Flash Crash

by Denison Hatch

  “Who?” David demanded angrily.

  “Joe—the Pie Man,” Vlad finally revealed. “Please. I’m begging you.”

  “The pizza guy? How did he know Howard?”

  “You’ve seen his walls. Joe rolls at the highest levels. There ain’t a CEO, movie star, or athlete who hasn’t shaken Joe’s hand at some point in life.”

  David didn’t know what to do. If you murder a monster, does that make you a saint? Or do you become what you hate? Vlad had wanted to kill him, but that didn’t mean David had to do the same. David could right the boat. It was his turn, and he had a chance to save a life. He wasn’t a killer.

  David pulled Vlad up. No good deed goes unpunished. The second Vlad was safe, he immediately lunged after David and straddled him. He burrowed his two thick hands deep into David’s windpipe, strangling the lights out of the quant.

  All of a sudden, a bullet whistled through the air and impacted Vlad’s head. Vlad ricocheted backwards as a stream of blood erupted from his cranium. His entire body arched behind him, shoulders and head leading the rest of his body like a high jumper. Vlad flopped backwards and plummeted over the edge of the quarry to his death.

  David panted in exhaustion. He struggled to crane his neck upwards towards the sound of the gun above.

  “This is the police! Get your hands up, David!” Jake Rivett screamed, holding a carbine at the top of the rock embankment. Smoke articulated from the end of the gun. Jake slid down the embankment towards David, finally reaching him after a bit of struggle. David put his arms up in the air in surrender.

  “Are you going to arrest me?” David asked.

  Jake took a long, stern look at David as he loomed above the quant. “No, I am not. Because I’m the law, and you . . . You’re an innocent man.”

  “Not so much . . .” David said.

  “What do you want?” Jake asked cryptically.

  “From what?”

  “Life.”

  “My family.”

  Jake evaluated David’s response. “I believe you, David. And that’s between you and them. But hell if I’m gonna be the guy who destroys your little boy’s world—especially after what I think you’ve been through.” Jake paused for a moment. “But don’t get too ahead of yourself. We’ll be spending a whole bunch of time together on the debrief.”

  ■

  A police car stopped in front of the Belov house in Bensonhurst later that evening. David stepped out and looked up expectantly at the front door. He was awestruck by how badly he’d craved this moment. He’d perpetually held up hope, and the return to ordinary had finally arrived. If one didn’t get killed by the crash, the only place to go was back up. And average was wonderful. It was his life, and it was just inside the door.

  Marina stepped out first. Mikey followed behind, holding her hand. David ran up to them and wrapped them both into a hug. He was trying to talk, but the words didn’t come out. He pulled the Froggie Finder from his pocket. The nose still glowed.

  “I told you Froggie would come in handy,” David said as tears filled his eyes and Mikey jumped up to hug him deep and long. “I love you, Mikey.”

  “Never go away again, Daddy.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t do anything crazy,” Mikey added.

  David glanced up at Marina. She smiled and shrugged. He was right. “I love you both so much. Nothing like this will ever happen again. I promise,” David said. This time he really meant it. Tears filled David’s eyes as he hugged his wife and son tight. He would never let go.

  THIRTY-FIVE

 

  A DIGITAL VIDEO PLAYED on a small screen in front of David.

  “Please say your name for the camera,” Jake Rivett’s voice said over the image.

  The Pie Man, Joe Raffaeli, stared directly at the camera with a disappointed and downtrodden expression cast over his face. He was sitting in a stark interrogation cell. This was a confession.

  “Joseph Angel Raffaeli,” Joe finally said.

  From behind the camera, Jake pushed him further. “Yeah. And what’s your nickname? What do they call you on the streets?”

  “The Pie Man. I make pizza.”

  “Do you know Howard Bergensen?”

  Joe hesitated for a long moment and then said, “Yes.”

  “Do you know Vlad Zhadanov?”

