The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘I spy with my little eye an investor who needs the help of the Banque Entente Cordiale,’ said Matthew.

  Sophie glanced at him.

  ‘That’s not fair. She doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore.’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but my nearest and dearest forgot to provide me with a few billion dollars’ worth of oil. I propose to earn: my living as a trader instead.’

  Sophie half-smiled in incomplete agreement. ‘C’est vrai. D’accord . But I don’t like it.’

  She called to Fareshti, who woke up pleased to hear a friendly voice amidst the din.

  ‘Give me your pad,’ said Sophie. ‘Let me help you get up-to-date.’

  A grateful Fareshti tossed her pad over to Sophie who bent over it with her calculator. The princess, meanwhile, put her hands to her neck and massaged it, staring down at the heap of gold in front of her. Drilling a few metres down into the desert sands was simpler than this. But her parents thought she should have a Western business education and this was it. She watched Sophie gratefully.

  After a while, Sophie rose and handed the pad back to Fareshti, who held it uncertainly and without looking at it.

  ‘I think you may have too many of the long bonds and you’re short of the shorter maturities,’ said Sophie.

  Fareshti was totally blank.

  ‘I think you should sell 150 units each of the 2012s and 2017s and buy a similar number of 1999s and 2005s. We can do that for you if you want.’

  Fareshti nodded. Sophie was so kind and she didn’t shout. Sophie turned back to find Matthew who was lost again in the hubbub.

  ‘Fareshti would like .. .’ Sophie began.

  She was hinting that Matthew’s prices could be way off market. He pretended to think deeply and called back some prices which would allow him $10 of profit on each bond.

  ‘But that’s the very best I can do,’ he yelled. ‘And I can’t hold those prices for long.’

  Fareshti was oblivious to the charade. She nodded through the trades which Sophie proposed and let her write them down. The princes removed her thick gold bangles and watch and laid them down on the mounting pile of gold. She massaged her wrists.

  The game went on. The flip-chart turned. The chaos rose to a crescendo and hung there.

  Fareshti mostly held back from doing any more trades.

  But every now and then she shook herself and did another trade as though to prove she could play the game as well as anyone. Every trade she did, she did through Sophie. Every time, Matthew took $10 or $15 profit on each bond. At one point, Sophie protested.

  ‘We’ve done enough.’

  ‘Sophie, for Fareshti this is only a game. For us, it’s life or death. You won’t be feeling sorry for her if you’re kicked off this course for underperforming. Besides, Fareshti’s not the only one to be taken for a ride here.’

  Matthew spoke with some certainty on this last point. Takashi-san and Atsuo-san were also contributing handsomely to the Banque Entente Cordiale’s profits.

  ‘OK. But remember, we’re already doing very nicely. We don’t need to gouge the last dollar.’

  Finally, three hours after the game had started, a second whistle blew. Game over.

  A stunned Fareshti put her hand to her head and withdrew her last remaining ornament, a heavy gold hair clip. It joined the rest of the glittering pile on her desk. Otherwise, she hardly moved.

  The course tutors gathered up all the trading tickets, which would be processed by a clerical team over the next few hours. Around four o’clock, the results would be announced and prizes awarded. But Matthew and Sophie already knew their result. They had started the game with $5,000. They had ended with $32,420.

  And Sophie, as Fareshti’s trusted advisor, knew her result too. As an investor, Fareshti had started the game with a much larger amount of money - $100,000 to be precise. She had finished with $68,920. The Banque Entente Cordiale had by no means pocketed all of Fareshti’s missing $31,080, but it had had more than its fair share.

  Takashi and Atsuo left the room congratulating themselves on their first taste of trading. On their way out, they took care to thank Matthew profusely for his help. Neither of the two Japanese was aware that they had lost considerably more money than they had started with. Nor were they aware how much of it had ended in Matthew’s pocket.

  As the room cleared and the noise died away, Matthew and Sophie looked at each other properly. It seemed ages since they had done more than glance at each other or yell messages across the din.

