by James Conway
“Finally, when the house he lived in went under, Rick’s father said that the country and the system he served and believed in had abandoned him. He went back to the Veterans Administration to try to claim his war disability, but they turned him away because he’d declined help twenty years earlier.
“The day after he moved his family into a low income apartment over a pizza parlor in the center of town, Rick’s father drove into the nearby woods and shot himself. That began phase three of Rick’s youth.”
“My God,” Miranda says. “He must have been devastated.”
“He only spoke about it when he was drunk. Then he blamed everyone. Friends and neighbors, the VA, the insurance company that didn’t cover suicide. And of course the banks and the regulators and the government. The press describes Rick as a patriot, but they haven’t heard the things I have about corporations and the government when he is raging. I’m convinced that he’s still so driven to succeed at all costs as a direct response to those events, not because of a sense of fulfillment or accomplishment.”
“Kind of tragic,” Miranda says, “that his being so driven because of what happened to his childhood family led to the ruination of his own, adult family.”
Deborah shakes her head. “Not tragic. I’m escaping with my life and my health. He can have his goddamn hedge. Your husband . . . your ex . . . is different. For him it’s an intellectual pursuit. Rick said Drew was one of the only people he knew who enjoyed the hedge business for reasons other than greed. With most of these men it goes beyond greed to obsession.”
“With Rick it seems to border on vengeance.”
Deborah slaps her left palm on the table. “Exactly! He attacks his work and runs his fund with a vengeance!”
Miranda tries to imagine how a person who once sat here surrounded by everything money could buy would be driven to kill for more. She measures her words. “Do you think . . . with all that’s happened to him, he’s capable of going further . . . of doing something criminal to exact his vengeance, Deb?”
Deborah Salvado sits back and folds her arms.
“You know, harm someone?”
“Why are you here, Miranda?”
“Of course, to see . . .”
“Don’t condescend. I know when someone is trying to leverage a relationship with me to get through to my husband.”
Miranda sighs. “I got a rare call from Drew yesterday. Not the usual disillusion and disenchantment. He called to tell me that he’d had enough, that he was quitting The Rising.”
“Interesting, but not a surprise. He’d been mortified by the spectacle of it for some time.”
Miranda nods.
“Is he going somewhere else?”
“Not that I know of. He’s wanted out for a while. Since Erin died. He threatened frequently, but he always stayed, I think in part because he had no idea what he’d do with the rest of his life and in part because, deep down his relationship with the numbers overshadowed his ethical and moral dilemmas. But something happened this week that made him want to leave in a hurry.”
“Like what?”
Miranda shrugs. “That’s really why I came here today. To try to find out. Drew and I hardly talk now, and when I pressed him the other day, he wouldn’t say. And now I can’t get in touch with him at all. I just thought that you might know what may have happened, if Rick said something.”
“These days Rick tells me nothing.”
“Has he been acting differently?”
Deborah Salvado leans forward and pushes her teacup to the side of the table. “Differently enough to commit a crime? Bigger than the crimes he’s been committing with the assistance of corporate and elected masters of the universe for the past twenty-eight years? Is that what you’re asking, Miranda?”
“I . . .”
“I’m not as detached as you think. Remember, sweetheart, half of everything he owns will be mine, so I make it my business to know his business.”
“I’m just . . . I’m worried about . . .”
“I know someday this is all going to come crashing down, Madoff-style, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the one to set it all in motion.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
Deborah interrupts. “The things I know about that man, my husband, you do not want to know. But understand, there’s no way anyone is going to hear any of it from me first.”
“Will you tell him that I came here?”
Deborah Salvado tilts her head and considers Miranda for a moment. “I meant it when I said we don’t talk.”
“Because, even though we’re divorced . . .”
“I know. You’re worried about Drew.” Deborah gets out of her chair. To signal the end of the visit she begins walking out of the kitchen and into the foyer. “I’ll tell you this because I do like you,” she says as she walks. “When you get involved with someone like Rick Salvado, when you challenge or threaten him, you are going to a very dangerous place, because you are dealing with someone as powerful and egomaniacal as a despot, as the corrupt sociopath head of a third world nation. He is connected to everyone, good and bad and worse, in business and politics and the illicit groups that control them.
“This is a man who has the power to do good or evil, to make something memorable or make it disappear as if it never existed with the touch of the tiniest button on his smart phone. Call it a death app.
“So no, Miranda,” she continues, “I won’t tell Rick that you came here, investigating him. Unless of course, he asks. Then I’ll tell him everything, because while you would have chosen to walk away from all this, I obviously haven’t.”
“I understand, Deb.”
“Good. And for your own good, whatever it is you are looking into, for yourself or your ex-husband, of all people, I suggest you cease and desist, and that he just quit and move on. Because if Rick wants to, he will find you, Miranda.”
12
Philadelphia
The cabbie takes Havens as far as Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard.
“You won’t take me to Springfield Avenue and Tenth?”