  “Yes,” replied the Pie Man.

  “Did you facilitate payments from Howard to Vlad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Explain—in detail,” Jake urged.

  “Howard needed a job done. He came to me. We’ve had an off-the-books relationship for twenty years. He knew I was the king of the streets. Vlad ran the best crew in town. All I did was bring two interested parties together so they could make a deal.”

  ■

  The digital feed flickered. In Jake’s office inside One Police Plaza, David watched the remainder of the video with a revelatory expression on his face. The Pie Man laid out exactly what had occurred, including Howard’s copying and subsequent forgery of his own driver’s signature for Tsunami’s incorporation documents. When the admission was finished, Jake turned the television off and addressed David.

  “Even the masters of the universe have to come down to Earth,” said Jake.

  “I have one question. Why would the Pie Man talk? I met him. He’s about as original gangster as man can be. They don’t speak. They take what they know to the grave. Don’t they?”

  “You watch too many movies,” Jake replied, “but you’re not wrong. He didn’t say a thing until we found his freezer tapes. Thanks for that. The Pie Man’s like everyone else. Once he knew we had his insurance, he was willing to make the best deal he could. He’s only looking out for himself.”

  “So when are you going to arrest Howard?” David asked.

  “Case needs to be rock solid,” replied Jake.

  “You have it there.” David nodded at the screen.

  “Between us? The DA’s a prick and we got a new boss, this chick, who’s on my ass about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. Our team is working through all the videos from Joe’s freezer camera. It’s a huge cache. Gonna bring down a couple big criminal networks in the city—not just Vlad. It’ll be a couple more days.”

  “When?” David had to know.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Jake said.

  David stood up defiantly. “I need to go home to my wife and my child and tell them that I’m there for them now—that I’m going to protect them for the rest of their lives. That they are never going to have to worry about masked men barging into our house and terrorizing us, because the person who started all this is behind bars. Tell me when I can tell them that and be telling the truth. Tell me when my son can stop being afraid.”

  Jake thought about it for a moment. “Next Monday morning,” he said. “You didn’t hear it from me. And I didn’t tell you that because of you. I’m telling you for Mikey.”

  “I know,” David replied. And he did. “Thank you.”

  “It’s chill,” Jake said. David turned to leave, but Jake stopped him. “So what about your family? You’ll be okay for a job and stuff?” Jake asked.

  “We’ll be fine,” David said.

  “How come?”

  “Because whenever I make a trade, I make a counter trade,” David said and allowed a sly-wolf grin to escape his lips.

  ■

  Montgomery Noyes loomed like a dark obelisk supporting the sky. Having left the police station and walked just a few avenues to the west, David stood across the street. He observed the nexus wherein his American dream had fallen into the abyss. He took a deep breath and ran across the street towards the entrance.

  ■

  David entered the third elevator on the right. After he’d pressed a floor number, the door began to close. A businesswoman raised her hand for him to stop the elevator. But David jammed the door-close button before she could get her hand in.

  “Sorry. Something�
�s expecting me,” David said as she approached and crossly gave him the middle finger.

  The doors closed and the elevator rose. If one were particularly diligent, one would recognize it as exactly the same elevator in which David had saved multiple Montgomery employees from drowning to death. David treated it like a normal elevator ride. He turned his back to the surveillance camera and played on his cell phone.

  But in actuality, he was opening up the emergency call box in the elevator. He found a red telephone and a fire extinguisher inside. David moved the items to the side. Hidden behind them was a black bag hanging from the nose of the extinguisher. David loosened the chord that kept the bag closed and reached within to pull out what was inside. His hand emerged with two gold bars, each weighing about eight pounds.

  David slipped the gold bars inside the pockets of his jacket. That was it. Time to go. No need to remain at Montgomery a second longer. He started to repeatedly jam the button for the lobby, whistling quietly as he rode the elevator for what he knew for sure would be the last time.

