Free To Trade

CHAPTER 11

It was a relief to get out of the country. I had spent two days looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Not knowing whether my apprehension was justified hadn't helped at all. As soon as I got on the plane, I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders. Somehow I doubted that Joe would track me down in New York.

I was glad that Cathy and Cash were not on the plane. They were following more or less the same itinerary I was. They were spending a couple of days at their head office in New York first, then moving on to Phoenix for the conference, and finally joining their clients for a visit to the Tahiti. Cash, especially, I was not looking forward to meeting. It was hard enough to think of him as responsible for the Tremont Capital fraud. What bothered me even more was the question of whether he was involved in Debbie's death. I was still no nearer finding out who had killed her. I wasn't even sure why she had been killed.

It was going to be difficult to talk to Cash on this trip, but I was going to have to do it. I had lots of questions to ask him, and I would have to be subtle. I also needed to find out what I could about Dick Waigel, and look for some trace of Tremont Capital at Bloomfield Weiss's New York office. I was due to spend the whole of my first day there, and Cash had fixed up a lot of people for me to meet, so I was hopeful that I would find something out. I was still not exactly sure how.

Despite this, the task excited me. It was a challenge with a lot at stake; twenty million dollars and De Jong & Co.'s reputation. Hamilton was going to meet me for dinner in New York on his way back from the Netherlands Antilles. I would make sure I had something to tell him.

My arrival in New York was just as intimidating as always. Although it was half past seven local time when I left the airport, it was after midnight according to my own biological clock. Not the right time to deal with the stress of New York's welcome.

As I emerged from the terminal, I beat off a chauffeur who offered to give me a lift in his boss's limousine for a hundred dollars. I grabbed a yellow taxi. The driver, whose name according to the licence pinned to his dashboard was Diran Gregorian, did not seem to speak English. He didn't even acknowledge the words 'Westbury Hotel'. But he started his taxi and drove off towards the city at full speed.

Fortunately his headlong flight was hindered by the Long Island traffic jams. We crossed the Triboro Bridge with New York's skyline welcoming us on the left. I tried to pick out as many of the buildings as I could. Most prominent was the Empire State Building, incomplete without the figure of King Kong clambering up it. In front was the smaller and more elegant Chrysler Building, whose peak rose like a minaret, calling the faithful money-makers to their desks each morning. I picked out the Citicorp Building, the top right-hand corner of its roof cleanly sliced off, and in the distance the green rectangular slab of the UN jutting out into the East River. Other lesser structures clustered round these in the middle of Manhattan Island. Then, to the left stretched a plain of the low, brown tenements of Soho, the East Village, and the Bowery, until the huge twin peaks of the World Trade Center dwarfed the Wall Street office blocks surrounding them downtown. My pulse quickened despite my fatigue. Amongst all those buildings were lights, noise, traffic and people. Millions of people working and playing. They beckoned even the tiredest traveller to join them.

We finally made it to the hotel. I threw down my bag without bothering to unpack it, and flopped into bed. I fell asleep immediately.

I wasn't due at Bloomfield Weiss until ten o'clock, so I could linger over the excellent Westbury breakfast. One of the great pleasures of being away from the office was the opportunity to have a long, leisurely breakfast, instead of cramming down a stale bun at my desk at half past seven in the morning. The Westbury is Manhattan's 'English' hotel. I had been booked in there because it was the hotel Hamilton usually stayed in when he was in New York. It had elegance without opulence. A tapestry in the foyer, Regency furniture and nineteenth-century landscapes could almost persuade you that you were in an English country hotel and not in an eight-storey block of stone in the middle of Manhattan.

Finally sated, I caught a taxi, Haitian driver this time, and bucketed down to Wall Street, a local French-language radio station blaring in my ears.

I was a few minutes early, so I asked the taxi-driver to drop me off at the top of Wall Street so I could walk the last few blocks to Bloomfield Weiss's offices. Walking down Wall Street was like descending into a canyon, with huge walls shooting up on both sides. Although it was a sunny day, the giant buildings threw the street into shadow, and at this time of morning it still felt cool. Halfway down the street I turned left and then right, down narrower streets, the buildings coming ever closer together, the shadows ever deeper. Finally I came to a fifty-storey black tower, which looked more sinister than those surrounding it. The words 'Bloomfield Weiss' were printed in small gold lettering above the entrance.

I had been told to go up to the forty-fifth floor and ask for Lloyd Harbin, the head of high yield bond sales. I waited in the reception area for a couple of minutes before he came round to get me. He was of average height, but had a very compact frame. His shoulders were broad and his neck bulged with muscle. He strode across the room, hand outstretched and voice booming, 'Hi Paul, how are you? Lloyd Harbin.'