  Even after three hours of mayhem, Sophie looked flawless. Even in the thick of the game, she had kept her cool. She had dealt calmly with the questions that flew at her from all sides, while at the same time accurately updating the bank’s accounts. She had been the only person in the room, male or female, to have kept their jacket on throughout the game. But now the turmoil was over, she threw her jacket on to the ground beside her. She leaned her head back as far as it would go and ran her hands through her hair. Then she whirled forwards again and grabbed Matthew by the arms.

  ‘We’ve won, Matthew. I think we’ve won.’

  ‘I think we have.’

  She stayed holding on to his arms. Matthew moved his hands gently, ever so gently, to her waist. Her lips parted, but not in reproof.

  They kissed. Had the whole world had folded away around them, they wouldn’t have noticed or cared. They kissed again and again.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Gradley. We must win more often.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Gradley, I think we should.’

  The Banque Entente Cordiale did win the champagne and the roses, notching up $11,250 more than its nearest rival. Scott Petersen, the tall Californian, was the winning investor, with $121,870. The worst performing investor was Fareshti Al Shahrani. Her eyes were full of tears, but she sat upright and proud, as a princess should. She continued to believe that Sophie had rescued her from a worse fate, and she thanked her again as the class disbanded.

  Matthew and Sophie did not visit Little Italy that night. They returned to Matthew’s apartment, called out for pizza and celebrated their win in a way that satisfied even Matthew’s most ardent dreams.

  2

  Zack burst into Hanbury’s office. Hanbury, who was married, was on the phone to his mistress and was less than pleased to be interrupted. He waved Zack out of the room, but Zack, typically, took this as a signal to sit down. Hanbury finished his call abruptly, ‘Look, I’ll see you at the opera tonight. Don’t be late,’ then turned to Zack. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve got a way to rescue the Aberdeen Drilling deal. I think we can get back into it.’

  ‘We’ve already lost. The deal’s over. And I don’t want you bursting in -’

  ‘Yes, but we bid too low. I know it’s late, but if we came back with a bid, say ten million higher, even twelve-’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid. We’ve lost. The other guys won. Our fee went down the pan. It’s over. Now, will you -’

  ‘But you haven’t heard my idea. Listen. Tominto Oil lost a lot of money drilling unsuccessfully for oil in Nigeria. In total, it threw away sixty million bucks without tax relief. Aberdeen Drilling, on the other hand, has a profitable subsidiary out there -’

  ‘I don’t want to know. Shut up and get out.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t want to know? I’m bringing you the solution here.’

  Hanbury had a quick temper and Zack’s mistimed intrusion guaranteed a vintage display. The senior banker stood up, incensed.

  ‘This is the last time I’m going to tell you. The deal is dead and I don’t need your kindergarten tax scams. Now get out of my room and stay out.’

  Zack had worked hard on his tax idea. His concept was that under Nigerian tax laws, Tominto’s losses could be used to offset Aberdeen Drilling’s profits. After intensive research, he was pretty sure it could be done, and had fondly imagined that Hanbury would be only too pleased to get back into the race. Zack was suddenly angry. Angry, and out of con
trol.

  ‘Jesus Christ! I come in here with a good idea - an idea to save a deal and earn a fee - and you are too pompous, too arrogant, too fucking stupid to even hear it. I don’t know why I bothered.’

  Zack turned to go, but Hanbury flew to the door and flung it shut. Hanbury put his face a couple of inches away from Zack’s and hissed at him.

  ‘How dare you say that? How dare you? If you want to continue another day in this bank, you will put a letter of apology on my desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. A full and complete apology. If I am satisfied - if I am - then we will talk with human resources about getting you transferred to an area where you won’t come into contact with clients, because I’m damned if I’ll ever trust you with a client again. Is that perfectly clear?’

  If Zack had been able to think clearly, he would have been best advised to apologise profusely, to beg forgiveness on his knees if he had to. Piers St George Hanbury was Coburg’s most successful dealmaker, and whatever he wanted, the bank would give him. But, as Sarah Havercoombe for one could testify, Zack wasn’t the sort to think clearly when he was angry. He leaped to Hanbury’s desk.

