Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  “That’s technically accurate, though I wouldn’t have put it quite in those terms.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “I was a senior securities trader for Eaton Vance.”

  “Oh.” Malcolm was taken aback. “Wow. Were you any good?”

  Dion laughed again, louder this time. “Sure. I had one of the largest equities accounts at the entire firm. But you’re only as good as your last trading day. I suppose that makes you one of the best traders in the world at the moment, Malcolm.”

  “I had some help,” Malcolm said.

  “Then why aren’t you celebrating with the help?”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “A friend?”

  Malcolm nodded. “My only friend, an analyst at Barclays who wasn’t getting any love for his bearish sentiments—before Friday, anyway. Can’t reach him by cell phone, and he doesn’t yet know the results of his ‘help.’”

  “So that’s why you’re celebrating by feeding the squirrels with me? Don’t cha have anyone else?”

  “My wife, but she’s also out of town, working, and I can’t get ahold of her, either.”

  “I see.” After another long moment Dion added, “Well, say fifty Hail Mary’s and then spend some of that money while you still can.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like my analyst friend. I’ll dispense with the religious rituals, but thanks for listening.”

  Dion looked at the sky. “I’m not one for rituals, either. But being homeless has turned me a little religious. There’s definitely a God who cares about us. Take it from a man who’s put it to the test. Like I said, He even cares about the birds. That’s obvious enough.”

  Malcolm looked up as well. “I’m not sure what I believe anymore. I guess you could call me an agnostic Christian.”

  “Those two things are diametrically opposed,” Dion said. “You can’t be both. It’s an oxymoron, like saying you’re a liberal conservative.”

  Malcolm laughed. “It’s like you know all about me. My wife is a conservative liberal, so we get along fine. Although she was a regular liberal before she started working in law enforcement.” Malcolm paused. “We’re separated, actually, but not for much longer…”

  “You figure you’ll show her your big roll now, and she’ll come running back?”

  “It’s more than that. I can quit trading now. That’s what divided us.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I mean, yes! I’m sure.”

  Dion nodded. “My wife left me when I blew up, just to make my losses complete. I do wish you success.”

  “Thanks, Dion. I appreciate that more than you can know. So, you blew up your trading account?”

  “Mine and the firm’s. Traded my own money right along with theirs. They like that at Eaton Vance. Shows them you have the courage of your convictions.”

  “What happened?”

  “You remember the flash crash?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said. “In 2010. You got caught in that?”

  “It was a bad day and I was highly leveraged the wrong way. Then I reacted to try and recoup, and well, you know. Zigged when I should have zagged. Next thing I know, margin call. All gone. Drove my $80,000 BMW home to my Park Avenue house and had dinner with my trophy wife one last time before I broke the news to her. The depression only lasted a month or so. Climbed out of the bottle but stayed on the street. Been happy ever since.”

  “You’ve lived on Park Avenue, and have slept on the streets, and like sleeping on the streets better?”

  “Infinitely. In a rich man's house there is no place to spit but his face. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Of course, you’ll have to go broke first—that’s an important part of attaining tranquility.”

  “Don’t think I’m ready for it.” A squirrel finally took a seed directly from Malcolm’s hand.

  “You may be more ready than you think, my liberal-conservative friend. Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

  “Briefly,” Malcolm replied.

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “That’s when I found out I was adopted.”

  “What a blessing,” Dion said. “Your parents actually wanted you.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. Turns out my Aunt and Uncle are my real parents. They didn’t want me. After the web of lies and betrayal was revealed, I lost faith in everything and everybody. My grades went to hell and I became a problem teenager. Moved out of the house as soon as I was able and never looked back. Still call my parents—the ones who raised me, that is—on Christmas, but that’s usually all. They’re good people, but I find I’m unable to forgive.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Dion mumbled.

  “Yes.” Malcolm stood up. “Well, it’s been extremely nice talking with you.” He tossed what was left of the seed bag back to Dion.

