Billionaire

17

The taxi rattled its way down the Strand; Rocq sat in the back, feeling pleased with himself and happy with life. He felt very happy indeed. The only thing that marred his happiness was the knowledge that in about half an hour the alcohol would begin wearing off and, within a couple of hours, he would have an aching head, sore eyes, and probably an overwhelming feeling of depression. But right now, he was making the most of the good feeling.

His companion in the taxi, the Honourable James Rice, was already beginning to feel quite sober, although the heat of the June afternoon was making him feel weary; he was glad he hadn’t attempted to keep up with Alex Rocq’s drinking today. They had started in the bar of Langan’s Brasserie, where Rocq had downed four large vodka Martinis before they had ordered. They had a half bottle of white with their starters, of which Rocq had drunk two and a half glasses to his one; a bottle of red with their main course, of which again, Rocq had drunk most; and then brandy with their coffee — Rocq had had five to his one.

‘Lavinia okay?’ asked Rocq, suddenly remembering that they had talked nothing but business throughout their luncheon.

‘She’s very well, thanks,’ replied Rice patiently, for the sixth time. He looked at his watch a little anxiously. They had left Globalex at 12.30; it was now a quarter past four.

‘How’re the kids?’

‘They’re very well. Growing up fast. When are you going to have some?’

Rocq shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Don’t know if I feel like getting married again — stumping up forty quid a week alimony to one ex-wife, bloody bitch — don’t know that I want to risk getting stuck with paying two lots.’

Rice nodded sympathetically. ‘Still seeing that little girl you brought down that weekend — what was her name?’

‘Denise?’

Rice nodded.

Rocq thought about her with some guilt; he’d taken her out at least once a week for over a year, and had often taken her away at weekends. She was easy-going and had a lovely nature, with a pretty, homely flat just off Marylebone High Street; after the bust-up of his marriage he had used it almost as a second home. It was a refuge where he had felt cosy, safe. Denise was a girl that he enjoyed being with and she was pretty enough for him to enjoy being seen with. And yet, after he had met Amanda, Denise had simply gone from his mind. He remembered, through his alcoholic haze, that it was nearly six weeks since they had last spoken. With a strong twinge of remorse, he remembered that she had telephoned the office and left messages twice — the first about ten days after he met Amanda and the second time about two weeks later. On both occasions he had been extremely busy and had told the receptionist that he would call her back. On neither occasion did he.

‘No — not for a while,’ he said.

‘She was nice — you seemed well-suited.’

‘Think that’s my problem, Jimbo — I always want a challenge. The girl I’m taking out at the moment — I find her a challenge.’

‘In what way? She can’t stand your guts, and you’re trying to convince her otherwise?’

Rocq grinned. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘What does she do, this one?’

‘She’s an architect.’

‘Stick with her, Rocky. The way your career’s going, you’re going to need someone to support you.’ The words stung Rocq, knifing through his armour of alcohol. Rice saw the expression on his face and wished he had kept his mouth shut. ‘Sorry, Rocky — no offence meant.’ And inhaled deeply.

The cab driver hooted angrily at a charabanc that was taking its load of tourists around the Aldwych too slowly for his liking. ‘Blardy fugging tourists,’ he said. ‘Blardy fugging bleeding charrybanks. Fuggin’ bleeding taking our work, that’s wot they’re doing.’ On another day, his efforts at engaging the two men in the back of his cab into stimulating intellectual conversation might have succeeded; today, the efforts didn’t even produce a grunt.

He tried a new tack: ‘88 Mincing Lane, you said?’

‘Yes,’ said Rice, leaning forward and sliding the partition window shut.

Rocq sat back in his seat and drew on his cigarette. His lunch with Rice had not been successful, and £80 was a lot of money to have stumped up for an unsuccessful lunch. Even if he put Rice down as a client, the maximum Elleck allowed for a luncheon was £40, holding the view that £20 worth of food and booze was more than ample for anyone.

Rocq had chosen Langan’s, in Mayfair, because he wanted to get Rice out of the City environment, out of the security and clannishness of the people with whom Rice was far more in harmony than himself. He had wanted to take down Rice’s guard, and he felt that taking him into unfamiliar territory was the way to do this. But it had not succeeded. He sat and recalled the conversation that had taken place as they had started into their steaks.

‘Jimbo — about this coffee business — you suggested waiting a couple of days to see how it stabilized — what do you think now?’

‘It seems to have levelled out — it bottomed yesterday at £378 a ton, climbed this morning first thing to £460 and dropped back to £421.’

‘And what do you think is going to happen next? If my information is correct, and the supplies in Brazil are badly hit, do you think the price will go up, bearing in mind what has happened?’