  ■

  At a downtown CashForGold retail store, David sat at a desk inside a private office. A licensed gold dealer sat across from him and weighed both gold bars on a scale and then stared coolly across the table at David.

  “Why me?” the dealer asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is troy gold—COMEX marked. Each bar’s a hundred ounces. You probably already know that. But this isn’t what I see on a daily basis. Normally I’m talking to old ladies selling off their ex-husband’s guilty anniversary earrings.”

  “Does it matter?”

  The gold dealer thought about it for a moment and then smiled. “Not one bit, sir. That’s the magic of this commodity. Gold is gold, and that’s all she wrote.” The dealer glanced at a computer quickly. “Current troy-ounce spot price is eleven sixty-five. Bar’s worth about a hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. I can offer you two hundred for the both of them.”

  “Two hundred? That’s, like, fifteen percent less . . .”

  The dealer shrugged, knowing that he was about to personally net thirty thousand dollars in one afternoon. “This is a retail business. You’re probably here because you want to walk out of that door with a check that will clear, right now. So whaddya say?”

  “I’ll take the check,” David said.

  The dealer consulted his computer. He finally printed and handed over a cashiers check for two hundred thousand dollars to David. David accepted the paper with a handshake. The dealer slipped the gold into a red velvet pouch. David watched it disappear with a whimper, not a boom. He’d finally closed the position and wiped his hands clear of that risk. But he wasn’t done.

  ■

  The afternoon was wrapping up, but David had one more destination in mind. He hustled down Liberty Street in the central bowels of Wall Street, looking for a particular address. He entered another nameless, faceless Wall Street building, built in the seventies and consisting uniformly of steel, glass, and cash.

  David ran his finger along the businesses listed in the lobby, until he found the one labeled “Hurlbut Kentmere.” Seventh floor.

  ■

  David emerged onto another brokerage firm’s trading floor. It had many of the same elements as Montgomery Noyes. Traders in Brooks Brothers yelled into phones in front of their triple-monitor setups. Harried assistants and trade specialists paced around the floor. Tape prices scrolled around the walls, and CNBC was muted in the background.

  David was standing in the lobby looking for a receptionist who didn’t seem to be there, when, of course, Rick Stanfield popped into view.

  “David! Heard you might be comin’ by today. You like Kentmere? Just super, ain’t it?” Trader Rick pummeled down the hallway, pulling David in for a huge bear hug. Rick smiled at a pretty assistant passing by. He leaned in. “Did you know at these second-tier places they don’t even make you sign a sexual harassment pledge?” Rick asked.

  “I did not.”

  “Yeah. It’s like the eighties, but with worse coke,” Rick said as he guided David into his office. “It’s hilarious. They think I’m some sort of god because I worked at Montgomery. So I got my own corner office. I guess that’s what they call success, eh?”

  “They always said you traded like a cat,” said David as he sat down.

  “Did they?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, Rick. Everyone knew about you before they met you. First man in, first man out, every time. And they heard you yelling before all of that. But that’s another story altogether.”

  “Well, not much has changed, Davey-boy.” Rick laughed and then bellowed, “So how can I help you?”

  “I want to open a trading account,” David said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the check for two hundred thousand dollars. He placed it on Rick’s desk.

  “Two hundred? A little smaller than I’m used to working with, but no problem. I’ll add you to my book—give you the friend-and-family discount.”

  “How much leverage can you give me?” David asked.

  “Really? You don’t strike me as a guy who craves the nitro. Don’t you think a nice dividend-paying buy-and-hold or index would be good for this?”

  “If you don’t give me leverage, I’m walking out of here.”

  Rick checked David’s face to confirm he was serious. “Atta boy,” Rick said. He checked a monitor in front of him. “Twenty to one?” he replied.

  “Make it fifty on the equity side, and I also want to throw in some options.”

