Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series)

by Neil Behrmann

  Our coffee positions had made us almost $4 million on margin deposits of less than $400,000! Commodity and gold shares had also soared in hectic trade. The Aquarium fund, which had started with $1 million, was now worth around $6 million. I was a millionaire!

  13 - PEARL

  'Does the Governor know about this third session? Other inmates see the psychiatrist once and that's if they're lucky.'

  'I've told him that you're a very interesting case,' says Dr Klugheim.

  ‘A loner, an outsider?'

  'Highly intelligent and talented.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes, really.'

  Silence. Waiting.

  'Know anything about suppressing the unconscious?' asks Klugheim.

  'Such as?'

  'Memories. The Russians . . . The hanging. You've stopped writing about them.'

  'Why are you interested?'

  I'm wary. Something's going on. Is the Russian mafia using him to get to me?

  I shouldn't have written about them.

  'You sure only you and Mrs Small are reading my stuff?' I whisper. 'The Governor? does he know?'

  'Don't worry, I'm keeping the book strictly confidential,' says Klugheim.

  'How can I be sure it won't get out? You know what they can do! They're everywhere.'

  'Trust me! I'm here to help. Just write a few pages every week. I'll keep them safely here.'

  'They have ways of finding out.'

  'Only Mrs Small and I know about it. Promise! Keep on writing. You mustn't suppress it. Let it out. If you keep it hidden it will come back; disturb you.'

  I'm unconvinced. Say nothing. Silent.

  'So you went on living as if nothing had happened? Bad memories gone?' asks Klugheim while he observes me closely.

  Better talk. I'll have to trust him. What else can I do?

  'Stan Slimcop was right. Time's the best healer. I only had occasional dreams about the hanging,' I mumble. 'I was focusing on trading. That was my life. I decided that they wouldn't recognise me. Grew a moustache.'

  'Think back. Try and remember. Are you sure there weren't any more bad dreams?'

  'Very seldom. I began to feel more secure.'

  ‘Any dreams about them now?'

  'No.'

  'Good.'

  He gets up suddenly, losing his train of thought. Paces the room, agitated.

  'What about my shrinking portfolio, Jack? I got hold of the charts and prices.'

  'Wanna retire now?' I mumble sarcastically as I shuffle to the table next to the window.

  'I'll ignore that Jack. We've gone through this before. You should know by now that I'm doing my best for you.'

  'Sorry. I'm a bit of a cynic.'

  ‘A bit?'

  ‘I know you see a lot of prisoners, Doc. But there's no way you can comprehend what this place's like. Guys like me are shit scared. Terrified of being beaten up or raped. The stink. Cells like saunas in the summer. Freezing in winter. Not enough exercise. Rubbish food.'

  'Just keep your head down, Jack. I'll do my best to get you out of here.’

  On the table are a laptop, chart book and prices. We pull up some chairs and we look through them. I make some notes and quickly search the Internet for extra stuff.

  'You've got thirty shares, Dr Klugheim. Do you have time to follow them?'

  'No. All I know is that I'm losing.’

  'Not all of them. Some are doing OK. These seven.’

  'Want me to sell twenty three shares?'

  'That's what I would do. Put all the money in the shares that are doing well. The companies and charts seem OK.'

  'Why don't you take off your shoes and lie down on the couch,' says Klugheim.

  'Thought we were finished.’

  'You've still got time. Close your eyes. Relax. Tell me about your commodities trading.'

  'Sort of takes over. Coffee up and down. Big profits, then losses. Profits again.'

  'How did it feel?'

  ‘I was a winner! It's like the races. Your horse coming in. You're on a buzz.'

  'Like a gambler?'

  'Yes and no. You leave the racetrack when it's over. You're in the casino when you play roulette or blackjack. But when you trade in the markets, it's in your head. You're thinking about it all the time. Should I stay in? Should I get out? Should I sell half? You get a kick when it goes up, but your stomach sinks when it's down. Why didn't I sell? Should I get out now? That sort of thing. You're always edgy, especially when you're losing. Then the market goes wild and you forget to eat. When you're hungry, you go through packets of crisps. Eyes always on the screen.’

