Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  So when Brad had come calling, the timing couldn’t have been better. His uncle Rudy ran a hedge fund, which sounded exciting, at least in principle. If Wall Street was Broadway, Lanark Lane Investments was off-off-off Broadway. It managed the investments for old ladies and a couple of orphaned pension funds of small companies that’d disappeared. They were technically on the buy side of Wall Street, but they were such small fry that they could hardly get the big houses to take their calls. Uncle Rudy was virtually retired for health reasons, only coming into the city two days a week, and he spent one of them seeking the consolation of his mistress. After six months, Brad, Matt and Charlie found themselves captains of the ship, for what it was worth. Matt was the analyst, wading through the data single-handedly, trying to find that holy grail. Charlie worked the phones, that down-home charm working to get some new clients onto Lanark’s previously moribund client list. Brad was ostensibly in charge. And so they’d gone, batting above average, but not enough to get them noticed and a call-up to the big leagues. Their first year, the Christmas bonus had been $800 and a really nice letter opener complete with its own sharpening stone.

  Then, chicken. Chicken, chicken, chicken.

  Jennie had taken a year off before going to college. That’s what they’d called it. The reality was that the money hadn’t been there to pay her tuition. Matt would have somehow preferred it if she’d got angry, bitched at him and moaned about how unfair it was. Instead, she’d been infuriatingly understanding. She had taken a job at the local day care and stayed home, helping out Chip and Jane on the farm on her days off. She’d started seeing Jimmy Nightingale, who worked as a manager at the distribution centre for the chicken wholesaler. He’d been in the year above Matt in high school and Matt considered him too old and nowhere near good enough for his sister. Still, Jimmy had invited Matt out for a beer and, at Jennie’s insistence, he’d gone.

  Despite Matt’s reservations, Jimmy was an OK guy. Still, they’d had precious little in common, so they’d made up for the gaps in conversation by drinking. Eventually, after striking out on attempts to find common ground on sports, music, TV, Jimmy had resorted to bitching about work. The company had swapped haulage companies in a highly competitive bidding process and it turned out the lowest bidder had been so damn cheap because they’d entirely misunderstood what the job required. The software didn’t work to tell the trucks where to go, and even when the trucks did find out where to go, it took way too long. The hauler blamed the software company, the software company blamed the existing software at the wholesalers – the whole thing was a disaster. They were going to be the laughing stock of the whole industry. Worst thing was, they couldn’t go back to the old system if they wanted to, as losing the bid had sent their old hauler to the wall. In three days, half the chicken franchises in most of the South were going to run out of chicken. Chicken shops with no damn chicken!

  Matt had listened intently as Jimmy had talked and talked, delighted to have finally found something of interest to Mr Wall Street, as Jennie affectionately referred to her big brother.

  Matt had flown back to New York the next morning and, despite it being a Sunday, he’d headed straight to the office and run the numbers. Then he’d run them again. Then he had called Brad and Charlie. Things might have been very different if Rudy hadn’t been off on a cruise – the latest apology to his wife. For a man who screwed around so much, he seemed spectacularly bad at hiding it. Brad had been given access to the trading accounts in his absence.

  They’d cleared their whole investment portfolio by midday on the Monday. Some of it had been a fire sale to clear non-liquid assets. Brad had called it going all in. By Tuesday, they were one hundred per cent committed to the plan – every last cent that Lanark Lane had under management. Then, they’d sat there silently watching screens as they had taken the mother of all beatings. Wednesday came and went with more of the same. Brad had been dodging calls from his uncle for over a day at this point. Somebody from one of their brokerage firms had rung Rudy to find out what was going on. They had shorted the wholesaler, the haulage company, the fast-food chains. They’d invested heavily in their rivals. By the time it had started to break their way on Thursday night, Matt was alone in the office. Brad was somewhere getting wasted and Charlie had rung an ex-girlfriend, in the hope that getting laid could distract him from his career imploding before his eyes – again.

  It had been a fun news story on local TV, the shop with the sign up saying no chicken. They’d found the most redneck SOB imaginable to interview and his incoherent rage had been pure clickbait. The video had been auto-tuned and remixed by Friday morning and the chicken shortage had made the morning talk shows. By close of business Friday, Lanark Lane’s portfolio had doubled in value over the space of a week. Rudy had gotten off a plane, looked at the numbers and promptly fired his three employees. They’d won it all and somehow still lost.

  Brad, of course, had his job back by the end of the weekend. His uncle Rudy was terrified of the SEC coming to audit their funds but, if anything, he was even more afraid of Brad’s mother.

  Four weeks later, Matt found himself sitting at the bus station, hungover, with all of his earthly possessions in a rucksack at his feet, when it happened.

  A stocky black guy with a shaven head and tightly trimmed beard had sat on the bench opposite and given him an appraising look. Matt had sat upright and pushed his rucksack further under the seat. The man looked out of place; nobody else in this zip code was wearing a tie, for starters. There was something about the way he was looking at Matt that he found unnerving. Given that they were in a bus station where an old lady was arguing loudly with Jesus and a dude in a tracksuit had been rummaging vigorously in his pocket for eight minutes, looking for change he didn’t have, that was really saying something. The black guy’s eyes stayed locked on Matt’s.

