Billionaire

18

Rocq got back to his office. Within seconds of sitting at his desk, the bouncing Baron was on the line from Toronto.

‘What’s with all this coffee business, Alex?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just lost my shirt and pants.’

‘Why the hell did you go dabbling in coffee?’ asked Rocq, feeling more than a trifle hypocritical.

‘I got a tip-off it was going to go through the roof.’

‘Sure you heard your tipster right?’

The Baron ignored the comment. ‘Why the heck didn’t you advise me not to go into coffee?’

‘You didn’t ask. Anyhow, I’m a metal broker — you want advice on coffee, ask someone that knows about coffee.’

‘You’re the only one who knows anything about anything,’ said the Baron.

For one of the rare occasions in his life, the flattery went clean over Rocq’s head. ‘How much did you drop?’

‘I don’t know. A lot. Couple of million maybe; what you reckon it’s going to do?’

‘It would be unprofessional of me to give you an opinion.’

‘So give me an opinion — when the hell were you professional?’

‘Go short, Harry — it’s going to go down some more.’

‘How much?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty-five — fifty — maybe one hundred — maybe more.’

‘Okay, Alex. If you’re wrong — I’m going to get really mad.’

‘Hey — now hold on — I just said I’m not an expert on coffee — if—’ Rocq stopped in mid-sentence — the Baron had rung off. He put back the receiver and sat there. His headache was starting, and the depression was in full stream. Rice had annoyed him at lunch, annoyed him a lot; he had been complacent and very unhelpful. Rice could have accepted his order for the amount of coffee he wanted to sell short without the margin payment up front — he had plenty of discretionary accounts, and he wouldn’t have got into a lot of trouble over it. The amount of margin that would have been required from Rocq was small beer in terms of the amounts Rice bought and sold every day. Rocq could understand Rice’s position, to a point, but he didn’t accept it. There were many things in life that he understood clearly, but he did not accept; often it was because he did not like what he understood. Occasionally it was because he had no choice; today was one of those occasions. He picked up his telephone and dialled Theo Barbiero-Ruche’s number in Milan.

After having narrowly escaped being kidnapped on his way to the office a few years previously, Barbiero-Ruche now worked at home. ‘Barbiero-Ruche,’ the Italian’s deep voice boomed down the phone within moments of the ringing tone starting.

‘Theo — it’s Rocky.’

‘Ah, you bastard,’ said the Italian. ‘I’m not too happy with you, not too happy at all.’

‘What’s your problem?’

‘That damn girl you fixed me up with — Dingly — Dunky — what’s her name?’

‘Deidre.’

‘Yeah, Deidre. She gave me a present.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘You know what the present was?’

‘No, what?’

‘The clap.’ There was a long silence. ‘It’s not funny, Rocky.’

‘I wasn’t laughing.’

‘You weren’t laughing? You were laughing yourself stupid.’

‘I wasn’t, Theo — it must have been interference on the line.’

‘Interference — I’ll give you interference. You know how many broads I got lined up right now? I never had so many damned broads lined up — and what I got to tell them? Sorry, babies, Theo can’t see you right now because he went to England and got the clap from a dog?’

‘You don’t have to screw them, Theo; girls like being taken out — you know — theatre, opera, nice dinner then drop them home. Try being romantic — you might find you enjoy it.’

‘You’re full of shit,’ grunted the Italian. ‘Anyhow — what the hell you call for? No one left to talk to in England? All your damn clients in bed with terminal venereals?’

‘Superwop — just shut your face a moment and let me get a word in edgeways. I’m sorry about your problems — take the tablets and they’ll get better. I’ve got problems of my own right now, all thanks to your damned advice.’

‘What problems you got, Rocky?’

Rocq looked cautiously around him to see if anyone was listening to him. They weren’t. Mozer and Slivitz were both engaged in shouting matches with clients who appeared to be on the other side of the world and stone deaf.

‘Coffee.’

The Italian emitted a low moaning that sounded like a bad attack of indigestion. ‘You too. How bad?’

‘Bad.’

‘Got to take the rough with the smooth, Rocky. I got the clap, you got the coffee.’

‘Want to swap?’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘What do you reckon it’s going to do?’

‘I hear the World Health Organization’s got a lot of hard evidence. It’s going to drop some more — whole lot more when that news breaks.’

‘When is it going to break?’

‘Couple of days, maybe. Week or two at the most.’

‘How much is it going to drop?’

‘Fifty for sure. Maybe one hundred. Could even go one hundred and fifty. It depends.’

‘So you’d advise going short?’

‘For sure, Rocky; you must go short.’

‘What price do you have on coffee at the moment?’

‘Four hundred and twenty-seven pounds sterling, September. You want the dollar price?’

‘Sterling’s fine. Okay, Theo, I want you to sell some coffee short for me.’ Rocq paused, and did some sums on his calculator. ‘Twelve thousand tons,’ he said, finally.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Barbiero-Ruche. ‘I’d have trouble selling 2,000, let alone 12,000.’ He paused. ‘I’ll call you back, Rocky — after I’ve rung The Producers Pact. They’re trying to support the market. Someone there owes me a favour.’ He rung off.

Five minutes later he was on the line again. ‘Okay, Rocky. 12,000 tons. It’ll be crossed on the market tomorrow. I’m going to have to ask you for margin, Rocky — too much for me to carry on my own.’

‘No problem, Theo,’ Rocq lied.

‘I’m going to need £512,000. Okay?’

‘Sure — I’ll tell my bank to send you a telegraphic transfer — soon as I get your confirmation.’

‘You’ll get that tomorrow.’

‘Okay — soon as I receive it, you’ll get your margin. Keep taking the tablets, fat man.’

‘Ciao.’

‘Ciao.’ Rocq replaced the receiver and breathed a sigh. He had a chance now. Somehow, he would have to fool Barbiero-Ruche into believing that the £512,000 margin was on its way. The Italian reckoned that coffee would drop within the week. If he could spin the Italian along until then, he could be out of the woods. Communications with Italy and internally in Italy were dreadful. Cables and telexes did frequently go astray. He just hoped that Barbiero-Ruche would keep that sell order for him and not liquidate it. He was going to have to rely on a mixture of their good friendship and bad communications.

He went and got himself a coffee and returned to his desk.

‘Was that your lunch hour — or did you have your dinner early?’ said Mozer sarcastically, leaning over to him.

‘No — I’ve been out trying to buy a deodorant strong enough for your breath.’

Mozer shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Alex: my breath may not be so fresh, but my work record smells a damned sight better than yours.’

‘Go back to your cave, Henry.’

They were interrupted by a clerk bringing a telex and placing it on Rocq’s desk. He stared at it, and all his anxieties came flooding back.

It was a confirmation from Theo Barbiero-Ruche, of his instructions to sell 12,000 tons of coffee at £427 in September. From tomorrow he would be legally bound to sell that coffee at that price. Five million and one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds. If coffee dropped, by at least £50, he would be fine — and if it dropped even more, he stood to make a substantial profit. If it rose, however, he would be adding a mighty further amount to his slate. He would have no option but to declare himself bankrupt. He re-read the confirmation once more. It didn’t make him feel any better.