The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘But we don’t want to lose our promising young professionals. And that’s where Brian comes in. Brian?’

  McAllister took over.

  ‘We’re setting up a new group in London, Matt, and I’d like you to be a part of it. The group’s going to buy and sell distressed debt. European junk, if you prefer.’ Matthew knew what he meant. Say a company - Eurotunnel, for instance - borrows a lot of money. It hits bad times. The bankers and investors who lent to it realise they’ll never get their money back in full. The loans trade, like the Western Instruments bonds, at big discounts to face value. Trading in these markets is a roller-coaster ride, for company and lenders alike. If you’re smart, and you buy in the troughs and sell in the peaks, you can make a fortune. If, on the other hand, what you thought was the bottom turns out to be a brief respite before an even sharper collapse, then you can lose your shirt, collar and necktie, all in a sitting.

  ‘The job needs trading sense, for sure,’ continued McAllister. ‘But it also needs intelligence, and the ability to do deep research on the situations that interest us. That’s what made me think of you. I think you’re a natural for this group, Matt, and I’d be delighted if you wanted to join it. We’re starting in the New Year, so you’d need to find yourself somewhere to live in London over the holiday if you can.’

  McAllister went on to describe the job in more detail, but he didn’t need to. Matthew was hooked. A job like this was perfect, just perfect, for what he had in mind. He was unhappy about his bonus, but the job was perfect. Perhaps Plan B would be possible after all.

  The arrangement was quickly confirmed. Even if Matthew hadn’t been keen, he’d have accepted. An offer is only an order in disguise, and Matthew’s old job had crumbled beneath him.

  There was only one problem and it was a big one.

  Fiona. As soon as Matthew had left Rosenthal’s office, he hurried down the trading floor to Fiona’s office. As he made his way there - passing the secretaries fighting with photocopiers, the traders bragging over their two-dollar cappuccinos, the mail men who serve the firm for fifty years never seeing a tenth of the bonus that had so disappointed Matthew - his mind was full of thoughts.

  He was relieved to have a job. He was excited by the new position. He was pleased to get a bonus. He was pleased at the praise that Rosenthal and, more importantly, McAllister had offered him. He was disappointed with the size of his bonus, though he knew it was fair, generous even. But, most of all, as he hurried down the aisle, he realised he couldn’t contemplate losing Fiona.

  He burst into her glass-walled office.

  He started to speak, but realised she was on the phone, using the speaker attachment instead of the receiver. He slumped into a chair and drummed nervously, waiting for her to finish. Eventually she was done and clicked the speaker off. As usual, she looked every inch the professional woman, glorious hair tied away so no one could see it, bone-perfect features, just a bit too much distance in the eyes and mouth. And, as usual when she first saw Matthew, her eyes betrayed anxiety.

  ‘Bloody Chicago office,’ she said. ‘They need their hands held every second. Then by accident they make some money and it’s all their doing and not a hint of thanks.’ Then seeing Matthew’s taut face, ‘What’s up?’

  Matthew told her in a few words.

  ‘So you’re off to London in a couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘I like the job, but what about us?’

  ‘Us?’ she asked. At the office, she mostly seemed to forget that they were together. ‘New York to London’s a fairly easy overnight flight. I’m sure we’ll stay in touch.’

  ‘Stay in touch? Bullshit. You know we’ll never last like that.’

  ‘Well, it seems like you don’t have much option. There’s nothing else on offer, is there?’

  Only now did Matthew realise what he wanted to say.

  ‘You’re right. I do need to go to London. But I want you to come too. You’re an MD. You’ve earned lots of brownie points for being a good girl here. You must be able to call in a favour and find something in London.’ It was the most committing thing Matthew had ever said. ‘Please.’

  ‘You want me to chuck everything and come to London? Just to be with you?’

  ‘Yes. It might tum out that we’re meant for each other. I don’t know for certain, but we need to give it a proper chance.’

  ‘You think we might be meant for each other?’

  Fiona turned her head so that Matthew couldn’t read her expression. Her voice was toneless.

  ‘Yes, I think we might.’

  Fiona turned, frightened but resolute.