The cabbie looks at his surroundings, which have quickly deteriorated since they got off I-280. “Why not ask me to drive you to downtown Kabul?”
Havens slips five twenties through the Plexiglas barrier and gets out.
“If you’re lookin’ for rock, I know some place safer. ’Cause the only reason a white man goes to Newark is to get himself high, laid, or killed.”
He walks on crumbled sidewalks past a cinder-block pawnshop, a discount package store, and a gated bodega. Past row houses with tattered couches on front porches. Mounds of black garbage bags piled along the sidewalk, a ghetto mountain range. A pair of African-American boys on knockoff BMX bikes low ride in slow circles around a pretty young girl in a tube top, chirping seduction smack. Men with brown-bagged bottles turn his way, eyes already homing in on the spectacle of a stopped cab in the neighborhood, a white man holding a scrap of paper. It wasn’t hard to find an address for Rondell Jameson’s brother Charles. Every time he was arrested—all drug-related—it made the papers. Havens stops in front of a project to get his bearings. On a stoop sits an overweight teenage boy and a skinny kid in a throwback Iverson jersey. Havens takes a breath, preparing himself for the runaround or worse, before approaching.
“I’m looking for Charles Jameson.”
The boys look at each other.
Havens checks the address. This is it. “He inside?”
The skinny kid spits. “You’re too geeked to be police.”
“I’ll pay.”
“If I want your fucking money I’ll take it,” says the heavy kid, who’s no more than fourteen. The skinny kid gets up and walks away. Havens watches him pull out a cell phone.
“What’s he doing?”
>
“None of your fucking business. If Sir Chuck wants to find you, he will.”
* * *
The drug pusher drives a hybrid.
A brand-new, tricked-out black Cadillac Escalade hybrid. Gold rims. Blackened side windows. SIR CHUCK vanity license, just in case you didn’t know.
The back door swings open, classical music wafts onto the sidewalk, and a hand emerges and motions. Get in.
Havens closes the door and nods at the man who is presumably Sir Chuck. He cocks his head as he focuses on the music, then says, “Bach.”
Sir Chuck nods. “Nobody touches him. You a fan?”
“I like classical music. The notes make sense to me like math. And I’m good with numbers. This is what, Brandenburg Concerto Number Three, G major?”
The driver pulls back onto Springfield. Sir Chuck lifts his red Phillies cap off his shaved black head and smiles. “You know what, Mr. . . .”
“Havens.”
“I have no idea what concerto this is. I just like the man’s music. Bach by day, to soothe the soul. Hard-core Philly rap by night, to take control. Beanie Sigel. Gillie Da Kid. Now tell me, what the fuck you doing walking on my street?”
Havens takes a breath. “I work for a hedge fund. Your brother’s name came up on an account that has some issues. When he died, I saw your name as next of kin.”
“Junkies have no kin. That boy died a long time ago.”
“How do you think his name ended up on that account? Somehow I doubt Rondell was moving millions in tech stock.”
Sir Chuck laughs.
“Because I’m a numbers guy, Chuck, I did some research and see that you dabble in insurance and finance. I imagine selling the occasional policy to the locals here.”
“It’s legit. You got thirty seconds to say your piece.”
“The short version is someone is using the identities of people like Rondell to open trading accounts and make stock trades in exchanges around the world. Hong Kong. Johannesburg. Dubai. Then, after the trade is executed, they’re killing the people who made them.”
“What the fuck do I care about money people on the other side of the planet?”
Havens nods. “Probably about as much as me. But the people who are killing the money people, they also killed my friend the other day, they killed your brother, and I’m pretty sure they’re gonna kill you.”
Sir Chuck tilts his cap back on his head.
“Rondell was easy. The trading account with his name and vitals was directly linked to transactions where at least one broker has been killed. But you, I just did a bit of quantitative reasoning and it added up.”
“We’re done here.”
“What did they give you for the info on the skells? Five hundred? A grand? Was it enough to sell what was left of your brother’s soul?”
Chuck’s eyes flare. He reaches into his jacket and wraps his fingers around a Glock. Havens takes a chance. “How much did Laslow give you? How many names did the bald man get? I hope it was a shitload, Chuck, because he used it to lay down a number with eight zeros and counting. How does that make you feel?”
Chuck stares at Havens but doesn’t reply.
“You think he’s gonna let a loose end like you dangle when he’s got a billion on the line?”
“Don’t know about any accounts. Don’t know about some bald white fucker.”
“Who said he was white?”
“I don’t owe no one . . .”
“Actually, Chuck, you do. Because if I didn’t happen to come here today and give you a solid heads-up, you probably would not be here tomorrow. You’re a money guy. That’s worth something.”
“So what do you want?”
“Confirmation. The bald guy, Laslow, right?”
The Escalade stops at a light. Chuck nods, looks at the world outside through dark tinted glass while twisting a diamond ring on his left forefinger. “What makes them sure enough to bet a billion on something?”
“They’ve figured out a way to game the market, to create an event that will change everything in their favor.”
“For instance?”
