Trump Tower (29 page)

“What's going on?” Joey came into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe. He saw the ocelot under the table eating the chicken. “Fuck me.”

Ricky stood there shaking his head. “Where'd that chicken come from?”

C
arson was desperate to find the missing 9 percent, when Arcarro stopped by to see how he was doing.

“It's tough,” he told his partner, “because I don't know what I'm looking for and won't know until after I find it.”

“Where are you looking?”

“Obviously, I started in Japan. But some of it could be anywhere. Hong Kong. Singapore. Malaysia. Maybe in the States. Maybe in Europe.”

“Have you tried the moon?”

“That's probably not as much of a joke as you think it is.”

“I'm not joking. I think you're going about it backward. You're looking for a single needle in a field of haystacks.”

“Yeah?”

“Instead of trying to find the needle, try hiding one and see what the haystacks have to say.”

Carson stared at his partner for several seconds, then began to smile. “EXIT-Strategies?”

“Great minds really do think alike,” Arcarro said, and left Carson to get on with the hunt.

EXIT-Strategies was the invention of Milt McKeever who, like Carson, was also a Goldman Sachs refugee. But McKeever had gotten out back in 2000 when the getting was really good, took a bundle of cash with him and set up EXIT. It stood for Electronic Xchange and International Trading. McKeever's aim was to compete on a small scale with Goldman's Sigma X, Credit Suisse's CrossFinder, and all the other big guys like BNP Paribas, Citi, Deutsche Bank, Morgan Stanley and UBS that were swimming in “dark pools.”

A hidden-from-public-view market for trading very large blocks of shares in one go, they're officially known as “dark pools of liquidity.” Much the way a black hole in space absorbs everything within its reach, these unseen dark pools suck the liquidity out of the market until it completely disappears. The names of the sellers and the names of the buyers are not revealed before the trade or, necessarily, even after the trade. In fact, it's only after the trade that the price is disclosed.

Absolutely legal, and accounting for a very significant percentage of America's daily stock trading volume—some reports say 12 percent, some say 25 percent—it is the playground of speculators, traders, moguls and hedge fund managers who wish to move in and out of shares without tipping their hand to the general public, which might otherwise affect the big markets, like the NYSE and the NASDAQ, where everybody else has to play.

Because the blocks traded in these dark pools have to be large—minimums generally run anywhere from ten thousand shares to as high as one hundred thousand—this is not a market for the average investor.

Nor is it a market for the fainthearted. Tens of millions of dollars change hands and the time it takes is measured in milliseconds.

When Carson got McKeever on the phone and asked about Shigetada, McKeever said he didn't think anything was floating around at the moment. “Not a company we see a lot of. Like never.”

“Where can I find some?”

“I'll look around for you. There are a few dark pools in Asia, mainly Hong Kong, but they're small and generally incestuous. You want GM or Citi or Exxon, no problem. Shigetada? Probably not. But if I find anything, we can handle the trade for you.”

“I'd be grateful,” Carson said.

Not five minutes later, McKeever was on the phone again. “There's a tiny operator in Hong Kong who's got three hundred thousand.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Nah . . . they've been sitting around for over a week. Looks like the price is forty-one and a half.”

“We know who he is?”

“No. Then again, that's the point.”

“I'll call you right back.” Carson got off the line with him and dialed Ken Warring's cell. “You up yet?”

“Crack of dawn. What's happening?”

“It's late for you . . .” He checked the time. “It's six thirty your time.”

“Except I'm in LA.”

“Whoops.” That meant it was 4:30 for Warring. “I'm really sorry about that.”

“What's up?”

“We're looking around for our best friend's shares and I've found about half a percent's worth in Hong Kong.”

“How much and who's selling?”

“Forty-one. And we don't know. It's been sitting in a dark pool for a week.”

“Where did it close in Tokyo and what was the volume?”

“Hold on.” He brought a screen up on his laptop. “Forty-four and change. And . . . nothing. None. Zip.”

Warring decided, “If you can get it for under forty, go ahead. But put it offshore. If nothing else, we can always arbitrage it and make a few pennies.”

“No one's buying at forty-four . . . and whoever this is can't sell at forty-one . . . we may have to rethink our numbers.”

“When are you going out there?”

“Wednesday.”

“I'm sure we'll talk again before the cows come home.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Can't now.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you woke me.” Warring hung up.

Carson made a face, “Should have turned your phone off,” then rang McKeever back. “We'll take it at thirty-eight.”

“I'll try. First Ace?”

“No.” He thought quickly. “Put it through . . . company's called Pennin Inc. It's Hong Kong.”

“Pen and . . . ink?”

“Our little joke,” he said. “Pennin.” He spelled it. “Pennin Inc. Hong Kong Holdings.”

“Call you back.”

Off the phone with McKeever, Carson took a fast look at the Pennin account, which was held at HSBC in Hong Kong, to make certain there were sufficient funds. There were.

But when McKeever got back to him, he said, “No soap. Best is forty and a half.”

“Pass,” Carson said. “But keep an eye out, will you? We're buyers under forty.” Then he remembered what Arcarro said about haystacks. “In fact, we're sellers, too. Can I move twenty-five thousand with you?”

“Yeah, we'll take it.”

“All right, twenty-five at forty. Let's see if we can wake up the haystacks.”

M
ESUMI
walked back into the office after lunch.