  'What about drink and drugs? Do they help or increase stress?'

  No answer. He's not going to sucker me into that!

  'Didn't you take a break? Go to a movie. Play sport. Go out with girls to wind down?'

  'Sure. But trading dominated my life. You're playing with margin. A small fall can wipe you out. That's all you think about. You're phoning your broker. Looking at prices on your mobile. Searching for news. Early morning to late at night.’

  'Greedy one day; fretting the next?'

  'That's about it! You're working out numbers in your head. What you have now. What you could have. What you're going to do with it. Do you have enough for a flat, a house, a Ferrari, a holiday? In the end it's a game. You've got to score.’

  'And when you lose?'

  'You sweat. Depends how much you're down. If it's a lot, you feel sick. Really sick. But those days were good. Coffee was big time.'

  * * *

  Ruffish held a fund manager meeting to decide what we should do next. I could understand why he was worried. The coffee market was going crazy and we had a lot of money in it.

  Ruffish put his hand on my shoulder in the meeting room: 'Told you a schoolboy could do it.' 'Luck,' grunted Aram Zabkian.

  'What would you do if you were in young Miner's position?' asked Ruffish. He was dressed in a smart light grey Savile Row suit.

  'Bank the money and go back to school,' said Aram who was sloppily dressed in a yellow shirt with white stripes and creased dark blue slacks. Obviously, he wasn't meeting any clients or brokers. If he was, he would have been in a Versace suit or another favourite designer. Aram irritated me. He had chronic halitosis. We could smell the garlic across the table.

  'Envy will get you everywhere, Aram,' said Maffie sarcastically. 'Let's hear what our astrophysics and maths geniuses have got to say.'

  Tong Chong Ping took off his black glasses and rubbed them. 'At the moment coffee's all about round numbers. It broke $2, so I reckon the market momentum could carry it to $2.40. After that, I'm not sure. If there isn't a crop failure, the price will crash!'

  'Most traders underestimate the scale of moves,' said Krishna Doomassamy.

  He was a quiet, likeable, modest guy, who kept to himself. Krishna was always helpful.

  'When there's a run, prices go much further than people expect,' he suggested. 'What were the previous coffee peaks, Jack?'

  'In the bad frost of the mid-seventies, coffee soared to $3.40 a pound and then collapsed,' I replied, showing them my chart going back forty years. Throughout the period, prices climbed steep mountains and fell into deep ravines.

  'If Aquarium were my fund, I tell you what I would do,' said Krishna thoughtfully. 'I would sell about a third of my coffee positions and put the money in the bank. Then I would switch the rest from futures into options.'

  'That makes sense,' said Ruffish. 'That will protect our capital and guarantee a profit.'

  'Why switch from futures to options?' I asked.

  'Didn't that course in New York teach you anything?'

  'Not much. We did lots of boring simulations. Not the same as the real thing.'

  'You've been playing a very dangerous game, Jack,' said Krishna. 'You're lucky that the price ran up. With futures you can lose all your money and a lot more if the market goes against you. Gains on options are less than futures, but your loss is limited. You can
only lose what you put in the market. Not more.'

  'Yes Jack, options are the safer route,' said Ruffish.

  Tong was right. Within a few days after coffee broke through the 'round number' of $2, it shot up to almost $2.50 a pound. Ruffish told me to sell a third of our positions. We banked over $3 million, more than treble the original money we had in the fund. The big profit relaxed me so that I was less obsessed with the market. The rest of the futures contracts, which were also pure profit and worth around $6 million, were converted into coffee options. The options gave us the right to buy coffee at a future point in time. If the options expired at a loss, we would lose the $6 million. But if prices rose, the options' prices would soar. We could make millions more. The game was far from over.

  * * *

  After working late one evening, Maffie and I had a quiet drink in our local near Berkeley Square. Maffie said that she had to meet a friend and left. I had never met this mystery man and wondered who he was. I tried to get it out of her, but she never told me. Maffie was a very private person.

  I remained in the pub to finish my beer before going back to Martha's place. A swim and run with the dogs would be great.

  'Hi there,' said a cheerful husky voice in an American accent.

