The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘It’s always slow the first day,’ said Val. ‘Buyers look first, buy later.’

  ‘As slow as this?’ asked George, but got no answer.

  They both knew it shouldn’t be this slow. More buyers drifted in, a few of them surprised to see Gissings at all.

  ‘Heard you’d folded. Under new management, are you? You are the new management? Well, good luck to you. Last time I saw old Tom Gissing, he said things were a bit dire.’

  Nobody wanted to place an order with a firm which might collapse before fulfilling it. George fretted another hour away, then cut another five percent from their prices.

  ‘It’s a really great display,’ said Josephine. ‘I’m sure things’ll come right.’

  ‘Thanks. Yeah. It’s OK,’ he answered. ‘Thanks for coming, by the way. And how are you? How’s Mum? Sorry, I hadn’t really thought to ask.’

  ‘Well, it’s tough,’ said Josie. ‘Mum’s stopped making any real progress and it’s a struggle finding the money for daycare. People tell me I ought to put her in a home, but I’m damned if I’m going to.’

  ‘No, Jesus, of course not. I wish I could help, Josie, but I’m not even drawing a salary at the moment.’ George paused unhappily and opened his wallet. There was about forty quid there, Val’s money really. He hesitated, then handed it all to his sister. ‘I’ll give you more when I can, I promise. If things get really tough, I can always chuck this in. Get a job that pays.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Josie. ‘Hold on - buyer alert.’

  Josephine put on her widest smile, ready to greet the group of buyers, but it was another false alarm, another group trying to find the loos. Val redirected them, while George and his sister played noughts and crosses on the back of a price list. It was gone midday and sales had been terrible.

  Then, unbelievably, a miracle happened. Followed by a crowd of beautiful young people, Kiki appeared. Her cream cashmere dress looked stunning against her tanned skin. A pair of Armani gold-rimmed glasses teetered on her little turned-up nose.

  ‘Georges, my darling, why do you hide in this funny little room? It is to be very exclusive, no? Do you like my new glasses? I bought them so I would look tres business. I am very industrielle, no?’

  The designer frames carried clear glass lenses. Kiki’s eyesight was perfect. She looked about as industrielle as a Versace evening gown. George had left her a message on the off chance that they might meet for tea or something, but he hadn’t heard back, nor had he expected to. He longed for her still, despite his continuing relationship with Val, but he knew that life was carrying him ever further away.

  ‘Kiki! I’m amazed! How nice of you to come.’

  He introduced her to Josephine and Val, whose face showed what she thought of the newcomer. The beautiful crowd accompanying Kiki milled around the stand, crowding out any real buyers.

  ‘But Georges, of course I came. My papa is looking for a new desk and I wanted to get him one as a birthday present. But he is fond of Louis Quinze antiques. I do not think these will do. And Georges, where are the toilettes? We thought they were here or we would never have found you.’

  ‘You’re not the only ones. That’s why we’re not bloody selling anything. Nobody comes for us to sell to.’

  George’s misery flooded out. It was stupid. Nothing was more certain to drive Kiki away. She left for the toilets following George’s directions, her retinue swarming after her. The super-rich are pack animals and don’t survive long alone. George thought that was that. No Louis Quinze writing bureaus. No Kiki. After a quarter of an hour, he gave up hoping for her return. She’d probably remembered about a party that had to be rushed to or a dress that had to be bought. His gloom deepened, unassuaged by Val’s companionable presence.

  She did come back, though, arms full, loaded with half a dozen white plastic signs marked ‘Toilets’. Her companions also bore their trophies. They must have stripped the place bare.

  ‘Sorry we were so long, Georges. Some of these stupid signs were very high up and so difficult to reach. I hope it wasn’t so bad taking them, but you know they really weren’t working. And I am afraid we might have got into a tiny bit of a muddle. I think sometimes we might have put some of these stupid things up again pointing into this little room. But it is so horrid this place. I do not think it is nice at all. You see I didn’t have very long to see you and now I have already wasted so much time. So now I will have to go, but I suppose you will have to have these,’ she added dropping the signs. ‘They are not so clean and my dress is brand new.’