  Dion smiled warmly. “You have a good heart, Malcolm. Much better than what you believe. I think you’re going to be fine. But don’t put too much faith in that bankroll. Life has a way of teaching us all what’s truly important.”

  “Hope I see you again sometime.” Malcolm left him there and headed for home.

  He only took a few steps before suddenly halting. Was he really walking away from such a cool homeless guy without giving him anything? After telling him about getting rich, no less? This was deplorable. Malcolm opened his wallet, took out a C-note, and returned to the field.

  Dion wasn’t there.

  “Dion!” Malcolm shouted. He looked all around. Nothing. That was odd. One squirrel scampered at the spot where the two of them had been sitting. Two minutes ago a dozen of them were here.

  Malcolm felt a strange chill. He crumpled the hundred-dollar bill and tossed it at the squirrel, who inspected it with his nose before running up a tree.

  Malcolm turned and left again. Hopefully, someone who needed that bill more than Malcolm would find it.

  Chapter Seven

  “I saved some for you, Malcolm.” Gabe pulled a cardboard box full of produce from beneath the counter and set it next to the register. “This will probably cost more than $60 the next time you come in here, by the price estimates my wholesaler is giving me. I know you need this for juicing, and figure you must have gotten killed Friday. So for you, old price. Let’s call it twenty-five even. There’s a couple bunches of celery on the bottom.”

  “Whoa! Thanks, Gabe.” Malcolm looked about the bodega as he pulled his debit card out of his wallet, feeling only the slightest tinge of guilt. “I was wondering what happened in here. Your shelves are nearly empty.”

  “Yep.” Gabe ran a hand over his bald spot. “They cleaned me out of groceries this weekend. Sundries, too: batteries, toothpaste, antacids. Sure hope I get the shipment I’m scheduled for tomorrow, at whatever cost. Guess a lot depends on what happens today. You better get home and get some juice made, tiger. Less than thirty minutes to the opening bell.”

  “Thanks!” Malcolm glanced at his watch, finished paying, picked up the box, and jogged out of the store.

  But it was merely an act for Gabe’s benefit. What a nice thing he did, holding groceries for him like that. Malcolm wanted to appear appreciative. As he exited, one of the local lottery junkies saw the box of produce in his hands and scowled before storming into the bodega.

  Truth be told, Malcolm considered his trading career over. Sure, he’d watch the markets today along with the rest of the country and root for a recovery—or at least a soft landing for the sudden crisis. No way was he placing any orders. Even if he hadn’t already accomplished everything he ever wanted to in the markets, you just can’t trade under extreme conditions like this. It’s pure gambling, and the odds are bad no matter what you try to do.

  Back home, Malcolm made some juice and drank it while listening to Jim Cramer squawk away the final minutes before the opening.

  “Treasuries have been trading heavy for almost ninety minutes in New York. They’re holding relatively flat
on ridiculous volume, which is good news, because the majority of volume in the bond market usually occurs shortly before the stock market opens. U.S. bonds were also heavily traded at the 4:00 am opening auction, and in the overnight sessions in Tokyo and London. Of course, after the bond bombing on Friday you can probably kiss usually goodbye. There are presently so many asset classes tied to bonds that anything could happen, and the world is waiting for the U.S. stock market to officially open in order to make up its mind not only on U.S. Treasuries, but on the U.S. Dollar as well—which puts stocks in line as both the second and fourth dominoes. If that sounds confusing, tune into Mad Money later when I’ll explain the current intertwining of the various markets, hopefully after we get some better news today. I do like the sideways movement in the bond market so far this session, and think we could get a significant bounce off it.”

  Malcolm pulled up a chart on the DOW, the 10-Year T-Note, the USD/Yen, and settled in for the show. Feet up on his desk, he sipped on the rest of his celery/carrot/spinach/apple juice.

  Stocks jumped back and forth like a paint can shaker at the opening.

