by Green, Carey
“The guy was trying to lowball her. She couldn’t let it go for that price.”
“You’re almost out of business. YOU sell the freakin’ painting!”
“It was below market.”
“When you have no money, there is no market!”
“I know, I know.” Despite what he was saying to Steve, Dylan himself had been angry about the painting, mainly by the fact that she didn’t sell it. “Besides, the prospect of selling it wasn’t enough to solve our problems.”
“No, it wasn’t. So are YOUtapping that?”
“Who?”
“Cat.”
“Steve, stop with the Cat stuff. And the answer is a big “NO,” as in, ‘Not at all’.”
“Come on?”
“We had a thing, once upon a time, but probably Samantha needs some excitement in her life. Money’s tight now; the only excitement she’d be getting out of me would be cryptic crosswords puzzles and crock pots. Besides, I think she’s dating some artist now.”
“I see the way she looks at you. Maybe you shouldn’t sell yourself short.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
They were silent for a moment. Steve threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll give you one more month. But after that, I’ve got to do something. The lease agreement says that.”
“After six months, we are subject to eviction with two weeks notice. That’s Page 32, Paragraph two, the third line of your lease.”
“Did you just look that up?”
“Never mind that. We’ll get it done. Trust me.”
Steve stood up and left the office. Dylan took a seat behind Samantha’s desk and picked up the art magazine that Steve had been reading. He was reading the magazine when Samantha walked into the office.
“How did it go?”
“It was like telling a joke at a funeral: not the happiest of occasions. I got us another month.”
“That’s it?”
“What did you expect? A ten-year furlough? He wants his rent.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Look, I have a plan. I’m freeing up some cash, so we can make it through for a while. And if I get this job, well, things will be a lot easier.”
“Dylan, you’ve been more than I ever expected you to be. Thank you.”
“Yeah, but Samantha, we have to sell some art.”
“We will, Dylan, trust me.”
“I do. But it’s gotta start soon.”
“It will. We’re going to make it. Things will be better soon.”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, with a laugh. “They better, or else we’ll all be living in a government camp eating corn and raising chickens.”
“I don’t like corn.”
“You get the idea,” Dylan said.
Chapter 2
The hedge fund operated by the Corbin brothers had moved into their new headquarters just three months after 9/11. The move had already been in the planning stages; the company had grown tenfold in the previous year and the tragedy of the towers only hastened that move. Their latest digs, two floors and a penthouse, were strategically located in a newer tower just off of East 57th Street and East River Drive. Though the view was not nearly as spectacular as their previous one, a majestic sixtieth-floor palace, the corner office of Ray Corbin towered high above the river with sweeping views of Manhattan and Queens. More importantly, the building itself was surrounded by taller buildings, which seemed obscure in comparison to the towers. Safety was a primary concern. It had taken them nearly a year to rebuild what terrorists had destroyed in a morning.
Ray Corbin got up from his desk and strolled towards his full-height window overlooking the East River. He then turned and stretched his thin, six foot two frame towards the ground. Due to the magic of arthroscopy, he could still touch his toes. Though he was only forty-seven, a decade of marathon running and lesser triathlons had reduced the cartilage in his knees to a mound of bacon drizzle. Rail-thin with a wiry physique, his slightly gray hair and tan-lined face indicated a life of leisure and lack of protection from the sun. His custom suits exuded power through and through.
Ray turned and gazed back down on the East River before him. The summer heat had left a haze in the sky, and he watched as a helicopter landed off in the distance. In the summer, he frequently commuted to the Hamptons by copter, and contemplated the danger of flying in this haze. It was only then that he realized his brother Josh had entered the room.
If one had seen them from a distance, one would not have even thought the Corbin Brothers to be friends, much less brothers. Ray’s runner physique made his younger brother Josh’s full frontal obesity comic. He was a very heavy boy. Late night programming sessions on the newest trading models had reduced his diet to a steady stream of pizza, diet cokes and Krispy Kremes with chocolate filling. Many guessed his tonnage to be around three and change, but most estimated it to be quickly reaching four. Like many men of his size, the weight did not look bad on Josh, though you might pray if you saw him on an airplane. Ray often encouraged Josh to exercise, as a client-based business demanded attractive staff. It was a double-edged sword, however: Ray would have tolerated the circus fat man, if he could produce mathematics and strategy on the level of Josh.
“Are you sure he’s the right man for the task?” Ray asked. “I feel a little funny.”
“How do you define funny?” Josh asked.
“I don’t know. It’s been so long since we hired a new trader. I guess I’m just gun shy.”
“We all are,” Josh countered. “But we’ve interviewed this guy four times. We can’t just keep bringing him back at our whimsy. We have to make a decision.”
“You’re right, we do. Okay,” Ray said hesitantly, “Bring him in.” Josh left the office as quickly as he entered.