I was prepared for the iron handshake. I had learned at school that if you pushed your hand hard into the joint between thumb and forefinger of your adversary, it was impossible for him to grip your hand tightly. I had developed this technique so that it was not obvious, but was still very effective against the American marine types. It momentarily put Lloyd Harbin off his stride.

But Lloyd was not going to be disconcerted by a young wimp of a Brit and recovered himself in a moment. 'Have you seen a Wall Street trading floor before?' he asked.

I shook my head.

'Well, come and see ours then.'

I followed him through some grey double doors. Bloomfield Weiss's trading floor was not quite the largest on Wall Street and certainly not the most modern, but it was the most active. Stretching out on all sides were hundreds of dealing desks. Large electronic boards proclaimed the latest news, stock prices and the time all round the world. Milling around the desks were an army of men in regulation Brooks Brothers white shirts, interspersed with a few women, mostly wearing tight dresses, lots of make-up and elaborate hair-dos. Trading floors are still male-dominated, the women were nearly all assistants and secretaries.

The floor was alive with the urgent buzz of voices, passing information, arguing, abusing, ordering. Standing on the edge of that room, I found myself in the throbbing heart of capitalist America, the place from where all the money was pumped around the system.

'Here, come over to my desk, and I will show you our operation,' Lloyd said.

I followed him through the trading room, picking my way through the jumble of wayward chairs, papers and rubbish bins. Lloyd's desk was in the middle of a close-knit group of men in white shirts. I felt conspicuous as the only man in the room wearing a jacket, and so took it off. I still felt conspicuous as the only man in the room with a striped shirt, but there was nothing I could do about that.

Lloyd pointed out the two groups of people involved in trading junk bonds, the salesmen and the traders. It was the salesmen's job to talk to clients and try to persuade them to buy or sell bonds. It was the traders' job to determine at what price these bonds would be bought or sold. The traders were responsible for managing the bond positions owned by the firm. Traders bought and sold either from clients or from other traders at other brokers, collectively known as 'the Street'. It was generally much more profitable to trade with clients, and it was only by talking to clients that the traders could get the information on what was going on in the market, which was so important to running a profitable position. Thus the salesmen needed the traders and the traders needed the salesmen. However, this symbiotic relationship had its rough side.

An argument was in progress right then.

'Look, Chris, you can bid higher than 88. My client has to sell. He's been told by his management to sell today. We put him into this bond, we've got to take him out.' The speaker was a blond, youngish man, well groomed with a friendly face. His voice was reasonable but firm. A salesman.

He was talking to a short hyperactive man, who was almost frothing at the mouth. 'Hey, this is the asshole who took me short the Krogers last week, and then went round and lifted the rest of the Street,' he shouted. 'I still haven't been able to buy them back. Let him suffer. It's about time we made some money out of him for a change.'

The salesman turned to Lloyd, 'Do something with this jerk, will you,' he said quietly.

Lloyd walked up to the trader, who was bristling for a fight. 'Where did you make those bonds this morning?' he asked him.

'Ninety to 92, but the market's down.'

'Fine, we will bid the customer 89.'

Howls of protest from the trader, and a disappointed shake of the head from the salesman. Lloyd's voice rose in volume just a touch. 'I said we will pay 89. Now get on with it.'

They got on with it.

Lloyd came back to his desk. We talked for a few minutes as Lloyd explained how his group worked. He then introduced me to the traders. There were five of them, all on edge. Although they were all polite, they couldn't keep their attention on me for long. After thirty seconds of conversation, their eyes would wander back to their screens or their price sheets. There followed a few painful minutes of small-talk at which all the traders said they loved to do business with clients, especially those based in London. Lloyd pulled me over to another desk.

'Why don't you spend a few moments with Tommy here. Tommy Masterson, this is Paul Murray from De Jong.'

Tommy Masterson was the salesman I had seen arguing earlier. Despite that, he had a much more relaxed demeanour than those around him.

'Take a seat,' he said. 'So you are from London?'

I nodded.

'Not many people buy junk bonds over there, I bet.'

'Not many,' I agreed. 'In fact we are just starting. Your traders seemed very anxious to help us get into the market.'

Tommy laughed. 'You bet they are. They can't wait. They will take advantage of you so bad, you'll forget how many fingers you were born with.'

'How will they do that?' I asked.

'Oh, quoting low prices when you are a seller and high prices when you are a buyer. Trying to offload their worst bonds on to you with stories about how great they are. It's difficult for them to get away with that sort of thing with the large US accounts. But a small foreigner? Lamb to the slaughter.'

'Well, thank you for the warning.' I had known I was going to have to be careful dealing in the junk market, but I didn't realise I had to be that careful.

'If you have a good salesman, you should be protected,' said Tommy. 'Who is your salesman?'