  ‘I’ve got news for you. Brian McAllister was over here a month or two back telling me about this new group of his and how he planned to recruit you. I asked him who was going to head the group up, and he told me he didn’t yet know. So I told him I’d do it. He agreed. In two weeks’ time, I’ll be your boss.’

  Matthew was overwhelmed. That was probably the most committing thing Fiona had ever done in her life. They weren’t exactly engaged but, as far as Matthew’s romantic Beaufort scale went, this was pretty much gale force.

  The glass walls of Fiona’s office weren’t all that helpful when it came to celebrating appropriately, and for a moment they just stood there smiling at each other. Then Matthew stepped close to her and with his left hand knocked a huge pile of papers off her desk on to the floor.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said, and bent down to pick them up.

  She bent down too and in the secret corner formed by desk and filing cabinets, they kissed.

  ‘Fiona,’ said Matthew. ‘Dearest Fi.’

  2

  Gillingham stared at the statute book. The print before his eyes blurred, then separated into two different strands of text. One phantom page moved upwards and leftwards, the other downwards and rightwards. The words were unreadable.

  Gillingham closed his sagging eyes and rested them on his palms. It was only eleven thirty in the morning and he’d had an early night the day before. It wasn’t just his eyes that were foggy, it was his brain.

  He’d found his loophole back in the autumn before Zack had pitched the deal. It had been hard to find. Hong Kong law has a catch-all provision intended to eliminate tax dodging. The provision says, more or less, that if you do something to dodge taxes then that thing, whatever it is, can be ignored by the taxman when he comes to figure out your tax bill. For people like Gillingham, that kind of law can be a real party pooper. But, despite the fun-hating law-makers of Hong Kong, Gillingham found his loophole. He’d checked it with lawyers. He’d checked it with accountants. It worked.

  But finding the loophole isn’t the end of the story. It’s the start. After that, you’ve got to start working out the detail. You’ve got to draw up the documents. You’ve got to fine-tune the wording. You’ve got to make sure that the deal doesn’t look like a tax dodge, even though it is.

  Once upon a time Gillingham had excelled at the detailed work. His reputation at Weinstein Lukes rested not just on his ability to discover the loopholes in the world’s tax law, but on his ability to build solid and convincing transactions. His deals were robust. His legal documents had never been questioned. Taxmen wailed, but they stayed out of court. Laws had been passed to stop him, but none of his deals had ever been overturned.

  Or so it had been. But then a happy marriage had turned unhappy. Gillingham’s wife had taken advantage of his long hours and big bank account to fall in love with a penniless college friend. Divorce followed, accusations, alimony, and rancour. Gillingham turned to whisky the way babies tum to comfort blankets. Heavy social drinking became heavier private drinking.

  As he drank, his command of detail faded. One day, in a room full of lawyers, he made an error which almost blew a deal apart. He went out for a drink and wasn’t sober again for eleven days. He wound up having his stomach pumped in a hospital ward reserved for winos.

  Most people, the bank would have fired without a
second thought. But Gillingham was special. People with a head for tax are rarer than diamonds and more precious. Gillingham could sit in London and direct tax schemes all over the world. He had enriched many of the bank’s clients, and the bank’s clients had paid well for the privilege. So he got a second chance.

  The bank ordered him to dry out. If he did, he could come back without even losing his partnership. But if he so much as sniffed a drop of alcohol, he’d be out. It was a fair deal. It was more than fair in fact, and Gillingham was grateful.

  As his fog cleared, his ability returned. If his former brilliance had gone, his mastery of detail was back in full. Once again, he was a man clients could trust.

  Or at least, he had been. A couple of months ago, Gillingham had become aware of something. It was hard to describe what. It was like a man who, swimming in calm waters, feels a current pulling. It’s not a strong current. If he didn’t focus on it, he might not even feel it. But Gillingham. had been dragged deep below the ocean once before, and he knew the feeling. There it was. Every day. A gentle current caressing his leg, urging him, entreating him to dip below the surface, just for a moment, just for one little drink. In his long recovery from addiction, Gillingham was well used to such eddies. But this time, six years after drying out, the current didn’t go away. It stayed. And every day it grew a little stronger. It would be a difficult Christmas.

  Gillingham was scared.