Dylan sat in the waiting room to review his notes on Ray Corbin’s firm. He had taken copious notes on the firm’s history, performance, and on the life and times of Ray Corbin. To many, Ray Corbin was somewhat of an enigma in the financial community; a man possessing an unquestionable intellect, but whose performance at times had seemed somewhat checkered. Dylan had interviewed with the firm four times now, and was growing impatient with the length of the process. In better times, he might have already punted, but the job market was shaky to say the least. He wanted to get back to trading as soon as he possibly could. Waiting for the perfect job was no longer an option.
Josh approached him just as he was reviewing the last page of his notes. Josh gestured with his hand, and Dylan followed him into Ray’s office.
“Hello, Dylan,” Ray said, as he offered Dylan hid hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Corbin,” Dylan said, as he and Josh both sat down in one of the chairs across from Ray. “It’s nice to be invited back.”
“Please, call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray.”
Ray sat down behind his desk. Josh and Dylan sat in front of him.
“Josh, would you mind leaving the two of us alone.”
“Uh, sure,” Josh said, as he looked up. Ray could tell that he had surprised Josh with his request. Josh was even slower than usual to get up, as he lifted his heavy frame from the posh leather chair. Slowly, he turned without looking at Ray. He closed the door behind him as he left the room. Dylan smiled as he waited for the interrogation to begin.
“You’ve already spent quite a bit of time with Josh, Dylan. I thought it might be best if the two of us got to know each other one on one.”
“Of course.”
“Well, your resume speaks for itself. Harvard undergrad, Harvard MBA. Some pretty good schools. I’m a Harvard man myself.”
“Class of ’73.”
“You’ve done your research on us.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I want the job.”
“D’you know what we do?”
“You trade everything from NASDAQ stocks to pork bellies.”
“How do we do it?”
“People have som
e ideas, but no one knows for sure. You seem to trade off of proprietary models that look for fluctuations in non-correlated markets.”
“Who told you that?”
“I do my research.”
Ray laughed. “Your research is good, but it’s not that good. We look for patterns, patterns that are infinitely regressed, back-tested and run through neural networks. My brother and a physicist we employ examine the results of these models and attempt to come up with a clear mathematical basis for trades that we execute in global markets around the world.”
“Yes, you wrote about this in Exotics: A Quantitative Approach. You said, ‘Technology will soon be at the forefront of the trading world, as disparate systems will dictate the future of financial markets.’ I think that was the second paragraph on page thirteen.”
“Did you just read that?”
“No, I read that sometime ago.”
“But it’s out of print. I can’t even find a copy.”
“I have a good memory.” Ray pondered this for a moment.
“When I wrote that, we didn’t have the computing power we have today. It was all theoretical. We now use proprietary software that manages the trade modeling, execution, and tracking.”
“Is that what Josh does?”
“Yes, Josh programs the black boxes that make these trades happen.”
“Very cool.”
“It all is. It’s taken me ten years to build all of this.”
“How large is the fund now? Two billion in assets?”
“I don’t like to throw numbers around casually,” Ray countered, “but we’re doing well.”
“Sounds good.”
“So tell me, Dylan. Why should I hire you?”
“Well, my resume and education speak for themselves. In terms of my track record, my trading desk was the most profitable in the firm. I like to think I was a big part of that.”
“I see,” Ray said, smiling. “Then why did you leave, Dylan?”
“Do you want an honest answer or a bullshit one?”
“I want both.”
“The truth is, my old firm asked me to do something unethical. When I declined, they had no basis to fire me, so they made me a pariah. Pretty soon, I was considered a cancer on the trading floor. After that, it was time to go.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. One could call you Dylan, Cash of Assisi.”
“I’m actually from Oregon.”
“That was a joke.”
“I know it was.”
“Still, to stand up for yourself in this business, a business full of unethical people, that’s admirable.”
“I wasn’t looking to impress anyone, Ray. I just didn’t want to go to jail. The only stripes I want to see are on my pajamas.”
“And what about money?”
“Money is good.”
“How much did you make last year?”
“575.”
“Not bad in a down year. How much are you looking for?”
“I’d like to round that off. Upward.”
“That’s reasonable, but you’ll have to earn it here.”
“ I didn’t expect it any other way.”
“Can you multiply 7,222,344 by 65,555,666?”
Dylan laughed. “Not without a calculator. Can you?”
“Yes, I can,” Ray Corbin said with a deadpan expression. “But only because I ask the same question every time.”
“Mr. Corbin—”
“Please, call me, Ray.”
“Your physicist put me through several math tests and trading scenarios.”
“I know. They showed me the results: 98th percentile on both.”
“I missed a decimal place.”
“You better not do that here.”
“Trust me, I won’t.”
“I just have one more question, Dylan.”
“Of course.”
“Say I made you an offer, then a month later you get a better offer. Would you leave?”
“ ‘Loyalty is my priority.’ I don’t tolerate fools, and I don’t bullshit, or put up with it. It’s that simple.”