'Cash Callaghan,' I said.

'Oh dear. Now, there is a slippery customer. But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that.'

'I have seen him in action,' I said. 'But you tell me what he was like in New York. We hear he was the top salesman in the firm.'

'He was. But that doesn't mean he was the straightest salesman. He was like a good card shark. He would let the punters have some successful trades, make a bit of money, get the hang of trusting him. Then he would persuade them to do very large trades which generated Cash a fortune in sales commissions. The customers lost their shirts. He could fool even the smartest customers. Usually they didn't even realise they were being taken and would come back for more.'

I thought of Hamilton. Cash had even managed to hoodwink him.

'Was any of this illegal?' I asked.

'Not that I know of. Unethical? Yes. Illegal? No.'

'Would you be surprised if Cash did something illegal?'

'Yes, I would. Cash is too smart for that.' Tommy sat up in his chair and smiled. 'Have you got anything specific in mind?'

'No,' I said, although I could see Tommy was not convinced. I changed the subject. 'Cash still does a lot of business with one American customer. It's an Arizona savings and loan.'

'That would be Phoenix Prosperity,' Tommy said. I was thankful for his frankness.

'Oh would it? Does he con them too?'

'I don't know. I don't think so. They have always done a ton of business with him. In fact it's amazing how much business they do for such a small institution. They are pretty aggressive. They used to be covered by a fellow called Dick Waigel. He developed them into his biggest account, and then Cash took over when Dick moved to Corporate Finance.'

'I've heard of this chap Dick Waigel,' I said. 'What's he like?'

'He's a real jerk,' said Tommy emphatically. 'He thinks he is the smartest thing on earth. To hear him talk, you would think he was personally responsible for half this firm's income. But he and Cash are good buddies. Go back a long way. Lloyd thought the sun shone out of his ass.'

'Did he? I wouldn't have thought Lloyd suffered bullshit gladly,' I said.

'He sure doesn't. He's not very smart though, so he doesn't always recognise it. But he's tough. He can be a real asshole. He is going places in this firm, and that's because anyone who stands in his way gets mowed down. It's not talent. Management by fear is his style. Every now and then he'll fire someone, just to encourage the others.'

'But not you.'

'No, not me,' Tommy smiled. 'He'd love to. He doesn't like my attitude. Too Californian. Not gung-ho enough. But he can't afford to fire me. For some strange reason, I'm the top salesman on the desk. And I don't even lie and cheat to achieve it.'

I looked at Tommy and could believe him. I had no doubt that his friendly, frank manner encouraged people to deal with him. And, unlike Cash, I doubted whether he would betray their trust.

'We can't sit around here chatting all day,' said Tommy. 'You've got lunch at one o'clock with Lloyd, haven't you?'

'Yes, I think so,' I said.

'OK, well it's twelve thirty now. Tell you what. It's the ten-year auction today. The US Treasury are auctioning nine billion dollars of new ten-year government bonds at one o'clock. Do you want to see the Bloomfield Weiss machine in action?'

I certainly did. Bloomfield Weiss were renowned for their trading muscle in government bonds. He took me over to the other side of the room and introduced me to a grizzled grey-haired man in his fifties.

'Fred, have you got a minute?'

'For you Tommy, always,' he grinned.

'I'd like you to meet Paul Murray, one of our clients from across the ocean. Paul, this is Fred Flecker. He is our head government bond salesman covering New York accounts. He has been in the market for ever. I bet the first long bond you sold matured long ago. Right, Fred?'

'Just about,' replied Fred. He held out his hand and I shook it. 'Have a seat,' he said. I found a small stool, and squatted between him and the other men frantically working the phones around him. I felt a bit like just another rubbish bin, there to get in the way. 'Do you understand what's going on?'

'No,' I said. 'Tell me.'

'OK. At one o'clock our firm, together with all the other investment banks on Wall Street, will be bidding for a certain amount of ten-year treasuries at a certain yield. There are nine billion dollars' worth for sale. The bidder who bids the lowest yield will be sold bonds first, then the next lowest bidder, and so on.

'We will be bidding on our own and on our clients' behalf. Obviously, the more demand we see for the bonds, the more we will bid for on our own behalf. My job is to talk to the major New York clients and reflect their bids to our head government bond trader, John Saunders. He is sitting over there.' He pointed to a thin man frowning with concentration, at a desk thirty feet away. People were constantly hurrying up to him, passing messages and hurrying back.

Just then the squawk-box on his desk crackled into life. 'Fred, what are you hearing?'

'That's John,' Fred said to me. And to the squawk-box, 'It looks good. We've received bids for six hundred million from New York alone. People seem to like the market.'