  With a last meaningless kiss, she flitted off. George and Val hid the signs underneath the stand, but it wasn’t long before they needed to straighten up. People began to drift in, asking for the loos and complaining about the terrible signing. George agreed, but unfortunately didn’t know where the loos were. For the first time the room was full, almost crowded. The display drew a lot of admiring comments, to which George and the others immediately responded with a price list and a sales talk. It didn’t always work of course, but it worked often enough. The first orders began to come in. George began to relax.

  That evening, George, Val and Josephine all went back to Helen’s house in Kilburn. George slept with Val in his old room, but he felt uncomfortable about it. Sleeping with his landlady-cum-secretary seemed natural enough in Yorkshire, but bringing her to his family home, meeting his mother and sister - well, it made things seem a lot more serious than they were. At least Darren and Dave, who had come down to set up the stand and clear it away again afterwards, weren’t there to see them. They had opted to stay with a mate of theirs in Brixton - ‘my old dope dealer’ as Darren helpfully explained. The two lads had worked like horses to get everything ready, and apart from a few odd jobs to be done at the fair, George had given them the days off. It was less than they deserved.

  The evening was a strain. Helen was quite well, with good control over her movements and able to speak fuzzily but fluently.

  ‘Ah, George,’ she said, patting Val on the hand. ‘Your fiancée? Very nice, dear. Like your grandmother said, always live in Yorkshire, always marry Yorkshire. I did, and ... and ...’

  Her train of thought led off down the wrong track, and she began to cry. George was killingly embarrassed, too much to notice the flush on Val’s cheek, as she leaned forward to explain. For the rest of the evening, Helen was dreamy and peaceful, but she never shook the idea that Val was George’s intended.

  On the way up to bed, George stopped Josie.

  ‘Er. Tomorrow. Your outfit, you know. Urn, do you think it would be OK - I mean, would you mind very much - um -’

  He broke off. He didn’t know how to say this sort of thing. She laughed at him.

  ‘Longer, shorter, tighter, brighter?’ she said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Heels, skirt, top, lipstick,’ said Josephine, tapping each in turn. ‘Longer, shorter, tighter, brighter?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please. If that’s OK.’

  It was OK. The next day Josephine wore an outfit which would have startled a Sun editor. It was short. It was pink. It was clingy. It was sexy.

  That day, when people came in search of the loos,

  Josephine said she wasn’t able to help, but perhaps they were interested in the products? She bent down low to point out the important features and goggle-eyed buyers were treated to as many important features as they could possibly wish to see. They drank their sparkling wine, ogled Josephine and listened to George’s sales pitch. They liked what they saw and orders rolled in.

  They sold so much furniture in the morning that George added ten percent to all the prices. Things hotted up even more after lunch, as more people needed the loos. Overnight it seemed that some joker had poured cement into the main toilets at the far end of the complex, so the only ones left functioning were those close to the Gissings stand.

  The crowds got so heavy that George raised prices by another five percent. People kept buying. The fact was that people even sta
rted coming because they’d heard that Gissings had good stuff at good prices. They sold twice what they had sold the previous day. A journalist from Furniture Today, the monthly bible of the furniture trade, came to interview George for a short piece, to be entitled ‘Back from the Brink’. George told him that Gissings had been completely recapitalised, and bankruptcy fears were a thing of the past. Buyers could buy with confidence. The journalist swallowed the bait and told George how much he loved the products. George was ecstatic.

  The next day was slightly less good. The exhibition authorities had managed to establish some emergency toilets close to the entrance, and the chaos which Kiki had introduced in the signing system had been tidied up, at least a little. All the same, they sold about four fifths of what they had sold the day before, and this time all the sales were at the higher prices.

  Going back up the motorway that evening, everyone was exhilarated. Darren drove, claiming to have a valid licence, though Val said the only licence he had was poetic. They counted up the orders and tried to work out how to fill them. It would be tough, but it was a nice problem to have.

