The Last Trade (24 page)

 

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20

1

New York City

R
ick Salvado doesn't bother to turn on the bank of video monitors in his office this morning. He doesn't bother to check the overnights or the futures or any of that other bullshit.

From now on, he thinks, none of that matters. For the next thirty-six hours he
is
the market. He will make and break it.

It's 5:25
A.M.
The call is in five minutes.

He walks to his window and looks out at the Hudson. A tug pulling a barge out of the harbor, past the Statue of Liberty. The lights of commuter ferries blinking back and forth from Hoboken and Weehawken and points north. He thinks of his first job, before he was married, before he became rich. On the Mercantile Exchange, working for some douchenozzle who had a seat trading oil. “Light, sweet crude oil,” the jackass told him on his first day, “the most wanted and valuable form of crude oil in the world.”

For two years he took a bus from Fort Lee because he couldn't afford to live in the city. The moon and stars were out when he waited at his stop in the morning and again when he went home at night. For two years he lived and died by the fortunes of his boss, and light, sweet crude. Each contract was for one thousand barrels, or forty-two thousand gallons. The contracts were and still are traded for twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes each day from Monday to Friday (with a break from 5:15
P.M.
to 6
P.M.
), and from 9
A.M.
until 2:30
P.M.
in the open outcry, also called the pit session. He worked twelve-hour shifts, starting at 5:15
A.M.
, and discovered everything he needed to know about life and money in the pit, one of last places where buyers and sellers trade by hand signals and shouting. He found the primal, bloodthirsty competition nothing less than addicting. Often, when the guy working the late shift couldn't make it, he would volunteer to cover, working thirty-six straight hours.

When his boss got it right, young Salvado would sometimes get a spot bonus, nothing special, a few thousand here and there, and the occasional invite out for happy hour drinks. There he would pick at and probe every worthwhile quadrant of the greedy bastard's mind. And of course, when his boss got it wrong, when he'd lose big on the day or hit a prolonged slump, Salvado bore the brunt of his wrath.

It was those radical mood swings in his small, white, alternately generous and irascible boss that prompted Salvado to call him, behind his back, by the name of the commodity they traded: Light Sweet Crude.

For two years he helped make his boss tens of millions of dollars, only to be fired one brutal Friday afternoon in October. To this day, other than the fact that his boss was losing that week, he doesn't know why he was shit-canned. When he asked why, his boss said, “You should have seen the writing on the wall.”

“The wall of what?” he answered. “A pit?”

In retrospect, he often thinks, after what happened to his father, he
should
have seen it coming. That day he vowed to do whatever it takes to succeed, and to never again be surprised by the markets and the people who control them.

At 5:30 the cell phone rings. He has a mobile for work, one for personal calls, and a phone just for this.

He answers: “Calypso.”

“What if his great father came from the unknown world and rove these men like dead leaves through the place?”

“Right,” Salvado replies. “Now I need to ask you a question.”

“All right.”

“What the fuck happened? Why so messy?”

“This is not a simple plan.”

“Maybe it should have been,” he says. “Maybe you got too cute.”

“Cute?”

“Ambitious. Unnecessarily complex. Killing . . .”

“We couldn't afford the risk.”

“That's how you deal with risk?”

“We eliminate it. It's how . . .”

Salvado slams a hand his desktop. “It's how things fail! It's how people get caught. What about the other one? The loosest loose end?”

“We are working tirelessly to ensure that he is found.”

Salvado looks back out the window. “So at lunch I do a tech walk-through. Everything in place?”

“Yes. And the transition?”

“Jesus. We went over this. It starts when the markets open here. Sometimes I think no one is paying attention to—”

“Just making sure.”

“What about my cars? The flights. Because there's no way I'm sticking around—”

“It's all good.”

Salvado sighs. “Listen. We need to find this fucking guy.”

“You said he was a geek. Not much of a threat.”

“I've upgraded him from geek to pain in the ass.”

* * *

He sits on a couch facing the windows. First light touches the storm clouds from below before the sun breaks the horizon to the east, transforming black into eerie silver. The clouds roll low and fast across the still-dark river as if captured in time lapse. Four hours until the markets open. Then things will be better because then it will be all about work and execution. Cumulative steps toward a goal. There's no time to worry or second-guess or rage while the markets are open, or the cameras are rolling, or you have the attention of an auditorium. It's the downtime like now that has always been difficult. Memory lives in the downtime, as well as conscience and guilt.

At 7:15 the office phone rings. Caller ID announces it's Deborah. His ex. They haven't spoken in weeks, and it occurs to him that it's likely they will never speak again. While the office phone is still ringing, his personal cell also begins to ring. How the hell can she do that? he thinks. Harassing me in stereo. He takes the call on the cell.

“What, Deborah?”

“I want you and your attorneys to move it. I want this done as soon as possible.”

“It will be done very soon, Deborah.”

“Do me a favor: Try not to flush the rest of the fund down the toilet before we settle.”

“The fund will turn around. Soon, Deborah.”

“I hope. Because right now its vibe is not very positive at all.”

“Oh, really?”

“Look at the numbers. I bet your clients are circling the wagons.”

“If they're loyal, they'll be rewarded. Same goes for you.”

“That sounds like some kind of threat.”

“You'll know when I'm threatening, Deb.”

“Really? Did Danny Weiss?”

“What?”

“Anyone else at The Rising fall this week?”

He stands again. It's light outside. He thinks, How'd I miss the sunrise? “What are you talking about?”

“The young guy. Weiss.”

“How'd you know about Weiss?”

“I read the paper; I follow all things associated with the fund, Rick. Until we settle, it's kind of important that I do.”

“I barely knew the guy.”

“What about Drew Havens? How well do you know him?”