  Then they shot up. It was a good spike. Malcolm put his feet down and leaned forward. Bonds were still trading sideways.

  But then the price of the 10-Year T-note dropped. Stocks immediately retreated, and dipped into negative territory.

  The Dollar/Yen was interesting. One U.S. Dollar was worth about 98 yen at the close Friday. Over the weekend that found its way to 95, a steep drop for weekend trading action. Now it suddenly plummeted into the eighties. The Pound and Euro had also lost ground against the Yen, but nowhere near as much. The Dollar was now falling sharply against the European currencies as well.

  Was the bottom really falling out of the U.S. debt market? Did the world suddenly doubt the value of American money?

  The stock market certainly seemed to think so. As the morning hours progressed, stocks continued selling off in a staircase pattern. So did the 10-year T-note. Both Bloomberg and CNBC came cackling alive with doomsday speculators throughout the day, occasionally interspersed with pleas from some financial celebrity or another begging “everyone to stop the reckless selling.” It had no discernible effect. All markets tied to the U.S. monetary system kept right on tanking.

  Commodity futures for metals and agricultural products were a different story. They soared. The energy sector was a mixed bag, and didn’t seem to know what to do.

  By mid-afternoon it was clear the markets were going to close with record losses. The yield on the 10-Year T-note was now pushing ten percent. The Dow was down 38% in the last two days of trading. A dollar would now buy you only 76 Yen.

  Malcolm’s phone rang. He scrambled to answer it on the second ring. Damn, it wasn’t Hannah or Ryan.

  It was the guy from Survival Properties.

  “The sellers want to cancel,” he sheepishly announced.

  “Too late,” Malcolm said. “I have the seller’s signed acceptance of my offer right here, that you emailed me Friday night.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s a legally binding contract where I come from.”

  “It is, Mr. Carter, but under the circumstances, with the current financial market crisis—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Malcolm said. “This is a cash transaction. I’m foregoing any property inspection or appraisal, as is my right. All I need from you is the bank account info on where to wire the money to.”

  * * *

  Tuesday morning Malcolm had his juice made and his feet up again, waiting for the opening. The fact that he didn’t have a whole lot else on hand in the way of groceries was beginning to become disturbing. Last night he went out to find mostly closed stores and restaurants, including Gabe’s bodega. Something must be holding up food shipments into the city.

  Something. Malcolm knew darn well it was the burgeoning financial crisis. The farmers, food packagers, and trucking companies were probably all in a tizzy trying to figure out how to renegotiate prices and wages. If things didn’t turn around quickly, Ryan—and Dion the happy homeless man—might both prove to be prophets.

  That couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t. Not now. Not after Malcolm finally hit it big. He didn’t need everything to get fixed right away. Heck, higher interest rates were great for him. But he needed the dollar to stop freefalling. That’s all. It could stay weak for a while, that’s cool. But stop crashing. Surely the government would step in and do something. They had to.

  But if Ryan was right, there might not be much else they could do. Well, if the Asians really were dumping all their U.S. Treasury holdings, they had to exhaust their supply at some point, didn’t they?

  All markets opened sharply down again. Malcolm found he could no longer take it in stride. This was affecting him now, too, just as Dion had suggested. There was no American rich enough to be insulated from hyperinflation on an unprecedented scale, and that’s what all the pundits were saying lay in store for America if the markets didn’t correct. Some of them asserted it was already in motion and couldn’t be stopped.

  The markets didn’t correct. By 11:00 the yield on the T-Note was 12%, the DOW was down 45% from Thursday, and the Dollar was worth 69 Yen.

  At 1:00 those figures were 13%, –49%, and 61 Yen.

  At 3:00 it was 14.2%, –56%, and 54 Yen.

  And at the market close the yield on 10-year Treasuries was 15%, the Dow was down more than 53% in the last three days of trading, and one crisp dollar bill would get you a paltry 48 Yen.

  This was seriously bad. The President announced a speech to the nation at eight-o’clock. Malcolm didn’t know what to do in the meantime.