'Yeah, I'm hearing that from Chicago and Boston,' John's voice crackled.

'Are you going to take this one?' Fred asked.

'I'm sure thinking about it.'

I watched and listened as Fred took calls from several more clients, most of whom placed orders for the auction. Given the sums at stake, I was amazed by the calmness of Fred's voice. Quiet and measured, it inspired confidence and trust.

At twelve fifty-five, only five minutes before the auction, John walked over and whispered something in Fred's ear. He smiled. He looked at me and said, 'What you see now, you keep to yourself. Understand?'

I nodded. 'What's going on?' I asked.

'We're going to make a shut-out bid,' he said. 'We will bid for most of the auction at a yield so low that none of the other dealers will buy any bonds. Most of them have sold ten-year bonds short with the hope of buying them back during the auction. But they won't be able to because we will own them all. As they scramble to cover their short position, and as other customers realise that their orders will not be filled, everyone will be trying to buy the bonds. The market will go up and Bloomfield Weiss will clean up. Now, I must make a couple of calls. We want to cut our friends in.'

The first was to one of the largest corporations in America.

'Hallo, Steve, it's Fred,' he said. 'You put in a hundred million order for the ten-year auction. I think you should consider increasing that.'

'Why?' asked the voice at the other end of the phone.

'You know I can't tell you that,' Fred said.

There was silence. Then, 'OK, I'll play. Put me down for five hundred million.'

'Thank you,' Fred said, and rang off. They had obviously done this many times before.

He made a similar call to another large institution, which agreed to increase its order to three hundred million dollars.

I was intrigued to see Cash hovering over by John Saunders's desk. He must have heard something, because suddenly he rushed over to a nearby empty desk and made one phone call. I could guess who it was to.

At two minutes to the hour Fred got a call from a firm called Bunker Hill Mutual.

'Hi, Fred, how's it going?'

'I'm fine, Peter. But I don't think this auction will be. None of my customers are interested.'

'What do you think Bloomfield Weiss will do?' the man called Peter asked.

'I don't know of course, but I think we will bid to miss.'

Peter grunted his thanks, and put the phone down.

'Why did you tell him that?' I asked.

Fred chuckled. 'Oh, he always rings round all the investment banks just before an auction. He is as leaky as a sieve. If I told him what we are really up to, it would be all round the Street.'

The whole trading room lapsed into silence as the clock moved to one o'clock. It could be up to ten minutes before the results of the auction would begin to be known.

The minutes ticked by.

Then the squawk-box crackled into life. 'OK, it looks like Bloomfield Weiss owns all nine billion of this one. Get on the phones and tell your clients what is happening. Let's scare out those shorts.'

I looked around me. Smiles everywhere as salesmen eagerly phoned their customers to tell them the result. Within seconds the green numbers on the screens on Fred's desk started winking as the market began to move up.

Bloomfield Weiss, and its most favoured customers, made a lot of money that day.

I was a few minutes late for lunch, which was in one of Bloomfield Weiss's dining rooms. It was spectacular. Forty-six floors up, the dining room was high enough to peek over the building between it and the harbour. I had never seen such a view of New York Harbour. The sun shone off the light grey sea, ferries bustled back and forth between Staten Island and the terminal directly below. The Statue of Liberty thrust her torch defiantly up towards us, taking no notice of the two helicopters buzzing around her ears. In the distance the elegant curves of the Verrazano Bridge lay astride the horizon, a focal point for the dozen or so ships making their way out towards the ocean.

'Anywhere else, you'd have to pay a couple of hundred dollars for a meal with a view like this,' said Lloyd, as he approached me.

Silly me, for a moment I hadn't appreciated the dollar value of the view.

Cash was behind Lloyd, and next to him, a short balding man of about thirty-five with thick glasses.

The sight of Cash made me feel sick. I was furious with myself for ever being deceived by all that good humour and amiability. But I would have to talk to him as usual, forget what he had done to De Jong, what he might have done to Debbie.

'Hi, Paul, how are you doing?' he boomed, holding out his hand.

I hesitated a second before shaking it. Then I pulled myself together and replied, 'Oh, I am fine. Your colleagues here have been very kind in showing me round.'

'Good, good,' said Cash. 'Now, you met Lloyd this morning, but I don't think you have met my old friend Dick Waigel.'

The short, balding man shook my hand vigorously, and gave me an unnatural smile reeking insincerity. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said, 'Any client of Cash's is a friend of mine.'

'Now, why don't we all sit down?' Lloyd said. 'What would you like to drink, Paul, iced tea?'

I had forgotten that lunches in Wall Street investment banks were teetotal. I had found it difficult to get used to the American habit of drinking cold tea at lunch, but I supposed they found the English warm beer just as confusing. I thought I ought to enter into the spirit of the thing. 'Iced tea would be very nice, thank you,' I said.