“Say you want to fix the World Series for your Phillies. You have Howard, Utley, Lee, and Halladay in your pocket, then you bet big on a Philly win. You’ve created an event that changes the odds in your favor. But, to be sure, you do something to the Yanks. Like you make sure Sabathia isn’t able to pitch, or buy him, too.”
Chuck tilts his head. “So you’re talking terrorism?”
“Exactly. These guys aren’t gangsters; they’re financial terrorists, with global connections.”
“And you’re gonna stop them?”
Havens meets Chuck’s eyes. “I’ve lost a child. My wife. My job. My friend. So, you know, why not?”
Chuck takes a breath. “They came down from New York. Bald guy. White guy.”
“Laslow?”
“Laslow. Owns a club there. Found me through another financial wizard who thinks he’s king of the world until he needs to scratch an itch at three A.M. No different from Rondell. For some time I was providing product in bulk to him. Your bald man. For his club. His clients, he called them. ‘Clients,’ like they’re any fucking different from any junkie walking these streets. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with two monster-ass motherfuckers who spoke no English. The last time was with the tall guy. I thought it was Russian and said as much. But your man Laslow took that as some sort of fucking offense. Said, ‘Not Russian. Georgian.’ Georgian.”
“When did he ask for the info on the identities?”
“Month, six weeks ago. Fucking liar said it was for a phone scam.”
“And you won’t tell me the other names?”
“Said he’d kill me if I did.”
“Like I said. He’s gonna anyway. Probably a lot of others if you don’t.”
“So,” Chuck says after a while, “you lose all that, and you still care?”
“You can dwell on what you lose. What’s been taken. Or, you know, what’s still there.”
“I hear you.” Chuck closes his eyes as the last notes of the concerto play out. “This may be my favorite. You know the name of this tune?”
“I do. Orchestral Suite Number Three, in D major.”
“D major.” Chuck whispers it. The car pulls back to where they started. Chuck turns to Havens and says, “Before he left, before I gave him the names I’m about to give you, you know what Laslow says? He says he’ll only need one or two of them, because after this Friday, it’s gonna be all over.”
13
Rio de Janeiro
Kleber Valverde would be willing to bet everything he owns that the name of the client on the other end of the line is not Rondell Jameson.
But if the U.S. trading account out of Philadelphia is clean and the security profile checks out, he could care less. This amount of money does not move through Trek Investimentos often, and never for one of his clients.
He drinks from a paper cup of warm black café and taps a soon-to-be-smoked cigarette on his desk as he listens to the specific instructions. The client wants short positions on three of the world’s largest advertising holding companies, which cumulatively account for more than 75 percent of all the major agencies in the world, and more than 80 percent of total advertising-based revenue. An industry that spent more than $700 billion last year alone, selling soap, beer, and boner pills, Valverde marvels.
As he processes the information, he wonders what this guy, or at least the guy he’s representing, knows to be able to so confidently foretell the death of advertising.
Some new kind of technology or medium? Perhaps a new digital ad model, or an entirely new medium, or entertainment channel. Whatever, he thinks, as he starts activating the first of many waves of shorts. That’s
for the analysts to figure out.
Under normal circumstances he’d run this by a VP, or at least discuss the novelty and magnitude of it with one of his fellow brokers. But last month his boss was canned along with three of his best friends in a salary purge to make the firm look more attractive for what has become a seemingly inevitable takeover by the Swiss at UBS. All they’re waiting on, according to hallway rumor, is the final approval of the Central Bank of Brazil.
Long-term this does not portend good things for Kleber Valverde, but short-term it’s fortuitous, because in recent weeks no one at Trek has been paying attention to anything except saving their own ass. The workplace chaos means that he can process “Rondell Jameson’s” odd, numerous, and substantial transactions and make a decent pile of cash without attracting the notice of management.
By lunchtime he’s programmed the transactions to the point that they are executing themselves, rolling out in small, digitally traded bunches. A hundred. A thousand. Five thousand. Ten thousand and counting.
He looks out the fourth-floor window, oblivious after all these years to the iconic image of Sugarloaf rising like a fist into the sun-blasted azure sky from the darker blue waters of Guanabara Bay.
One of the runners brings his lunch to his desk. Cozido, a stew of potatoes, carrots, and a sliced mango. He tips the young man ten reals, more than twice the usual, and thanks him. Once an entry-level runner himself, Valverde knows that the size of the tip doled out is one of the most accurate ways to judge the kind of day a trader is having. And a group of young runners with a pocket full of reals is a more reliable economic indicator than the jobless numbers or the level of the Bovespa. The boy gives him a thumbs-up with his right hand as he pockets the note with his left.
The transactions continue to process. Ten thousand. Fifteen thousand. He had planned on setting aside two hours this afternoon to contact existing high-end clients and cold-call leads, but he’s transfixed by the accumulation of numbers, the promise of commission. For every short position, he has to find someone to make the market, to counter with a long. And today this is proving easy. Apparently more people are willing to bet on the life of advertising than on its death.