“I see.”
“Excuse my language.”
“Oh, no. I find it very appropriate. Not to mention, refreshing.”
Ray Corbin got up from his desk and was on the move again. He turned his back to Dylan as he once again faced the river.
“As you may have guessed, it’s been a difficult time. Luke Patterson, our head trader, was killed recently in an accident.”
“What happened?”
“Perhaps a drunk driver, a hit and run, no one knows really. He was on his motorcycle. I told him to give that dammed thing up. He was far too important to this firm to die in such a trivial way, but he refused. He claimed riding helped him release some of the pent up aggression from the trading floor. Me? I run. Do you?”
“Run?”
“No.”
“Ride a motorcycle?”
“I don’t even own a skateboard,” Dylan said. Ray forced himself to laugh.
“But no,” Dylan said. “I’m not an adrenaline junkie, except for trading, and I stay away from dangerous sports.”
“That’s good.. I like that.” Ray seemed pensive, as if one thought flowing through his brain had suddenly wrestled another to the ground. Then, he continued. “Luke, he couldn’t resist it, this thing about living on the edge. They found him upstate in the middle of the road on a Sunday night. He was coming from his parents’ house. No one traveled that road. He could have been there for hours.”
“That’s a sad story.”
“And, of course, this all comes less than a decade after the towers. Luckily, we lost no one, but I lost a lot of friends. All I’m saying is, replacing Luke is a huge thing for me personally, and for this firm. I just hope you understand what I’m trying to say to you. ”
“I understand. And I’m up to the task.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it. We’ll be in touch in the next 48 hours.”
“I look forward to hearing from you.” Ray Corbin stood up and extended his hand and Dylan did the same. The interview was over.
Chapter 3
Dylan heard the phone begin to ring, but his brain had a difficult time forcing his body to react. He glanced at the clock radio next to his bed. It was 3:15 in the morning. The usual emergency scenarios ran through his head, and after nearly a minute of ringing, his body rose in the direction of the phone. He picked the receiver up with a voice full of trepidation.
“Hello?”
“Yes. Is this Dylan Cash?”
“Yes. It is. Who is this?” The voice was unfamiliar. He wondered if it was from a hospital, or from the police.
“This is Ray Corbin.”
“Ray who?”
“Ray Corbin. Of the Corbin Brothers. I interviewed you yesterday for a job with my firm.”
“Oh, okay.” The grogginess was suddenly starting to dissipate, and some semblance of reality was starting to shape itself.
“What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you could come and see me.”
“Uh, sure. When?”
“How about right now?”
“Ray, excuse me, but it’s almost three-thirty in the morning.”
“So? If you had a hundred million dollar trade on the Nikkei futures, and a tsunami hit Japan, you’d have been here an hour ago with your pajamas and your teddy.”
“Er, right; I understand,” Dylan said. It was a test. Brilliant traders are often idiosyncratic individuals who put their underlings to extreme tests, to see if they are battle ready. Many cannot withstand the pressure and are forced to leave the trading floor, exiled to investment banking or quiet private equity. It was a form of financial hazing, survival of the fittest with the largest stakes imaginable.
After hanging up the phone, Dylan pulled on a pair of Levi’s and a Harvard sweatshirt. He wasn’t required to be well dressed; simply an appearance was necessary. Within moments, he was hailing a taxicab.
&
nbsp; As the cab raced across town, he thought of the circuitous rout of his life that had taken him to this place. Neither of his parents had earned more than 30K. Now, he was mingling with billionaires and the upwardly mobile. The cab reached Corbin Brothers world headquarters. Dylan paid the driver and headed inside.
A lone security guard sat behind the security desk. Dylan approached him.
“He already called down,” the guard said, as he handed Dylan a plastic, laminated badge. Dylan took the badge and scanned it in the security scanner. He entered the elevator, pressed the button and made his way up towards the 60th floor.
The plastic badge gained him entry to the Corbin Brothers office. He made his way through the double glass doors that led towards the trading floor.
Walking through a trading floor at night was like walking through a ghost town. Dylan could feel the eerie glow of the lighted computer screens, Bloomberg monitors, and half-consumed cans of Pepsi. He saw Ray Corbin sitting at a computer screen directly in front of the large projection screen in the middle of the trading floor. Ray looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days. As Dylan approached, Ray got up to greet him.
“So, you came.”
“Did you expect me not to?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Did you think that I didn’t want the job?”
“Of course not. No, I could tell you’re hungry. A lot of potential candidates would have been freaked out if I called them at home in the middle of the night like this.”
“Mr. Corbin, I don’t know you very well, but I’ve been in New York for over ten years. It takes a lot more than a phone call at 3 a.m. to freak me out.”
Ray laughed. It was the first time that Dylan had seen him let his guard down. “Come into my office,” Ray said, as he led Dylan towards his office down the hall.