For a while the conversation followed the usual tedious paths of these occasions; discussions were had on the weather in England, which was the best airline these days, how the market was quiet and how difficult it was to make money.

I looked around the restaurant at the other diners. They were at odds with the breathtaking view around them. Either big and beefy, or short and wiry, they ate their food rapidly, spearing errant pieces of steak with forks and shoving them into mouths lowered as close as possible to the table. They didn't look at all comfortable in the hushed surroundings. Conversation was not the relaxed murmur of a normal restaurant, but rather a series of staccato whispers. I could see a number of other clients amongst the Bloomfield Weiss executives, the difference in levels of aggression between them and their hosts was obvious from twenty feet.

As I scanned the room, my eye caught the profile of one of the men at a small table in the corner opposite us. He had his back to me, but was turning to talk to the man on his left. I knew that profile. Joe Finlay.

One of the people at his table must have seen me stare, because Joe turned round and stared straight back at me. He twitched the corners of his mouth up in that same quick false smile that he had used on me at the boat, and turned back to his food.

What the hell was Joe doing here? It was bad enough having Cash to deal with in New York, the last person I needed to see was Joe.

I leant over to Cash. 'Isn't that Joe Finlay over there?'

'Yeah, that's him,' said Cash.

'What's he doing here?'

'Same as all of us. Spending a few days in New York and then going to the conference in Arizona.'

'But you didn't tell me he was coming,' I said.

Cash looked puzzled. Then he laughed. 'Hey, Paul, I can't tell you the names of everyone going to this damn conference. You got me and Cathy looking after you. What else do you want?'

Cash was right of course. But Joe's presence still unnerved me.

Waigel looked over towards Joe's table. 'That guy sure is a good trader. Or at least he has a hell of a reputation. Speaking of which, how's your boss Hamilton McKenzie? I haven't seen him for years.'

I tore my eyes away from Joe's taut frame and on to the pudgy, oily face of Dick Waigel. 'Very well indeed. He is doing a great job at De Jong. Our clients like him. The money is pouring in from investors impressed by his performance.'

'He always was a bright guy,' said Waigel. 'We were at Harvard Business School together. When he went off to join De Jong, I joined Bloomfield Weiss.'

'And what did you do here?' I asked.

Waigel took a deep breath, clearly pleased with the opportunity to talk about his favourite subject, and began. 'Well, I used to be a salesman covering accounts in the Southwest. I did well at it, but I didn't feel it was providing the right challenge for my talents. Selling is a rather narrow activity, you know.' At this the two salesmen sitting at the table stiffened. But Waigel went on.

'So I took a job in Corporate Finance, responsible for private placements. We find that sometimes a particular investor will want a bond issue tailored specifically to his needs. So I find a company to issue such bonds, and place them privately with him and perhaps one or two other investors. That's how I came to work with Cash here. Since he has such good relationships with his customers, we do a lot together, trying to structure transactions which fit their needs.'

This was Waigel's connection with Cash on Tremont Capital, which had been a private placement.

'I am not too familiar with private placements,' I said, 'but isn't it true that they give investors less protection? Normal bond issues in the United States have to be scrutinised by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Who does the due diligence on private placements?'

'Oh, we do. And I would say the investor is better protected with a Bloomfield Weiss private placement. We have very high standards, Paul, the highest on Wall Street. I can assure you that nothing irregular has happened in any of our transactions.' With this, Waigel looked me straight in the eye through his thick glasses, and gave me another one of his insincere smiles.

'I don't think we have ever bought a private placement from you since I have been at De Jong,' I said. 'Did we buy any before I arrived?'

Waigel opened his mouth, and closed it again. For a rare moment he seemed at a loss for words. Finally he said, 'No, I don't believe you did.'

Cash interrupted, 'Come on, Dick. Don't you remember that Tremont Capital deal. The triple-A bond with the huge yield. A sweet deal. I sold half of that to De Jong.'

'Oh yes, I remember,' said Waigel. 'Yes, that was a good deal. Have you looked at it, Paul?'

'I have seen the bond in our portfolio,' I said, 'but I am not familiar with the details. Can you tell me more about it?'

Waigel looked uncomfortable, but Cash bailed him out. He enthusiastically told me all about the deal, and how the Honshu Bank guarantee made the transaction creditworthy. 'One of the best deals I ever sold,' Cash finished off.

'Very interesting,' I said. I turned to Waigel. 'How do you go about putting a deal like that together?'

Waigel looked even more uncomfortable. 'One of the problems with corporate finance is that you owe a duty of confidence to everyone involved. We make it a rule never to discuss the details of a transaction, even after it is completed.'