  He went to his living room window and looked outside. The streets were alive with commotion. People were scurrying about and shouting at each other, some running erratically. It may not be safe out there.

  Despite that, Malcolm decided to go for a walk.

  But first he went to the hall closet and took the handgun safe down from the top shelf. The key hung from a peg. He opened it. There was Hannah’s spare weapon, a Five-seveN pistol with a fully-loaded twenty-round magazine of 5.7x28mm cartridges. It wasn’t legal for Malcolm to touch, much less carry—but he took it anyway, first adjusting her shoulder holster to fit him and then covering up with a sport coat. The police didn’t figure to bother him with all the unrest out there at the moment, but if they did Malcolm planned to plead for leniency based on his wife being a law enforcement officer.

  Outside his building, Malcolm looked south on Eighth Avenue. A large group of people blocked the street in that direction, many holding signs over their head. Some kind of organized demonstration appeared to be gathering there.

  Malcolm then looked left, towards the park. A group of policemen in riot gear were assembling and slowly moving south down Eighth Avenue, obviously gearing up for a confrontation with the protestors. So much for going to look for Dion. Malcolm walked eastward on 52nd street instead.

  The mood around him was tense, everywhere. This city was on edge. It wouldn’t take much to push it over. Malcolm thought about Ryan’s mysterious phone call on Friday afternoon. It seemed he was expecting all this. He told Malcolm to stay put. Ryan was supposed to show up at his apartment by the end of the week. He was going to “take care of Malcolm.” The idea was laughable at the time. Not quite so much now, but Malcolm still had no idea what Ryan had in mind. In any case, he hoped he would show soon.

  Malcolm came to Park Avenue, where he encountered a welcoming—albeit surprising—sight: a food truck operating. A small crowd gathered around it. Some of them formed a line. Malcolm was hungry. He approached the truck.

  It was Uncle Gussy’s, one of the best outdoor purveyors in Manhattan. They did Greek food. Man, a gyro sounded good right now. Malcolm got in line.

  An argument broke out at the front of the line. The man selling food shouted loudest and told the customer to step away. He then stuck his head out the window and yelled at the rest of the line.


  “You want to eat? It’s $100! And no choices. You get a bag with a gyro and a baklava! Nothing else! That’s all we have, and the price is $100 per bag! Have your money ready!”

  Some people grumbled and left, but those were more than replaced by others who took the opportunity to merge into the line ahead of Malcolm. That was annoying, but Malcolm didn’t say anything. He did, however, move his hand inside his coat to feel the gun holster.

  When the line was halfway down, the food truck operator’s head reappeared.

  “Price is now $160! One gyro and one baklava, in a bag, to go. Have your money ready!”

  “That’s ridiculous,” a man wearing a jogging suit in front of Malcolm said. “I’m not putting up with this.” He left the line, along with everyone else in front of Malcolm. Some whined about “price gouging,” and one woman left vowing to return with a cop.

  Malcolm suddenly found himself at the front of the line.

  “You want a gyro?” the vendor said holding a bag. “$160.”

  Malcolm fished all the money out of his wallet and counted it. “Sell me two for $290? It’s all I have.”

  “Okay.”

  Malcolm handed him all his cash and received two bags in exchange.

  Several people returned to the line after Malcolm left the window, apparently having second thoughts. Malcolm turned the corner and started back up 52nd Street. As he did, two tough-looking guys stepped forward from the wall.

  “Hey,” one of them said pointing at Malcolm’s bags.

  Malcolm drew the pistol without thinking twice. He didn’t point it at anyone, but he made sure they saw it.

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” the man said. They both backed up to the wall again. Malcolm stepped into the street to give them a wide berth and re-holstered the pistol. He glanced backwards frequently for the next two blocks.

  He made it home without any further trouble and enjoyed a nice meal. Plus he had tomorrow night’s dinner safe in his fridge.