“That was one helluva cup of coffee,” Carson noted.

“Sorry,” she said. “That took a little longer than I'd expected. Cost us lunch.”

“Us?”

“You.”

“What did I get for my sashimi?”

“Why do you immediately assume that when two Japanese American women get together for lunch, they have sashimi?”

“What did you have?”

She handed him the bill. “Happy now?”

He looked at it, smiled, took $30 from his pocket, and handed it to her. “Does that include the tip?”

The bill was for two pastramis on rye with Swiss cheese, coleslaw, pickles and . . .

“Cel-Ray Tonic?” He pointed to the bill. “Who drinks Cel-Ray Tonic?”

“I love it.”

“Something else you learned at Princeton?”

“No. Princeton was during the week. Cel-Ray Tonic was sophomore year weekends in New York with Ethan Pearlman.”

“Ethan Pearlman?” He was surprised. “Sammy Pearlman's son?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“Ah . . . I don't know. I'm not surprised but . . . I would have thought that the kid . . . I mean, given that his father is one of the top-ten richest guys on Wall Street . . .”

“An acquired taste,” she said.

“Ethan?”

“Cel-Ray Tonic.” She shook her head. “Do you want to know what you got for your thirty bucks including the tip?”

“Besides the fact that we now have a way into Sammy Pearlman's shop? The kid works there, doesn't he?”

“Besides the fact that he dumped me bad and wound up marrying someone else, and I got even with him by posting a few inappropriate photos of him on the Net . . .”

“Wow . . . there's a whole side of you I never knew about.”

“Which starts and ends with Cel-Ray Tonic,” she said sternly. “Ren was helpful. What would you like to know about Chiba Investment Bank?”

“Small . . . family owned, I think. Why? Are they holding Shigetada?”

“What did you say . . . eighteen with the institutions? That left nine?”

“Right.”

“Chiba has six of the nine.”

“Oooh,” his eyes opened wide. “This is good. But how come it doesn't show up anywhere?”

“Old man Shigetada . . . not the son, but the father . . . that's his brother's wife's family.”

“Old man . . . brother's wife . . .” He tried to work that out. “Our guy . . . that would be his aunt's family?”

“His cousins. They're holding the shares in various trusts.”

“Good work,” he said. “Really good.”

She nodded and started to walk away, then turned to him, “You ever tell anybody that I was sleeping with Ethan Pearlman . . .”

He grinned. “I promise not to mention it to more than nine people.”

She didn't find that funny.

Carson went to his office to take a close look at the Chiba Investment Bank.

Except for the fact that they were holding 6 of the missing 9 percent, he didn't realize how valuable this information was going to be until he stumbled
across a tiny blurb in one of the market tip sheets that referenced a lawsuit in Tokyo.

The Chiba cousins had sued Shigetada over a governance issue.

Carson immediately e-mailed his lawyers in Tokyo and asked them to send him whatever they could find, in English, on the matter.

Then he picked up the phone and rang Peter Mann's Wines on Madison Avenue. He got Peter on the line and told him, “That Burgundy you sent me last year . . .”

He thought for a moment. “Nineteen ninety Musigny from De Vogué?”

“That's it.”

“I need another case.”

“It's great, isn't it?”

“Can you get me a case?”

“I'm sure I can find one.” But then he warned Carson, “The price has gone up. It's like nine hundred bucks a bottle.”

“Whatever.” Carson gave him Mesumi's home address. “Put in a card from me that reads, “Really good job. Thank you.”

“Done,” Peter said. “Anything else?”

“No . . . and thanks.” But then he changed his mind. “Actually, yes. I don't know where you're going to find it, but if anyone can . . . with that order, send her three cases of Cel-Ray Tonic.”

A
white stretch limousine pulled up to the residents' entrance on Fifty-Sixth Street, and a tall man in his early sixties with very short, dark hair jumped out.

He was wearing tight, black leather pants, a black silk shirt with a gold silk scarf tied loosely around his neck, a lot of gold jewelry and sunglasses.

“Good morning, sir,” Roberto opened the door for him and motioned toward the concierge desk.

The man went there and announced in a clipped British accent, “Miss Cyndi Benson, please.”

Felicity smiled, “Yes sir, may I tell her who's calling?”

“Horace Belgrave,” he announced. “Please tell her that her chariot awaits.”

“Certainly sir.” Felicity dialed Cyndi's apartment, and when she answered, Felicity announced, “Mr. Belgrave and your chariot await.”

“Be right down,” Cyndi said.

Felicity smiled at Horace, “She will be right down.”

But it was another twenty-five minutes before Cyndi appeared.

Wearing no makeup, no jewelry, and with wet hair under a red mariner's flat cap, she was dressed in faded-blue Roberto Cavalli jeans torn at the knees, a simple red and black T-shirt, red trainers, and was carrying a really big red canvas shoulder bag with the words “Dirt Cheap” in black on the side.

“Darling . . .” Horace fell into her arms. “I have missed you terribly . . .”

She hugged and kissed him, waved at Felicity, took Horace's arm in hers, kissed him again, and started out the door.

Roberto tipped his hat. “Good morning, ma'am . . . sir.”

“Hi,” she said, then suddenly stopped. “Oh . . . is Mr. Belasco in?”

“I believe so,” Robert said.

Cyndi said to Horace, “Wait here, darling, please, just a second,” turned back and hurried to Belasco's office.