Rice leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘So far, what has brought about this crash is only theory. There is no proven fact, and everyone at the moment is waiting for a proven fact. All this news that hit the press last week and caused the collapse of coffee was hearsay and was the result of a leak. It all stemmed from a laboratory assistant working for a company that is about to launch a revolutionary new instant coffee on the market — they’ve produced some new method of preserving the flavour in ground coffee, and they reckon this will be the death knoll for fresh coffee. The product is coming onto the market some time next year. Well, this girl was sacked for some disagreement — she claims it was because she felt that the management were attempting to cover up this cancer discovery, and went and spilled the beans to the press. The World Health Organization claim that they were misquoted and said only that there might be a link — but nothing was positively proven. They are now conducting further tests, but they expect conclusive tests to take up to a year; however, they are expected to make an interim statement shortly, I would think certainly within the next few weeks, to try and alleviate public uncertainty.’

‘Do you have any clues what this might be?’

Rice grinned and nodded smugly; then he wished he hadn’t, and realized it was the alcohol that caused him to make this indiscretion.

‘What are they?’

‘I can’t tell you yet, Jimbo, because I don’t know.’

‘But you must have a pretty good idea?’

Rice again couldn’t resist the temptation to show how clever he was. ‘I might do,’ he said.

‘And what’s the verdict?’

Rice toyed with his rare rumpsteak, trimmed some fat off, cut a small piece of meat, put some mustard on it; slowly, debatingly, he raised it towards his mouth, then put it back down again. ‘It looks very much as though the facts are correct; that there is a major cancer link.’

‘And what do you reckon will happen to coffee when that little gem comes out?’

‘It’ll fall even further. Plummet. Depends how the public takes the news — and how the health authorities act, and how serious the link actually is — how badly the use is affected. I can’t predict how far it could eventually fall — but it could be a long way further.’

‘So it would be wise to go short, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well — nothing is definite yet. I would advise anyone to wait. By the way, Rocky — I’m sorry I had to send you a margin call.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Rocq slurred, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Win some, lose some — that’s one of the hazards of punting.’

The Honourable James Rice put the forkful of steak into his mouth and pulverized it between his immaculately capped teeth, while his aristocratic saliva set to work converting it into a substance that would be acceptable to his stomach. He nodded slowly at Rocq.

‘Jimbo — I think I’d better go short. Do you think you could do me — er—’ Rocq paused to work it out. He was down at the present time some £480,000; he needed to make that up, and fast, and his only chance was to invest in a volatile commodity. None right now, he knew, was more volatile than coffee. He couldn’t think lucidly enough to work out the sums. ‘How much do you reckon I need to sell short to make £480,000?’

‘A fair amount, old man. And you know I can’t take any order from you until you’ve covered your outstanding margin.’

Rocq nodded and their eyes met, firmly, for the first time since they had sat at the table. ‘I know,’ he said.

Rice looked down, picked up his wine glass and drained it. Then he began sawing off another chunk of steak; he spoke without raising his eyes from the meat. ‘There are a lot of people who have been caught with their trousers down, Alex, a lot.’

Rocq noticed he was now calling him by his Christian name instead of his nickname.

‘A lot of people are going to go belly-up over this coffee business — and not just individuals — major companies, too. I personally would not be at all surprised if it brought a few brokerage houses down at the same time. I’ve been in this game for ten years and I’ve never seen a crash like it. All the clearing houses are going to be out to collect in every penny they possibly can — including ours. Elleck has issued instructions that all margin owed is to be paid in full — at once — no extensions, no increases, and margins must be paid up-front before any new orders are placed. He’s ordered a print-out of every outstanding order of coffee on Globalex’s books — it’s out of my hands entirely, old man. Absolutely nothing I can do. I’d help you if I could — but just don’t see how I can. Can you find the margin you need — and enough on top to go short?’

They caught each other’s eye again.

‘If you give me enough time,’ said Rocq.

‘How long do you need?’

‘About forty years.’

Rice grinned. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘You know what I need to do? I need to go short, hope to hell coffee drops, and then I’m out of the woods.’

‘And if it doesn’t drop?’

‘Then I hope the stuff rises high enough to get me out of schtum.’

‘Right now I don’t think it’s safe to count on anything.’

‘I can’t stand still, Jimbo. I need £480,000 to stand still, and that’s £480,000 more than I have. I’ve got to stay in the game, it’s my only hope.’

‘W. C. Fields was once found drunk in a hick town, playing a rigged game of poker, and getting ripped off on every hand. Someone asked him why he kept on playing when he knew the game was rigged. He replied, “Because it’s the only game in town.” Four hundred and eighty thousand is a lot of money, Alex, but it’s a lot less than you could lose if you stay in the game.’

‘That, old wise man, is a risk I’m going to have to take.’