  ‘I’ll give you a letter of apology, right here and right now.’

  He grabbed pen and paper, and wrote in capitals:

  ‘DEAR MR HANBURY, I AM VERY SORRY THAT YOU ARE SUCH A POMPOUS DICKHEAD. YOURS MOST SINCERELY, ZACK GRADLEY.’

  Leaving the letter on Hanbury’s desk and shaking with anger, Zack sped from the room.

  He left the bank in a foul mood. The row seemed pretty much fatal. If Hanbury carried out his threat to prevent him from seeing clients - to move him to the so-called back office - then Zack’s career would be killed stone dead. At first the gap in pay was small, the difference in responsibility hardly noticeable. But as time moved on, and the front office staff made it to associate director and then just director, their peers in the back office were wondering if they would ever make it beyond manager. A well-regarded thirty-year­ old in the front office would be deeply upset if his end-of-year bonus was less than his already generous annual salary. His back office colleague took home a thousand pounds extra at Christmas and was grateful.

  Zack left the building, eyes on the ground, collar raised against a thin December sleet, and stepped blindly out on to the zebra crossing leading to Bank tube station. A silver-green Jaguar, which had been driving too fast along the little street, squealed to a halt, skidding in the wet.

  ‘Screw you, you goddamn idiot. Look where you’re going.’ A distinguished-looking man with swept-back silver hair stuck his head out of the car window, the better to yell at Zack.

  ‘Screw you yourself, you geriatric shit-for-brains,’ yelled Zack, pleased to have an opportunity to vent his feelings.

  ‘Next time I won’t apply the brakes, you jerk.’

  The man in the car was really shouting. His silver hair had come away from his head and shook like an angry mane. His accent was mid-Atlantic. Zack couldn’t tell if he was a Brit who had just come back from a long stay in the States, or a Yank who’d been in London too long. Either way, he looked like a viscount and swore like a trooper. Zack couldn’t help liking him. Zack yelled something obscene and stomped off.

  He felt better for the row. Sod Hanbury. Zack would never apologise. Besides, he’d had a better idea.

  3

  David Ballard slowed his black BMW. Meeting a herd of sheep on the road up to Sawley Bridge, he had been forced to squeeze up on to a muddy verge, and one side of the car was spattered with heavy clay. It was a freezing afternoon, and by the time Ballard got home, the mud would be frozen solid. The car took a bigger bite out of his salary than he could justify, but he drove twenty-five thousand miles a year visiting clients, and the BMW gave pleasure with every one. He’d wash the paintwork down that evening.

  Ballard drove slowly into the factory yard. Armed with ladders and paintpots, a couple of workmen, swearing at the cold, were getting ready to paint over the sign above the gates. Ballard was angry. Very angry.

  He brought the car to a stop in the yard, next to the only other vehicle, a Transit van marked ‘Gissings Modern Furniture’. They’d be painting over that next, thought Ballard and marched angrily upstairs to George’s office.

  George was at his desk, immersed in paperwork.

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said on seeing his visitor. ‘You should have let me know you were coming and I’d have got that five hundred grand ready. As it is, you’ll need to wait a little longer.’

  Ballard was in no mood for jokes.

  ‘What the bloody hell is this I hear about you changing the name of the company?’

  George was taken aback. Ballard was a shrewd but genial man, with twinkling eyes and a chuckle never far from his lips. He usually looked and acted like everyone’s favourite uncle. Not now. George responded coldly.

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with you, as long as we comply with the terms of our loan.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit. Is it true or isn’t it?’

  ‘For your information, yes, it is true.’

  Ballard was seething. The red of his face contrasted oddly with the iron grey of his hair. His voice was furious, but controlled.