  I lifted my head and saw her. She was petite and pretty with a heart shaped freckled face, green eyes and short, cropped red hair. She was in her early twenties and was all in black.

  'Hi,' I said, trying hard to remember her. Maybe we had met in a pub or club.

  'Can I buy you a drink?' she asked.

  'No thanks. I'm going to walk my dog and go for a swim.'

  She put out her hand: 'Pearl Fleecer. Where do you swim?'

  Her hand lingered as I shook it and felt a tingle down my spine.

  'Jack Miner. I swim in Hampstead ponds.'

  We went outside. She took out a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and lit a match.

  'Want one?'

  'No thanks. Don't smoke.'

  'What do you do, Jack?'

  'I'm a trader.'

  'What do you trade?'

  'All sorts of things. Shares, commodities.'

  'That's interesting. Things like gold, oil, sugar, coffee, cocoa?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Markets are cool. Not the financial stuff. I haven't a clue. The people, sharp, decisive. Is that you, Jack?'

  Her questions were flattering. Made me feel good. It was easy to talk to her. I had made millions and was feeling good about myself.

  'The only thing I know about coffee is my Latte every morning,' she said grinning. 'If I don't have it, I can't work.'

  'Starbucks, Costa or Nero?'

  'Any place, provided the coffee's good. Depends how I feel, or where I'm going. Dealing in millions. Must be nerve-wracking. How do you go about it?'

  'Give me a break. It's after hours. Your turn. What do you do?'

  She took out a business card from a small white handbag and gave it to me. On it was: 'Pearl Fleecer, Consultant, AAPF Associates.'

  'Who's AA?'

  'Anne Arenby, my boss and partner. She's English.'

  'What sort of consulting do you do?'

  'We're a small company. Branding, image, that sort of thing. Want a lift? My car's parked nearby.'

  'Do you drive to work?' I asked.

  'No. My office is in St John's Wood. Had to see a client in Mayfair.'

  Pearl took out another cigarette as we walked to her car.

  'Tobacco company?'

  She coughed out a laugh: 'No, wish they were. We don't only work on corporate brands and images. People too. Pop stars, sportsmen and models. Thought about your image, Jack?'

  'Lost cause.'

  She grinned. I couldn't help but like her.

  We were in the parking garage by now and Pearl walked up to a small yellow MG sports car. We climbed in and before long we were in light traffic, driving from Mayfair, across Oxford Street and into Regent's Park. Pearl accelerated and I could feel the breeze.

  'I'm not taking you out of your way, am I?'

  'Nope. My apartment's in Chalk Farm. Not far from you. Whew, it's hot. Can I join you for a swim?'

  'Sure.'

  'We'll stop at my place. I need to change.'

  She had a one bedroom flat on the third floor of a converted, grey Edwardian house.

  'I like to keep things simple,' she said when she opened the door.

  I saw what she meant. There were a couple of dark blue leather chairs and a glass table. In the corner there was a kitchenette with a microwave, toaster and kettle. Pearl slipped into her bedroom and came out wearing a black bikini. It was under a paper thin, light green kaftan. She threw me her towel and car keys.

  'OK, let's go,' she said. 'Wanna drive?'

  'No . . . no thanks,' I said throwing them back at her.

  'What car do you have, Jack? Porsche?' she asked, as we passed the Royal Free Hospital on the way to my place.

  'I'm thinking of getting a new one,' I lied. No way was I going to tell her that I didn't have a licence.

  The dogs went wild when we arrived, jumping and licking us. Pearl didn't like them much and pushed them away. Martha walked in with shopping bags and offered us something to eat, but we declined. She quietly observed Pearl, while she patted the dogs and calmed them down.

  I went upstairs to change. Martha knocked on the door and came in.

  'Careful Jack! She's got a hard face.'

  'Sure Mum,' I laughed.

  We walked to the mixed pond on the southern part of the Heath. After tying up the dogs outside, we entered the swimming area, jumped into the pond and swam a few lengths. Afterwards we changed and ambled back towards some cafés and restaurants on the east side of the Heath.

  'Are you a Londoner, Jack?'

  'No. I'm from Bridlington in Yorkshire. Heard of it?'

  'No. I've only been here two years.'