  As they stopped off for diesel and a cooked tea at a truckers’ service station, Darren asked George who that French bird had been on the first day. Apparently, she had seen the Gissings name on the van and had rushed over to Darren and Dave with some bizarre story about toilets and men with holes in their shoes. George deflected the questions. The less Val knew about Kiki the better. And there was another thing too. When they had reloaded the truck for the journey home, George had found five empty bags of cement that hadn’t been there on the way down. Perhaps Kiki was more industrielle than he had given her credit for.

  After getting back on the road, the lads turned the music up and the conversation stilled. George closed his eyes and slept, and his dreams were full of Kiki.

  10

  Just as Dan Kramer had promised, new responsibilities came fast at Madison, and all too soon Matthew’s two-month noviciate came to an end. He was to trade corporate bonds - bits of paper sold by companies to investors, offering a fixed interest rate and a set date for the repayment of capital. His business flow was to come from two salespeople, Alan and Rick, whose job was to bring in the orders. The two men made up the smaller institutions fixed income group, but they looked like a comedy act. Alan was short, fat, and profusely hairy. Rick was tall, thin and bald as a coot. Oddballs or not, they were going to matter. Orders meant trades. Trades meant profits. Profits meant Matthew kept his job, got a bonus and gave him a hope of beating Zack.

  Matthew had his desk, his computer screens and his phone in a room where hundreds of other traders had their desks, their screens, their phones. On busy days, the room dinned with two hundred voices roaring deals, exchanging prices, yelling insults. This tumult is the noise of the flood, the flood of money, the largest in the world.

  His first day, he returned to his desk from the morning meeting to find his phone flashing. He scooped it up without checking to see who was on the line.

  ‘Good morning, Madison Trading.’

  ‘Hey, Matteo, sell me some bonds,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I’ll have a couple of trillion of Uncle Sam’s finest, and a cup of coffee to go.’

  ‘Hey, Luigi, nice of you to call.’

  ‘I was just phoning to wish you luck. I’m going to put you on the squawk-box’- Luigi meant the speaker phone, which would blare Matthew’s voice out of a speaker instead of the receiver - ‘there are a couple of other guys who want a word.’

  Anders, Cristina and Jean-François all came on the line. They abused him and wished him luck in equal measure. Then there was a bit of shuffling and the unmistakable Scottish tones of Brian McAllister came down the phone.

  ‘You’ve done well, Matthew. I understand only a few people survived the programme, and you did. So that’s a credit to you. And Saul Rosenthal tells me you’ve been learning fast with him and he sets his standards high. So well done so far - and good luck.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Matthew, flattered. He was amazed McAllister had time to think of him - and astonished to find that Rosenthal had even noticed him, let alone formed a favourable impression.

  ‘Remind me who you’re working with.’

  ‘I’m on the corporate bond desk, working with the smaller institutions sales team.’

  ‘Indeed. They’ll be reporting to Fiona Shepperton, who’s been asked to shake up the sales effort over there. She’s a fine professional, Matthew. You can learn a lot from her. Don’t be put off by her manner. She can be a little sharp.’

  Matthew had heard Rosenthal mention Fiona Shepperton with respect as well. She was Alan and Rick’s boss, so she’d be worth getting to know. McAllister signed off and Matthew sauntered over to Alan and Rick to discuss the coming day. Alan, already perspiring and with shirtsleeves rolled up, greeted Matthew.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rick, this guy’s hassling us already, and he hasn’t even brought us our apples for being nice teachers.’

  Matthew dumped a couple of hot coffees on their desks.

  ‘If you wanted apples, you should have said.’

  ‘Aw, real coffee. He’s even gone to Starbucks for them. Give the man a kiss, Rick. Show him you love him.’

  Rick mopped the top of his gleaming head and took his coffee. His pate reflected the ceiling strip lights in high fidelity.

  ‘Ah. Coffee. Great.’ Rick was the quiet one of the duo.

  Having introduced himself, Matthew sat down to discuss the day ahead. What were their clients thinking? Were the orders going to be to buy or to sell? How would the long maturities fare versus the short maturities? What factors would influence the market over the coming week?