'Baloney, Dick,' said Cash. 'There is nothing you like to talk about more than one of your own deals.'

Waigel didn't find this amusing. 'Cash, you can be as indiscreet as you like, but to me it is unprofessional. My predecessor may have been unprofessional, but I am sure I am not going to follow him in that.'

Lloyd interrupted, suddenly finding himself on a subject close to his heart. 'Aw, Greg Shoffman wasn't unprofessional, he was just a wimp. He had no guts. We had some great junk bond deals which he refused to do because he said they were unethical. Unethical! What did he think we were running, a charity?' Lloyd pulled himself up as he remembered my presence. 'Now, Paul, don't get me wrong, all the deals Bloomfield Weiss do are above board. But in today's markets you have got to be a tough competitor to survive, and this fellow Shoffman just wasn't tough enough.'

Shoffman! I had heard that name before. I riffled through my memory. That was it. The man from Honshu Bank had said a Mr Shoffman had called him a few months before Debbie.

'This Mr Shoffman was your predecessor?' I asked Waigel.

'Yes,' he replied. 'He was a nice enough guy. But as Lloyd says, he didn't have what it takes. You need the killer instinct to get things done, especially against the competition out there. That's something I have and he hadn't.'

Somehow, I could believe Waigel had the killer instinct. 'So, what happened to him?' I asked.

'About two years ago he was transferred to our documentation department, and Dick here took his place,' said Lloyd.

'Is he still working for Bloomfield Weiss?' I asked.

There was a silence. The others looked to Lloyd to break it. Eventually he obliged them. 'No,' said Lloyd. 'One day several months ago, he didn't come into work. He just disappeared. The police couldn't find any trace of him. He probably ended up in a back alley somewhere. You know what this city is like nowadays.'

'Did they find out who did it?' I asked.

'They don't even know for sure he is dead. The police think it's most likely he was murdered in the streets for his wallet.'

The police might think that. I thought it strange that both the people who had called Honshu Bank about the Tremont Capital guarantee were now dead. With a shock I remembered that there was now a third person who knew about it.

Me.

'That's what you get for living in the city,' said Waigel, waving a finger at me. 'I used to live in the city until it got too dangerous. Now I live in the 'burbs. Montclair, New Jersey. Life is much safer now. Mind you, it takes a whole lot longer to get to work these days.'

The conversation drifted on to commuting times and then back again to how talented Waigel was. When lunch had finally finished, I went back down with Lloyd to the trading floor. I strolled over to Tommy's desk.

'Have a nice lunch?' Tommy grinned.

I made a face.

'You could hardly pick a nicer bunch of guys,' said Tommy. 'Lloyd Harbin, Cash Callaghan, and the odious Dick Waigel.'

'I must admit I found him very unpleasant,' I said.

'One of Bloomfield Weiss's finest,' said Tommy.

I smiled. I gestured to Tommy's phone. 'Do you mind if I watch you at work?' I asked.

'Sure.' He picked up the phone and motioned for me to take a second earpiece.

I heard him through a number of phone calls. He was good with his clients. He sounded friendly and helpful with all of them, but he changed his manner subtly with each one, hearty with one, nerdish with another. He gave his clients plenty of information quickly and efficiently, he seemed to know exactly what bonds they were holding at the moment even when some of them were doing their best not to tell him, and he made no attempt at all to sell the position in Macy bonds that Bloomfield Weiss had picked up by mistake and were desperate to get rid of. A good salesman.

After an hour or so, we were interrupted by Lloyd, who tapped Tommy's shoulder. 'Can I see you for a moment?' he asked.

'Sure,' said Tommy, and they disappeared round a corner. I stood around for a minute or two, and then sat in Tommy's chair to watch what was going on around me.

After a few minutes Lloyd returned. I made as if to get up, but Lloyd motioned for me to stay seated.

'Stay there, Paul,' he said. 'Use that desk for the rest of the afternoon as a base if you wish. The head of our research group will be up in a few minutes to take care of you.'

I wanted to ask him where Tommy was, but something told me not to. The salesmen who were sitting round Tommy's desk glanced at me furtively. I had the impression they were not looking at me, but rather at the chair I was sitting on. Tommy's chair.

I felt as though I were desecrating a grave, sitting there. I leapt out of the chair. I felt a bit foolish, standing around, being ignored by everyone on all sides. I wanted to tell them it was not my fault that Tommy had gone.

I knew what they were thinking. Tommy was unlucky. It could easily have been one of them. Tommy had gone from successful salesman to failure in five minutes. They couldn't be seen to be associated with that failure. They wanted nothing to do with it, at least in public anyway.

A man in grey overalls with a large blue crate walked up to me. 'Was this Mr Masterson's desk?' he asked.