  Thank God he had that man Gradley. Gradley was a godsend. His memory was second to none, and he had a damn good brain as well. When Gillingham wrestled with the detail and came out the loser, Zack quietly got to grips with it. Gillingham watched the Hong Kong documents shape up under Zack’s unobtrusive leadership and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Gradley was keen to help with Gillingham’s other deals, and Gillingham was delighted to bring him on board. He had to ask Amy-Lou Mazowiecki for permission, but Zack made it easy for her to say yes. He worked like a Trojan, and willingly too. He worked seven days a week.

  Thank God for Gradley.

  Before switching his fogged attention back to some arcane points of Hong Kong sales tax, Gillingham rose. He walked over to Zack’s desk which stood nearby. Zack was there making some changes to a draft purchase agreement. The two of them exchanged a few words about the deal. They didn’t need to, they were just taking a break. Gillingham felt better for it.

  Before returning to his desk, Gillingham helped him­ self to a long swig of orange juice from the bottle which always stood on Zack’s desk. The orange juice was always freshly squeezed, chilled but not freezing. It had a tang you couldn’t get from cheaper juice. It tasted great.

  3

  For once, Christmas is upstaged. Although turkeys are slaughtered in their millions, although crucified Father Christmases still hang over Japanese shopping malls, although kids still break their toys in minutes and burst into tears as their fathers drink more than they should while their mothers go spare in the kitchen - although Christmas traditions are observed to the letter, for once, this isn’t the big one. Even as the turkeys sit a-roasting, people’s minds look ahead to the death of the century and the birth of the one to come.

  The politicians are full of it. The churches are full of it. The talk shows and game shows, the shops and the streets - everywhere’s full of it. The TV’s never been tackier, the discussions never stupider. Doesn’t matter. The stupider the better; people want to laugh and feel superior; don’t make them think, now of all times. The old millennium passes out in a firework display stretching from Taipei to Tijuana, Petersburg to Jo’burg- a Mexican wave of gunpowder, a Catherine wheel for Mars.

  The politicians position themselves at the base of the biggest rockets, match in hand, and claim the coming thousand years as the conservative millennium, the people’s millennium, the god-knows-what millennium. Cameras click, the smile vanishes, blue flame sparks a fuse and, on the stroke of midnight, rockets tear the sky apart in lightning and thunder. People drink themselves silly. Marital infidelity reaches an all-time high. Two hundred cultists kill themselves for reasons nobody much cares about. Across Asia and much of the rest of the world, computers silently freeze on the stroke of midnight, the first planes have fallen from the sky, and the biggest foreseeable disaster in human history is well on its way to unfolding, all because some spotty-faced computer geek in California couldn’t count higher than ninety-nine. It’s back to work when the hangover wears off. The twenty-first century and third millennium starts like most of the others, but this time blessed with Alka-Seltzer.

  Matthew is in New York, seeing to the transfer of his trading portfolio and terminating the tenancy on his apartment. He and Fiona see each other most evenings, though she continues to be scared by the commitment. Matthew doesn’t push her, letting her take things at her own pace. He regrets what he did to Sophie, he would never do it again, but he thinks that Fiona might be the grown-up relationship for the grown-up Matthew. Time will tell.

  Zack is at Ovenden House. He and Sarah are happy together. Zack is pleased not to have to deal with his mother or Josephine, and is pleased too with the way his plans are shaping up. He has insinuated himself successfully into the Weinstein Lukes tax department. Gillingham can no longer do without him. Meanwhile, the Hatherleigh Pacific deal looks promising, and he is due to marry one of the wealthiest young women in England. Whether he will stay married to her beyond his father’s deadline, he somewhat doubts, but Zack’s not bothered. If he leaves Sarah, he will do so gently. She can keep her money and Zack will make sure they don’t rush into kids. She’ll be upset for a while, but she’ll get over it. Meanwhile, Zack will have his father’s fortune and may be a partner at Weinstein Lukes as well. The twenty-first century will be a good one for him.