  “Can I help you.” Matt didn’t say it as a question. He said it as a back off.

  “Come with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The man had stood up and spoken to Matt while scowling at the gangly kid in the tracksuit who was still trying to find that quarter.

  “Come with me,” he repeated.

  “Yeah – no, thanks. I ain’t interested in… whatever.”

  The man sighed. “Your name is Matt Clarke, you’re twenty-four years old and you’re about to get on a bus back to your shitty life in Falstaff, Ohio. Or you can come with me for a few minutes. Woman wants to talk to you.”

  “About what.”

  “If she wanted me to talk to you then she wouldn’t be waiting to talk to you.”

  “Who says I want to talk to her?”

  “The forty-seven bucks in your checking account means you can’t afford not to.”

  A chill went down Matt’s spine. He’d checked his account on the way to the station. Aunt Jane liked snow globes; he’d kept promising to get her a New York one and he hadn’t managed it yet. He’d figured now might be his last chance. Then he’d realised that he didn’t have enough to be blowing his last few dollars on cheap junk.

  “I’m walking over there. Come, don’t come – up to you, kid.”

  Then the man had walked off.

  Matt had followed and was surprised when, instead of exiting the bus station, he’d led him through the door that said “Staff Only”. In the middle of what looked like a break room sat a woman of about sixty, with a black bob streaked with grey. She wore a tailored pantsuit and a tight smile under green eyes. Everything about her said she was in charge. “Mr Clarke, take a seat.”

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a job interview. I believe you’re in the market.”

  “For who?”

  “Lanark Lane Investments.”

  “I’ve already been fired from there.”

  “Excellent, so you have relevant experience. Sit.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? Did Brad put you up to this?”

  “No, Mr Clarke, Brad Bradley did not put me ‘up
to this’.” She said the last words like they were beneath her. “Sit.”

  Matt looked behind him and did a double take. The first look was because a tall brunette woman he hadn’t even realised was in the room was standing right behind him with a chair. The second look was because the woman was frankly gorgeous – a dazzling smile, perfect olive skin and blue eyes that sparkled. The sound of the older woman clearing her throat made Matt realise he may’ve been staring too long. He could feel his face flush as he placed himself down on the chair. The brunette moved silently to stand behind the other woman. As she did so, she gave him a wink that, despite the circumstances, was distracting.

  “So, Mr Clarke. The Grandino Poultry Distributions deal that you made.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course. Still, I do. Lots of people get information, but what you did with it was the impressive part. You have an eye for weakness. I respect that.”

  “Are you with the SEC?”

  “Does anything about this meeting strike you as being the kind the Securities and Exchange Commission typically engage in?”

  “No, but then maybe that’s the point.”

  She nodded amiably. “Good. That’s a good instinct, Mr Clarke. Trust no one. You do not need to confirm or deny anything. Let’s just say that you are a man who has shown an ability to appreciate the value of information. I” – she smiled – “am someone who, on occasion, comes across information. I am looking for someone who can understand and act upon that information.”

  “The last time I did that, it got me fired.”

  “It won’t the next time. You will also not need to worry about the SEC, or any other combination of letters you care to mention. Not if you do your job correctly. Or maybe you’d prefer to go back to little old Falstaff?”

  Matt bristled. “How in the hell do you know so much about me?”

  “We are the US government; it’s our job to know about you.”

  “Exactly which part of the government?”

  “If memory serves, the Interstate Commerce Commission regulates bus travel. If you need a name, use that.”

  “OK. Well, in that case, there’s a dude outside who has been choking the chicken for the last ten minutes. Who do I complain to about that?”

  In the corner of his eye, Matt noticed the brunette grinning at that last statement and his heart skipped a beat. Her boss looked at her watch.

  “This is a limited-time offer, Mr Clarke.”

  “You haven’t actually made me an offer yet.”

  “A job. To be exact, your old job back.”

  “Rudy won’t go for it.”

  She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I am in charge of managing a retirement fund for the, ahem, Interstate Commerce Commission. I would like you, under the guise of Lanark Lane Investments, to manage it for me.”

  “How do I know I’m not being set up?”

  “Because you’re currently not important enough to set up.” She stood up and looked at her watch again. “It’s fourteen minutes before your bus leaves. Your phone will ring before then. If you’re who I think you are, you have enough information. Take the offer, don’t take the offer, the decision is yours. But if you do take it, know that you work for me. I’m offering you everything you ever wanted, Mr Clarke, I don’t need to negotiate.”

  She walked briskly to the door.

  “But – wait – I—?”

  A surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder from the brunette made it clear that the meeting was over and following them was not an option.

  Seven minutes later, Brad rang, sounding thrilled. Rudy had just been in touch, saying he’d reconsidered and was offering Matt his old job back.

  “Tell him no, not unless he doubles my salary.”

  “But dude, I—”

  Then Matt had hung up the phone.