I nodded. He carefully placed everything that looked personal into the crate. As he walked off, dragging the crate behind him, I saw he had left Tommy's jacket on the back of the chair. 'Hey!' I shouted, but he didn't hear. My English accent sounded out of place in that big American trading room, and several people turned to look, although not of course those sitting nearest me, who remained steadfastly ignorant of my presence.

At last, I was saved by the head of research who came along to whisk me away. I spent the rest of the afternoon with a number of analysts, talking about the pros and cons of various junk bonds. I found the subject interesting. Separating those companies that would succeed from those that would fail was a challenge that was as much an art as a science. I learned a lot from the Bloomfield Weiss analysts which I would be able to use later.

At about half past five I came to the end of my meetings. I went back into the trading room to say goodbye to Lloyd. He made no mention of Tommy, so I said, 'If you see Tommy, wish him luck from me.'

'Sure will,' said Lloyd, 'he's a great guy.'

I walked with him to the lift, trying not to let my anger show. Bloomfield Weiss seemed to breed very unpleasant characters: Cash Callaghan, Dick Waigel and Lloyd Harbin. I supposed that sometimes some people had to be sacked. But I doubted the genial and successful Tommy deserved to be one of those people. And he had not just been sacked. His memory and every trace of him had been expunged from Bloomfield Weiss before the afternoon was even over.

As I said goodbye to Lloyd, I again managed to disrupt his bonecrushing handshake which gave me a small shred of pleasure.

The lift was empty as I got in, and I heaved a huge sigh as the doors closed behind me. I had had enough of ruthless bastards for one day.

The lift fell one floor and stopped. The doors opened to let in the tall figure of Cathy. My heart sank. I didn't feel I had the strength for polite chat, much less an argument. Cathy didn't look too pleased to see me either. In fact she looked quite upset. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lower lip was trembling.

'Bad day?' I said.

'Bloody awful day,' she said.

'Nasty place, this.'

'Horrible place.'

'There are some real bastards working here.'

'Real bastards,' she said. She looked at me and gave me a small smile.

'Do you fancy a drink?' I asked on an impulse.

She hesitated. 'Oh, why not? Do you know anywhere round here?'

We went to Fraunces Tavern, an old red-brick building squatting amongst Broad Street's skyscrapers, with a warm, dark interior. We sat down and ordered two beers.

'What's up?' I asked.

Cathy winced. 'Let's just say there was a clash of personalities.'

'And you came off worse?'

Cathy sighed, and leaned back in her seat. 'I just had a big fight with Cash,' Cathy said. 'For all his nice-guy image that man can be very difficult to work for.'

'What did he do?'

'It was the usual thing. Cash was trying to stuff one of our clients. The trading desk in New York is long fifty million of a dodgy insurance company. There was some bad news about it in the Wall Street Journal in New York this morning, so the prices are being marked down and our traders can't give away the bonds.'

Her long slim fingers fiddled with the beer mat in front of her. 'Well, this is Cash's chance to look good with the bosses in New York. So he rings one of our clients in London with a cock-and-bull story about how the article is wrong and the insurance company is really doing much better than everybody thinks it is. They believe it, and are falling over themselves to buy the bonds. They'll find out their mistake soon enough, when they try and get a price for them.'

She sighed. 'It isn't even really his client. It's someone I have been trying to develop a relationship with for months. They were just beginning to trust me. After this, they won't want to talk to me again. Cash will look a hero, and I will lose a client.' She looked up at me. 'I shouldn't be telling you all this, should I? It's just sometimes I get so sick of the whole thing I could explode. And it's nice to talk to someone about it.'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I had worked out Cash wasn't a hundred per cent trustworthy myself. Does this sort of thing happen a lot?'

'All the time,' she said. 'I hate lying. I'm not really much good at it. I'm sure the only way to develop relationships properly is by building up trust.' She looked up from her beer. 'We may have had our differences in the past, but I have always been honest with you, haven't I?' Her eyes looked for support and encouragement.

I thought about it. She was right. And she had been very straightforward with me in telling me about her run-in with Cash. I nodded. 'I can't think of a time when you haven't been straight.'

Cathy was pleased with my response. 'It's frustrating. I do my best to tell the truth to my customers and they don't deal with me. Cash lies through his teeth to them, and they do masses of business. It's like that with De Jong, isn't it?'

'I haven't really thought about it. I suppose it is,' I admitted.

She looked glumly down at her beer mat. 'But I shouldn't go on about my troubles all the time. What about you? You didn't look too happy yourself in the lift. Have you had a bad day too?'

I told her about the disappearing-salesman act I had witnessed, and about my lunch with the obnoxious Waigel.

'Oh, him. He's known as "the poisonous frog".'

I laughed. That did seem an apt description.