  The three men quickly gained respect for each other. Alan and Rick had inherited a meagre business from the previous sales team, which had since been fired. Their job was to ramp up business on the basis of good advice and solid execution. However unlikely in appearance, they were true professionals.

  For their part, Alan and Rick had dreaded the arrival of a total novice. The trouble with selling to the so­ called smaller institutions is that you inevitably end up with the least experienced traders. But Matthew already knew the market well, and he was eager to learn from those who knew more. Alan and Rick had been surprised to get a call from Brian McAllister that morning, but the Scotsman had been right. Matthew did show promise.

  When they parted, Matthew knew a lot about what his future clients were thinking and had some ideas on what trades to make to get started. His next visit was to Saul Rosenthal. He found him on the phone to some poor soul on the West Coast, who should have been enjoying a good night’s sleep instead of worrying about the bond market.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. You worry too much,’ said Rosenthal hypocritically. ‘Gimme a call when you wake up, but I tell you Treasuries aren’t going anywhere until Friday at the earliest. Trust me.’

  Whoever it was on the other end of the line was eventually pacified and hung up.

  ‘Am I a trader or am I a therapist?’ complained Rosenthal. It was his way of asking Matthew what he wanted.

  ‘I have some ideas I wanted your input on, please.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m a therapist. Lie down and tell me about your mother.’

  Muttering on, Rosenthal took the pad from Matthew’s hand and glowered at Matthew’s jotted notes.

  ‘Jesus, those nightmares must be really getting to you if you want to go long at the short end of the curve. And what’s this? Your clients want to screw around in zero coupon bonds? Just say no, Matthew. You need to be a big bad man to do that, not the Third National Bank of Banjo Creek or whoever the hell your client is.’

  He rambled on, interrupting his own monologue to complain about his bagel - ‘no cream cheese today. My fault for breaking the Sabbath’ - to take another couple of phone calls - ‘Saul Rosenthal, psychoanalyst, at your service. No wacko too crazy, no psycho too nuts’ - and to buttonhole a couple of other traders walking pa
st his desk. By the time he’d finished, he had given Matthew a load of useful hints on how to proceed.

  ‘Thanks, Saul. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t be grateful. That’s your Oedipus complex talking. Tomorrow’s rebirthing therapy. Meantime, that’ll be four hundred dollars for the session.’

  ‘Cheap at the price,’ said Matthew. ‘But it’s against my religion to give money to Sabbath-breakers.’

  The conversation was over.

  Shortly after the market opened, Matthew got his first actual order from an actual client. He quoted a price aimed at winning the business. The client hit Matthew’s bid and Matthew had sold his first bonds. The next step was to go and buy some bonds in order to meet his obligations. He hit a touch-sensitive screen containing all the phone numbers he would ever need. A string of names came up. Clients, traders, contacts. He selected a name, hit the button, got through to a trader at another bank. Matthew spoke briefly and bought in some bonds, at a price one thirty-second of a percentage point better than the price he’d just sold at.

  Matthew had completed his first trade and closed out his position. He’d made a profit of seven hundred and fifty dollars, a nice way to start. The graduate of West Point had fired his first shot.

  11

  At eight fifteen one Saturday morning, Zack set off in thin traffic for the M4 out of London. He was excited.

  It took him three hours to reach Ovenden House, which dominates the little Devonshire village of Ovenden. Zack nosed inside the huge ornamental gates and drove slowly up a long drive. The house wasn’t immediately visible. Massive oaks spread their leaves above deer grazing in the park. A lake curved round, its far end out of sight. From a jetty on the further shore, a fisherman cast his rod over the still waters. Then the house itself came into view, pale grey stone floating on the landscape. It was enormous; enormous and beautiful. Better yet, it was enormous, beautiful and immaculately maintained. No tottering statues. No leaking roofs. No parkland dissolving into scrub. The architect was famous, but to Zack, the architecture was less interesting than the wallet which lay behind it. His excitement mounted.