“Not very. Because apparently he's a suspect.”

“Do you think Drew Havens is capable of murder, Rick? Because, you know, you told me he was probably the most decent person you've ever worked with.”

“I'm never surprised by the things that people are capable of. Including Havens. Including murder.”

“Why would Havens murder Danny Weiss?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You sound agitated, Rick. Are you having another one of your episodes?”

“Is this why you called, to torment me?”

“I called to see what is going on with my fortune. To see if you're about to piss it all away.”

He doesn't answer.

“I don't like it when people come to my house asking questions about your psychological makeup. I'm a good liar, but . . .”

“Who?”

“Miranda Havens.”

“I thought they were through.”

“Apparently not. She was snooping on his behalf.”

“And you told her what?”

“Nothing of value. Like I said, darling, I want my money.”

“You'll get your money.”

“Maybe, in light of things, I should get more. You know, for keeping my mouth shut.”

“Really? I thought our agreement has always been that you are to keep your mouth shut.”

“That was about money. Murder . . . murder's different.”

“You're right, Deb. That is different. That warrants a whole other sort of agreement, with a whole other set of rewards and penalties for anyone who threatens to break it.”

She lets this register, wrestling with the fear of losing her fortune and the fear of losing her life. “What are you up to, Rick?”

“Setting things straight is what I'm up to. Settling karmic scores. By the way, where is Mrs. Havens these days? Still in Westchester—is it Katonah?”

“I'm gonna go now, Rick.”

“And you're going to keep your formerly pretty mouth shut, correct?”

“Sure,” Deborah Salvado answers. “Why change now?”

After his wife hangs up, he pockets the phone and slams his right palm against the window. He's watching the river but is thinking about Miranda Havens and Deborah, his wife, and how to make them go away.

A moment later his office landline rings. It's security.

“Gregory and Lisa from CNBC here to see you.”

He looks at his watch: 7:35. He'd forgotten all about the interview, and he never forgets an interview. They want to do a quick teaser remote about tomorrow's inaugural DAVOS WEST (World Economic, Security, and Technology) Conference. “Sure,” he answers, already arranging sound bites in his head. “Send them up.”

He applies his own makeup. A touch of powder to his nose and forehead. A smidgen of gel to keep the graying curls on the side of his head from puffing out. He stares at himself in the mirror longer than usual, and usual is long to begin with. He wants to see what they'll see. If they can detect a chink in the armor. Instability in the eyes.

“Hey, hey!” he says, bounding across the office. “If it isn't the wacky morning crew.”

Lisa and Greg laugh. They've done this with Salvado dozens of times before, and with each interview the line between journalism and patronage fades a shade lighter. “We're going on in five,” says Lisa, the producer. “Simple Q and A with Ron in the studio.”

“DAVOS WEST, right? The geek fest that's making Comic-Con look like it's halfway cool.”

“Right.”

“Live?”

“Actually, no. We're taping for a whole package that we're gonna air tonight. A conference-eve spectacular.”

“Hmmm.” Salvado thinks about what he'd say live now versus taped for later. Tonight. He thinks of one of the rules he actually believes from his best-selling book,
Confessions of a Market Mercenary—
Number 3: Context Is Everything.

“Between us, what I say now and what I would want to say tonight might be different.”

Lisa looks at Gregory, then Salvado. “You don't want to do it?”

“Oh, I do want to do it. I just need your assurance, your word, that it won't air until tonight.”

The producer and cameraman look at each other and shrug. “Sure,” says Lisa.

“I say this because it will be a reflection of activities I'm going to execute today, you know?”

“Sure, gotcha.”

Salvado continues. “Ron, too. No one back at the studio can use or comment or report until—”

“We won't even start putting it together until after the markets close, so no problem.”

“Cool,” Salvado answers, walking over to the set. Then to Gregory: “The sky's looking especially spectacular this morning. I was wondering if maybe you could shoot a bit more south, get the statue in frame just over my shoulder.”

2

Darien, Connecticut

M
iranda Havens picks up on the second ring. “Deb?”

“We need to talk.”

“Well, sure. I can . . . whenever you want. Do you want me to come back up to Darien?”

“Not the best idea.”

“What's going on?”

“When you have everything, you either get out or let the madness in.”

“Deb?”

“Rick said this to me once during a fight. I'd just found receipts for a sex junket he took to Cuba. Receipts and photos, the asshole. Soon after that, after yet another string of his rages about the government-sponsored ruination of his family, the slights from the media, I gave up and let the madness in.”

“I'm sorry about that, Deb, but . . .”

“In the days after he first moved out, before he came back to collect his belongings, I pored over his personal effects. Scrapbooks, letters, insurance papers, travel documents, and passports. Several. I was looking for evidence to use against him in our divorce trial, but what I found, Miranda . . . That kid's murder—I'm terrified it's just the beginning . . . and you know, I don't want to be a part of the madness anymore.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Are you at your—”

“No. It became, well . . . unsafe. I'm in the city. Chelsea.”

“Hotel?”

Miranda pauses, at first reluctant to say exactly where she is.

“That's awfully sentimental of you.”

“You know,” Miranda says, surprised that Deborah remembers, “the police came to my place in Katonah yesterday. And I'm pretty sure someone else did, too. The police think Drew killed Danny Weiss.”

“I know. It's not right. Is he okay? Is he safe?”

“I don't know. We haven't spoken.”

Deborah doesn't believe this, but she doesn't blame Miranda for keeping quiet. “So, where?”

Miranda thinks. The rooftop of the Gansevoort. “What about our place? You know, where we went for your birthday, when we were still friends.”

“Sure.”

“I'm curious, what does your husband have to say about any of this?”

“That's why I want to meet. My husband is an animal.”