  The next morning, he’d returned to work at Lanark Lane Investments at twice his previous salary. As had a grateful if extremely confused Charlie. Rudy didn’t even speak to them. He carried on as if afraid to make eye contact.

  The next week, the new high-value clients had started rolling in. When the third one showed up out of nowhere, Charlie had begun asking questions. Matt had taken him and Brad into the meeting room and briefed them on most of the details. Brad was thrilled, but Charlie – despite now understanding how he’d managed to get his old job back, was less sure.

  “Who are these people?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but they’re clearly government and they clearly know what they’re doing.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Brad. “The CIA are always running drugs to get money to fight terrorists and shit. Hell, this might be patriotic work.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Matt had said, slightly embarrassed. “This woman, the client, she reminded me of Mrs Miller.”

  Charlie pulled a face. “From that dumbass sitcom you like?”

  “Dude! New in Town was an underappreciated classic.”

  “It didn’t even make it to midseason before it got canned.”

  After three months, their assets under management had doubled in size and on the rare occasions any of the three of them referred to their client, the name Mrs Miller was used. And on they had gone.

  On a Friday night two months later, Matt had been in a bar waiting for his date to show up. She was a trader at Morgan; Charlie played pick-up basketball with her brother and he’d set them up. There had been an ongoing discussion in the apartment, which he, Charlie and Brad shared, that Matt really needed to get laid. Sitting there, nursing his drink, Matt had been deciding how long a grace period he’d leave before assuming he was being stood up and bolting when the brunette from the train station calmly sat down opposite him. She’d smiled and wordlessly handed him a phone. The voice had been who he had expected. “In a few weeks, a Solaranda oil tanker is going to have an accident in the Persian Gulf. It will be quite messy.”

  “OK. Should I… ”

  The line went dead. Matt handed the phone back to the brunette. “Your boss isn’t much for conversation, is she?”

  The brunette stood, leaned across and placed a wet kiss on his lips. Then, with a giggle, she turned and left. Matt looked up to see his date standing looking down at him, truly appalled. As she stormed out, Matt couldn’t help but laugh.

  This time he was considerably cleverer about it. He produced a detailed position paper on why Solaranda Oil was a bad bet. The thing is, with any company, you dig around enough and you can always find a reason why it could all go wrong.

  When the SEC came asking – and they did – Matt had been able to produce the paper, which he’d taken the unusual step of sending to a few select clients in order to explain investments he was going to make on their behalf. One of the clients had forwarded it to his broker at Merrill and been assured it was crap. Then, three weeks later, admittedly not from overexposure to volatile Saudi Arabian politics but due to a fire starting in a ship’s galley and some seriously faulty design, Solaranda had spread oil all over a large part of the Gulf and their names over every newspaper on the planet that used three-syllable words. They’d gone bankrupt and Lanark Lane Investments had made a killing on behalf of their clients. Their reputation had continued to grow. If you get it right, nobody cares that you got it right for the wrong reasons.

  After that, their client list had really started to swell. Matt couldn’t be sure who was a front for Mrs Miller and her associates and who was just an ordinary client trying to jump on the bandwagon. They’d hired a trading desk and three other analysts, all of whom were, of course, in the dark about Mrs Miller and the fund they were managing on her behalf. Matt instructed Brad to engage in a significant increase in daily trades – dipping in and out of funds in the medical, energy, retail and property sectors. It was a fairly bullish market, so he was coming out even or slightly down most of the time, which was absolutely fine. What Matt wanted was volume, white noise, so that when the time to make ano
ther move came, there would be cover.

  Initially, Matt hadn’t paid much attention when Rudy had come in for a few days and started looking through the accounts. He’d said he just wanted to check in on some of his old clients, make sure they were doing OK. Matt didn’t get it – they were making money, why wouldn’t they be happy? But whatever, as long as Rudy stayed out of the way, he didn’t care. At this point, all he did was sign paperwork when instructed to do so.

  Then, one evening, Matt had been down in the parking garage, admiring his new Lexus, when Rudy suddenly appeared from the shadows.

  “Jesus, Rudy!”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Rudy grabbed Matt’s arm, his grip tight. “I built this company from the ground up.”

  Matt shrugged him off angrily. “Big deal. It wasn’t that far off the ground until recently.”

  “You goddamn pissant.”

  Rudy threw a punch. It didn’t land with much force; it was more the shock of the thing. Matt leaned back against his car. He could taste a trickle of blood on his bottom lip as Rudy stood there, his fists by his side, the knuckles clenched rollercoaster-white, his face taut with strain.

  “Calm down, old man, you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

  Matt got into his car and drove away, angry and embarrassed.

  Two days later, Rudy had another heart attack – his last.

  The funeral had been a surreal affair. The widow had been merry to an undignified degree, possibly prompted by her first and only visit to the offices of Lanark Lane Investments, which she had made that morning and discovered exactly how much of a nest egg she was sitting on. But at the back of Matt’s mind, there had been a nagging doubt. Then two days later, the man from the bus station had been waiting for Matt at the end of his jog around Central Park.