  'From New York?'

  'Yep, but I was brought up in Washington D.C.'

  'Your Dad or Mum in politics?'

  She laughed: 'People always assume that. My father is a consultant on international affairs. My mother is a designer.'

  'I presume you've been to New York and Washington,' said Pearl.

  'Yes, I was in New York, last week,' I glowed.

  'Oh really! What were you doing there?'

  'Learning about the markets. Saw "Annie Get Your Gun". You remind me of her.'

  She gave me a gentle push.

  'When did you come to London?'

  'About a year ago.'

  'And you're already a trader?'

  'That's right.'

  'They start them young don't they?'

  I looked at her closely. Yes, she was older than me, but I couldn't tell by how much. Perhaps five years. Had to be. Partner in a business. I wondered whether she realised that I had just turned seventeen. Just as well that my moustache had grown.

  'Who taught you to be a trader, Jack?'

  'Learnt about it in my Dad's fish and chip shop.'

  She smiled sceptically: 'Yeah. Sure.'

  'Just joking. Taught myself. I'm still learning. My firm . . .'

  'What firm?'

  'Hastings & Ruffish. It manages hedge funds.'

  'Wow! A hedge fund trader. That's really impressive. How come you trade commodities? A hedge fund friend told me that they mainly traded shares and bonds.'

  'Went to Brazil on holiday. It's a big commodities producer.'

  As soon as that came out, I regretted it. She had flattered me so much, that I had broken Ruffish's golden rule. Never discuss what the firm does in detail. The hedge fund business is very competitive. Their employees, associates and consultants vacuum information in all sorts of places.

  'Rio or Sao Paulo. Great places for a holiday. Were you there recently? What was the weather like?'

  I changed the subject.

  'Weather's been great this summer, hasn't it? Come and swim with me any time.'

  Pearl edged closer and tu
cked her hand under my arm. That made me feel good.

  We chose an outside table at Kalendar, a restaurant close to the Heath and near Martha's place. The steak tasted good and Pearl drank most of the wine. Later we walked back to Martha's place and we made a date for the weekend. She kissed me on both my cheeks, climbed into her car and drove away. After Pearl had gone, I suddenly realised that she had told me very little about herself. She had a sports car and quite an expensive flat. Either her branding firm was doing well or her parents had money.

  * * *

  Pearl took me shopping in the West End the following Saturday. First I got a new haircut and a few highlights in some fancy hairdresser. Then we looked at some boutiques around Bond Street. Pearl said that she wanted to smarten me up a bit. I'm not a shopping sort of guy, but this was kind of fun. With my background, I wasn't exactly the world's biggest spender. Pearl assumed that I was rich and wasn't worried about money. My credit card worked overtime. Before long we were struggling to carry bags from Armani, Ralph Lauren and Hugo Boss. Later, we took a cab to Mayfair. I honoured my Mum's fantasy and we had tea at the Ritz. What a place! The hotel's Palm Court, where I had to wear a tie, was a huge ornate, golden room. Delicate cucumber sandwiches, scones and clotted cream with Earl Grey Tea.

  'Mum would have loved it here,' I said, feeling my eyes get a bit watery. I let go a bit and it came out. How Dad and Mum had died, how my relatives turned their backs on me. How I had arrived in London.

  'You're quite a guy Jack. Self-made. I like that,' she said, in a sympathetic, but insincere way. I vowed that I wouldn't pour out my heart again. Pearl was no agony aunt.

  'So how's the trading going Jack? Made money last week? What's the best bet? Gold and silver or cocoa and coffee?'

  'Want some advice, Pearl? Keep away. Professionals can lose, so what chance amateurs? The market is going nowhere for the moment. Up, down, up again. Nowhere. Most players are losing.'

  Afterwards we walked through an arcade and I tried on some shoes at Church's. Embarrassingly, my credit card was declined at the till. The shop assistant looked at me suspiciously. Pearl giggled. She seemed to realise what had happened. Sure enough when I phoned the credit card company to find out what was going on, I had exceeded my credit card limit. Not only that, they suspected that the card had been stolen. Except for my trip to Rio and New York, my credit card statement had never exceeded £1,500.