwright was saying as the other five were putting the last touches on dinner, “from private investment vehicle for the seven of us to a formal hedge fund, open to outside investors of independent means: initial investment, half a million.”

“Why in hell would you want to leave JP Morgan,” Winston Trout said, “to run this little toy? What am I missing, Eddie.”

“You want all this grief of dealing with more than us, Edward?” Sebastian Ball laughed.

“You fellas are a piece of cake, compared to what I deal with daily.” Wheelwright said, “But really, Winston, we have grown this to a sizeable sum. Twenty-eight million is not a toy. I think we have a strong base to begin, and as we talked the last couple of times and you’ve seen in the prospectus that Kish and I have put together, we think we can grow it into a sizeable competitor of Sebastian’s dad’s fund.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it,” mocked Ball.

Kish jumped in, “Yes, we think if the Balls can make that kind of money, imagine what we can do.”

The friends laughed; they understood the objectives that were discussed.

Parker Barnes spoke up, “And, Kish, you want to go into this with Eddie?”

“It’s time for a change for me and building my own fund is exactly what I need to do right now,” Moira said, continuing, “Eddie and I have talked about this for over two years. We see what’s out there. Our skills match up with anyone; we have a great client list we can bring with us. We have a strong network. Two of the other guys we want to bring along have outstanding technology backgrounds.”

“And,” Wheelwright jumped in supportively, “the returns we expect to see will be in the 30 percent per year range, minimum. Certainly attractive enough for each of you to up your current portfolios.”

“We haven’t finished dinner, and we’re already getting the arm put on us,” Gideon Bridge said from his place at the end of the table as he sipped a cup of tea.

Sebastian endorsed the idea first, “I say we go ahead. Hell we can only lose twenty-eight million,” and laughing loudly, for he loved to laugh, “and what’s twenty-eight million among friends.”

“If that’s the way Eddie and Kish want to go, I’m also for it,” said Gideon

“Parker?” Wheelwright said, since a unanimous vote was required—it was the way they always operated.

“Absolutely.”

“And Sebastian, how about Tray?” Kish asked.

“Tray’s in; we exchanged e-mails the other day while he was busy killing Taliban,” Sebastian laughed again, the easy laugh of the billionaire’s son.

“Terrific, thanks guys,” Wheelwright said. “And Parker also has a trading and operations manager from Blackthorn’s hedge fund he wants us to talk to, Leonard Crane.”

Gideon spoke up, “Do we need to speak with him; I mean isn’t the management of the fund going to be Eddie and Kish’s responsibility. I don’t want to be micromanaging you.”

“No, it’s a fair point,” Wheelwright said, “It’s just that it’s a key position, and I thought you might like to talk with him also.”

“Leonard Crane,’ Sebastian began, “Don’t we know that name,” and looking at Barnes said, “Parker, where do we know Crane from.”

“He was my roommate at Columbia, terrific financial background.” Barnes said.

“No, that’s not it. Further back, I just can’t get it.” Ball concluded.

“He was at Brunswick with us,” Barnes offered up.

“Not Lenny the Jew? That’s it, isn’t it?” Ball said, starting his laugh.

“Parker, is that true, Lenny the Jew?” Gideon enjoined, looking at Sebastian and the both broke up, with the others joining in, including Barnes.

“First off, Lenny’s Irish and Catholic,” Barnes began.

“And that’s better?” Sebastian said, and another round of laughter ensued among the friends.

“If you must remember, at least remember that Lenny always wanted to join the fund,” Barnes came back at the other five, “He reminded me only today. He was the one in Mr. Conetta’s Great Questions Class who was upset when he couldn’t join.”

“And now he’s waited all these years?” Sebastian kept it up, laughing.

“Damn it, Sebastian, stop it,” Gideon laughed, “I can’t finish my tea without spilling it.

“Kish and I will talk with him after,” Wheelwright said. “He’s been having dinner outside with Santa. I’ll shoot you guys a note if we take him on. Parker is very high on him.”

“OK, sorry for the grief, Parker,” Sebastian said sheepishly.

Kish and Wheelwright were impressed with Crane’s background, his knowledge and experiences. They were the two most difficult for Crane to get passing marks from since they had the same pedigree. Since they had their own reasons for joining Brunswick Fund full time, they did not press Crane on why he would leave Blackthorn to come with Brunswick Funk at a smaller salary, but with the opportunity for outsized bonuses and eventual partnership. They should have.

Chapter 23

The screen on Kishenlal Moira’s computer popped to life, ablaze in colors, charts and numbers flashing by at the speed of light. The large screen monitor partitioned into four squares showed all he needed to know about the stocks he was buying and selling. The bids and asks constantly dancing, streaming trades flowing like a river, and graphs in red and green showing the trends of the stock. The fourth partition had all the vital data on a particular stock: its selling price, last trade, the daily high and low as well as where it opened today and closed yesterday.

Two additional computers flanked the main one that Kish was concentrating on. He moved back and forth between the computer on the right constantly looking at the main screen as the trades accelerated and now waned. He waited, crouching like a cat. The trajectory of the graph rose higher and higher. The trades were now viral, flowing rapidly as computer trading kicked in, trading hundreds of thousands of shares in seconds. The price rose to eight seventy-five, and knowing it was reaching a crescendo, he pressed the “sell” button on the computer next to him. He looked left and saw his trade of five hundred thousand shares flash by; he pushed a second button, another five hundred thousand shares sold. In the first fifteen minutes of trading, he had made two million dollars as the price leapt from six seventy-five the night before to his selling price of eight seventy-five.

Kish sat back and watched the stock continue as if heading to infinity. It reached $9.10. Then it happened as it does on all viral stocks. The green disappeared from the screen; the peak flattened and abruptly red appeared. The quadrant that showed green as the trades accelerated now showed red as the selloff began as the direction headed south. Bids and asks fluctuated wildly. A brief counter attack began and green flashed again only to be overwhelmed by a sea of red. As the counter attack began, Kish pushed the sell button on a separate screen. He sold three hundred thousand shares short at a price of eight ninety. Two hours later he bought those three hundred thousand shares back at a price of $7.25—another half million dollar profit.