  ‘I saw Tom Gissing last night at the Rotary Christmas shindig. He told me you were changing the company’s name. It was the only thing that still mattered to him and you knew it. I honestly think he wouldn’t have minded the insulting way you bought the company, if you had brought it back to life with his name on it. In fact, he’d have been the first to thank you. As it was, he spent the whole damn evening crying on my shoulder. I called him this morning to check he was OK. No answer. I went round to see him and found him dead. Heart attack.’ Ballard paused, before delivering the final accusation. ‘That attack was your fault and God damn you for it.’

  White-faced, George rose, went to a filing cabinet and drew out a piece of paper. He tossed it across the table to Ballard.

  ‘Here’s our application to change the company name. We’re changing the name from The Gissings Modem Furniture Company (Limited) to Gissings Furniture Limited. The original name is hopelessly out-of date, but I’ve never even dreamt of getting rid of the founder’s name. Nor will I now he’s dead.’

  ‘And what about the sign above the gates? That just says Gissings Furniture as it is.’

  George shook his head.

  ‘I cut everybody’s wages by fifteen percent and said if anyone gave up more than that, I’d write their names in gold up above the gates. My secretary gave up thirty percent, so her name’s going up, just like I said. The Gissings Furniture bit is staying put.’

  Ballard breathed out heavily and stroked his moustache with his hand. His face changed back from red to pink.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have accused you until I knew the facts. I take it back and I apologise.’

  He extended a hand, which George accepted. ‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t blame you for being upset. I’m sorry to hear about Tom Gissing. I still hope to make him proud.’

  ‘Yes. I hope you do too. I do apologise, George. It was hasty of me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose I am partly to blame,’ said George. ‘I’ve been playing my cards fairly close to my chest here, so it’s only natural that rumours get started. Fact is, I’d like to get more people involved with waking up this corpse, because it’s more than one man can do by himself. The trouble is, I don’t seem to have anyone’s trust. It’s like pulling teeth all day long and I honestly don’t know what’s the matter.’

  ‘Bit of advice to you, George,’ said Ballard, winking.

  ‘Never tell your bank manager when you’re having a hard time. He might get scared and call in his loan. But you’re alright. I assume you’ll be getting your hands on your dad’s cash any day now. Good job, given that your loan extension runs out in less than a month.’

  Ballard’s face had changed and George could no longer read his expression. There was something odd about
it. George didn’t spend time wondering. He’d felt bad about deceiving Ballard and now seemed as good a time as any to come clean.

  ‘David, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Not bad news, I hope.’ Ballard’s face was secretive, laughing.

  ‘Well . . . it’s not good.’

  ‘Don’t mind what it is, so long as you pay the loan off in a month. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes that’s what we agreed-’

  ‘Well, that’s OK then.’

  ‘David, I’m not getting the money. The will ... it’s a long story. But there’s no money.’

  ‘No money?’

  ‘Not a penny piece. I suppose you’ll have to close us down, will you?’

  Ballard’s expression was emerging into the open now. He was chuckling.

  ‘Don’t worry. If there’s a delay, just get me a letter from the executors.’

  ‘I can’t ... what’s funny? This isn’t bloody funny.’

  ‘D’you know who your dad’s executors are?’

  ‘The solicitor, Earle, is one of them, I think. I don’t know about the others.’

  ‘You think your dad might have thought of his oldest friend in the banking industry perhaps?’

  Ballard was laughing at George, as George slowly put two and two together. ·

  ‘You’re an executor? You knew I didn’t have any money? Then why did you let me buy the company? Why didn’t you put it into receivership as you’d planned?’

  ‘Two reasons. First one is, I got thirty-six grand out of you.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Second, I figured that Gissings was so far gone, it’d take a genius to save it. Your dad would have saved it.’ Ballard shrugged. It was the bank’s money, after all, not his. ‘I thought I’d take a chance on you.’

  George was stunned, stunned and flattered. He slowly worked Ballard’s logic through to its conclusion.

  ‘So you won’t close us down when we can’t pay you?’

  Ballard shrugged. Once again, the banker had taken over from the genial uncle.