'There are a lot of people like Dick Waigel and Lloyd Harbin at Bloomfield Weiss,' she said. 'In fact they are actively encouraged. It's the same with most of the Wall Street firms. Competitiveness and aggression are extolled as virtues. Only the toughest will survive. It makes me sick.'

This seemed a bit rich. 'You don't always give that impression.'

She looked at me enquiringly. Then she sighed. 'Yes, you are right, I know I can be aggressive. I think that's why they gave me a job. And I play up to it. They like it, even if my customers don't. The problem is, I hate it.'

'Why do you do it, then?'

'I want to succeed, I suppose. I want to make a lot of money at Bloomfield Weiss.'

'Why?'

'Why? Isn't it obvious?'

'Not really.'

'Mm. No, I suppose you are right. It isn't obvious.' She paused to think. 'Both my parents are university lecturers, and they have always had great ambitions for me. My brother is the youngest director of one of the merchant banks in London. He got a scholarship to Oxford, so I had to get a scholarship to Oxford. Now I have to do well in the City. Silly, really, isn't it?'

I nodded. It was silly. But I had to admit it was a motivation that applied to lots of people toiling in banks and brokerage firms. And the frankness of her reply impressed me.

'Do you enjoy it?' I asked, trying to make my voice more friendly.

'Yes, in many ways I do,' she said. 'I like the excitement of the markets. I like dealing with people. And I think I am genuinely quite good at it. What I don't like is the lying, the posturing, the politics, the need to show that you are tougher than the next man.'

'Well, why don't you just give up the tough-guy image?' I asked.

'No,' she said. 'Bloomfield Weiss would eat me alive. You are just going to have to put up with it.' She laughed, not looking at all like the all-conquering corporate woman.

In fact, shorn of her cool self-assurance, she seemed like a normal, intelligent girl, with lovely eyes and an attractive smile. A few moments of silence passed, both of us trying out each other's company.

'Tell me about Rob,' I said.

She smiled. 'You tell me about Rob,' she said.

'No. I asked you first.'

'OK,' she said. 'He's a nice enough guy. Quite sweet really. We went out together a couple of times and had some fun. Then he suddenly got serious. Very serious. It was scary. He wanted to marry me and we hardly even knew each other. I felt bad because I thought I must have led him on without realising it, although thinking back, I can't see how I can have done.

'So, I thought the best thing to do was to try and avoid him. I didn't want him to persist with the wrong idea. But then he lured me to a restaurant, pretending to be a client of mine. I felt such a fool. I was furious. I haven't heard from him since then, thank God.' She paused. 'Is he always like this?'

'Quite often, I'm afraid,' I said. 'In your case he seems to have got it pretty bad. I don't think you have heard the last of him.'

'Oh dear,' she said. 'If there is anything you can say to him to put him off, please do. I have tried everything I can think of. He's a nice guy, but enough is enough.'

I thought about what Felicity had told me about Rob's phone calls to Debbie, about Claire feeling that there was something weird about him, and about what I had seen of him myself that night in the Gloucester Arms. 'Be careful,' I said.

Cathy raised her eyebrows at this, but I refused to explain further. We carried on talking for an hour or so, lingering over another beer. Cathy coaxed me to talk about my family, something I am usually reluctant to discuss with strangers. I told her about my father's death, about my mother's illness, and about how I had dashed my mother's hopes of my becoming a farmer. She was sympathetic. Much to my surprise, I didn't find her sympathy embarrassing, nor did it make me bitter as it sometimes did when given insincerely. It was comforting.

'Is Hamilton McKenzie the cold fish he seems?' she asked. 'He must be difficult to work for.'

'He isn't a very easy person to read,' I admitted. 'And he can be a bit of a taskmaster. He is very sparing with praise.'

'But you like him?'

'I wouldn't say exactly that. But I do admire him. He is so good at what he does, one of the best in the market. He is an excellent teacher. And he has this way of making me work hard for him, of bringing the best out of me. To tell you the truth, I would do anything for him.'

'It must be good to work for someone like that.'

'Yes, it is.'

'A bit like having a father?'

I squirmed in my chair. 'I hadn't thought about it that way. But I suppose you are right.'

Cathy reached across the table to touch my hand. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that,' she said.

'No, no, that's OK. It's a relief to be able to talk to someone like this. Someone who understands. One of the worst things about losing a parent is that it imposes a sort of loneliness upon you. It is one of the most important things in your life, but you can't share it with anyone.'

Cathy smiled. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then she looked at her watch. 'Is that the time? I must be off. Thanks for the drink. I feel much better now.' She got up to leave.

I found myself reluctant to let her go. 'So do I,' I said. Much better.

We parted, each of us heading towards our separate subway stops.