  “Fifty? What’s your play? Is it mortgage-backed security calls? A rate-twist butterfly spread? Some sort of hedged covered call? You got an edge somewhere? Something you wanna tell me at the gyro stand outside? What?” Rick asked.

  “Short the lion—Montgomery Noyes,” David said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “How big?”

  “Every single dollar,” said David.

  “I don’t know, brother. Financials are on a tear this year. They spent a whole long time in the shitter after the recession, and now they’re coming back hard with rates. And, yeah, Montgomery had their bad news with the gold crash and the robbery, but that’s already baked into the price. You don’t wanna be chasing.”

  “I’m not chasing anything,” said David.

  “You’re serious? A full naked short on the bank? You know that if it moves the wrong direction, that’ll wipe you out completely. Right?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Rick.”

  “Just asking. I’m not your fairy godmother either, but I gotta suck your balls a little here, ’cause those short bussers at the SEC might get pissed if I helped you lose absolutely everything,” Rick said.

  “The trade needs to be in by the end of the day. Will you do it for me or not?”

  Rick thought about it for a moment, but there was an obvious response bubbling up. He was Rick Stanfield, after all. “Fuck it. Of course I’ll place the trade,” he finally said as he extended his hand to David. “You came to me because you know I’m cray cray and I’ll fuckin’ try anything once, didn’t you?”

  David shook Rick’s hand with a wry smile. “Ya,” he said.

  THIRTY-SIX

 

  IT WAS EARLY MORNING in the Hamptons—six a.m. An arrow balanced menacingly on a recurve bow’s rest. Tension coiled along Howard Bergensen’s arm. Archery required many of the same skills as trading. One had to control emotion—mollify the nerves. It was critical to wait until the right moment and then strike without hesitation. And after all the calibration and expectation, there was nothing more satisfying than watching an arrow arc through the air and blast out the center of the bullseye right through the X.

  Howard released the arrow. It smashed into a target fifty yards down a long field in the backyard of his Hamptons house. It hit blue—way off the bull. Not even close. Howard rested the bow on the grass. Something had distracted him. What had he heard? He stared over the huge
berm separating his property from the ocean. But there was nothing—only waves of reed grass blowing in the light wind.

  Then a head appeared over the stalks—and a few more. Jake Rivett and Police Chief Marks emerged from the green blur. Howard thought about notching another arrow and lifting the bow. He could do some damage—keep them at bay. But he didn’t. He was paralyzed. He’d always wondered what this moment would look like and how it would feel. He knew it would happen. The market had no soul and in the end, that was his problem, too. Howard was quickly surrounded in the middle of the field by a circle of officers and federal agents.

  “What’s going on?” Howard asked angrily.

  “Howard, you’re under arrest,” Marks said solemnly.

  “Do I need to read you your rights?” Jake asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to talk,” Howard replied.

  “Well, you’re getting them. The legal system can be tricky. I guess you know that. Wouldn’t want to let a snake escape back into the grass over a technicality,” Jake said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  ■

  A few hours later on the same Monday morning, life had returned somewhat back to normal for the Belov household. David stood at the stove and made pancakes for Marina and Mikey. The television was playing in the living room. Even though Mikey wanted his cartoons, David had insisted on CNN.

  “New York’s finest were out in force in the Hamptons this morning,” the announcer on CNN began. David stopped everything. He turned abruptly to the television. The shot onscreen was from the perspective of a news helicopter, circling around Howard’s immaculate Hamptons home. The place was crawling with police on the ground.

  “The vice chairman of capital markets at Montgomery Noyes and street veteran, Howard Bergensen, was arrested today for multiple civil and criminal charges. Including armed robbery and murder,” said another anchor as Howard was escorted into a government car by Marks. David could make out Jake Rivett in the background, a lone man in a leather jacket climbing onto his motorcycle and disappearing offscreen. “Meanwhile, Montgomery Noyes’ stock has crashed over thirty-five percent on the news. Makes sense. Bergensen’s name had become practically synonymous with the old-line institution.”