  George is in Kilburn with his mother and sister. Compared to last year’s dismal celebrations these ones are OK. They forget about turkey and make do with chicken escalopes. Helen is thriving on the peace and attention. Her speech is slow but accurate and she’s insisted on helping out in the kitchen - not much, to be sure, and her help isn’t exactly helpful, but it’s a wonderful sign. ‘I still feel her condition has a lot of scope for improvement,’ Josie tells her brother in a private moment. ‘It’s almost like she’s nervous of getting better.’

  George has been drawing a salary since the summer, and a big chunk of it finds its way into Josie’s bank account each month. It’s less of a struggle now finding daycare for her mum, though they could always use more help, and George and Josie talk about what else they should do. George issues a standing invitation for them to visit him in Yorkshire, but they both know that the effort to make their mother comfortable in a house not her own is more trouble than it’s worth. Josie says that neither Zack nor Matthew are giving any money to help, and George asks her if she knows what they’re up to. ‘Behaving like spoiled little brats,’ says Josie, and they both laugh.

  ‘How’s your factory?’ she asks.

  George shrugs. ‘Just about solvent. We’ve got a maybe one in three chance of still being solvent in a few months’ time.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad.’

  ‘So the million pound rescue act isn’t going to come from you?’

  ‘Not a chance, Josie. Not a chance.’ He laughs.

  They eat their escalopes and watch some telly. A game-show host is being dunked in some ‘millennium custard’ and they find a channel showing an old movie instead.

  ‘How’s your love life?’ Josie asks.

  ‘Flatter than our order book.’ George tells his sympathetic sister about Kiki and Val, and how Val still refuses to talk to him. Josie can understand Val’s point of view, but she gives her brother a cuddle.

  ‘She’s a good egg, she is.’

  ‘I hope you’re doing better than me on the romance front,’ says George.

  His sister blushes a bit.

  ‘I am sort of seeing someone. A Hungarian chap at work.’

  ‘Sounds good. Gypsy blood. Passionate temp
er and all that.’

  ‘Not exactly. He hates gypsies.’

  ‘Do I get to meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s quite interesting, but ... well, he’s not very house-trained. I’m not sure how serious I am.’

  Josephine isn’t keen to pursue the subject, and George is sensitive enough to let it drop. ‘Isn’t it Mum’s bedtime?’ he asks.

  They put Helen to bed. She wears incontinence pants these days, and George finds the whole business dis­ agreeable, but he helps anyway. Helen says something, which George interprets as ‘Sorry I’m so difficult’, but it’s the end of the day and her speech is quite badly slurred, so it’s hard to be sure.

  George and Josie go back down, watch more telly, and drink instant decaf coffee.

  ‘How’s your work and everything, Josie?’

  ‘Not bad. I’m switching jobs in the New Year. I’m moving into the money transfer department. I’m going to be a settlements clerk.’

  ‘More money?’

  ‘No, less money actually, but I prefer the job. The bank advertised the vacancy internally. I applied for it and got it.’

  George is a mite surprised. Josephine always complained about not having enough money and here she was taking a less well-paid job. Still, it was her life, and she was right to think that Zack and Matthew could easily pay for the care that Helen needed. Why should Josie make all the sacrifices?

  ‘Good for you. What’s a settlements clerk?’

  ‘You know, sorting out money transfers and all that sort of stuff. It’s admin work, quite dull really, but it needs to be done.’

  ‘Could you see your way to transferring a few hundred grand into the Gissings’ account? We could do with a leg-up.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  They finish watching the film, wash the coffee mugs, and go to bed.

  There are 571 days to go until Bernard Gradley’s deadline. That’s half-way or near enough.

  4

  Zack left the canteen with a brown paper bag holding a croissant, a cup of black coffee and two bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice. Beneath his arm he carried a copy of that morning’s Financial Times, and in his jacket pocket, a quarter bottle of vodka. He marched along the corridor, stepped inside the men’s loo, closed the cubicle door, and sat down. He opened one of the two bottles of orange juice and swigged a couple of mouthfuls from it. He poured the vodka inside and shook it up. Vodka and orange is a nearly invisible alcoholic drink. You can’t really smell it. You can’t taste it. You might notice the slight dilution of the orange juice, but not if you were Hal Gillingham, and not if you’d been drinking gradually increasing amounts of the stuff for the past few months.