The Y2 Kaper

by Jim CaJacob

  “So. . .”

  Malcolm finished Val’s sentence. “So why would our fearless heroes spend days and days working on the one set of programs that didn’t need their help?”

  Chapter 17

  The Village Vanguard was shaped like a megaphone, with the bandstand at the narrow end. It was basically a pit, but had the best jazz night-after-night in the city. The cover was eighteen bucks tonight.

  Scott and Ernest shared a table with four Japanese tourists. The Vanguard crowd was usually at least a third Japanese.

  Johnny Griffin was on break. One of the last of the masters who invented modern jazz. Jazz people didn’t exactly take care of their bodies. He and Ernest had made the trip just to hear him. Ernest drove and they stayed in a pretty cheap place downtown.

  Ernest continued. “So, my man, the way I figure we can do the whole side for under five grand. It is time for the young lions to make their statement.”

  “Five grand, huh? What size group did you decide on?" Scott said.

  “The basic quartet, augmented by guest artists,” Ernest said. “Percussion on a couple tracks, cello on a couple, and I have a surprise.”

  Scott listened.

  “What if I were to say to you that a Mr. Cletus Witherspoon would be willing to join us for a couple of cuts?” Witherspoon was a kind of underground legend whose reputation for ferocious tenor playing was rivaled by his reputation for being hard to work with.

  “You know ‘Spoon?" Scott said.

  “Man, I keep explaining, within our community the artists have always sought each other out for support and sustenance,” Ernest said.

  By ‘our community’ Ernest meant ‘African-Americans’. Unless there was a newer, more politically correct term in place.

  Scott thought about Cletus Witherspoon. He had been prominent on the jazz scene since the late fifties. Scott doubted whether he had ever made fifty grand a year. Scott knew that MB&A was billing something like two hundred an hour for his time. New York was full of jazz legends that would be delighted to get one two hundred dollar gig per week.

  Ernest persisted. “I mean, it is time to get this music out into the world. Are you down?”

  Scott did not feel manipulated. He knew that Ernest knew what Scott made from his day gig. There was no question who was in the best position to pay for the recording. There was also no question that Ernest would do the same thing if the situation were reversed.

  “Chill, Ernest. I’m down. And remember, I want to record the political piece we talked about.”

  “Solid.” While black street slang tended to evolve just ahead of its adaptation by MTV-trained suburbanites of all ages, the jazz hipster jive he and Ernest used had remained largely frozen in its mid-fifties form.

  Scott had noted with satisfaction if not surprise that the Consumer Price Index came in on the money, no pun intended. His idea was to record a kind of rap manifesto and post it anonymously on the web, pointing out the CPI bug.

  White jazz musicians had always tried to sound black, both musically and with the spoken word. The voice would be digitally disguised in the final mix, but Scott had an idea of the quality he wanted.

  Scott had been playing this idea of making a political statement musically over and over in his mind for some years. He had never really come up with the right issue before this. He had run the idea by Ernest who, predictably, made it his own. Ernest immediately and simultaneously began planning the musical production, the script, and the distribution strategy. Scott enjoyed Ernest being Ernest, and thought about Josh.

  Josh obviously was in this to make money some way, but the idea appealed to Scott just the same. He couldn’t see how any individuals would get severely hurt in the short run, and the system needed to be changed. Like most casual radicals, Scott vaguely defined “the system” as those aspects of modern life with which he disagreed but felt powerless to influence.

  Yes, he would play out Josh’s game. He didn’t mistrust Josh, exactly, but he also had no illusions about his priorities. Johnny Griffin’s band was milling around after a longish break. Scott glanced at his watched, signaled for another eight dollar Heineken and turned his chair toward the stand.

  Chapter 18

  Malcolm computed that he had seen 345 Consumer Price Indexes issued in his time. There was nothing special about this one. Still, something bothered him a little bit.

  The analysts were surprised quite often. The truth was the economy, even the small portion sampled by the Bureau, was far too complex to forecast accurately month by month. This surprise was that the index hadn’t changed – also very possible. But there was something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  Malcolm had no inclination to tell Albert Simmons. Albert was a decent guy, but he hadn’t gotten to his level without knowing how to cover his ass. Albert’s method of checking out Malcolm’s concern would be to assign Malcolm to check them out himself. He’d check them out all right, but on his own schedule.

  - - -

  Malcolm wasn’t the only one who was a little uneasy. Eunice Gladstone, of Elkton, South Dakota, had been charting the CPI by hand on grade school graph paper for years. She made a point of adding each month’s new data point the morning it was released. This time she had a strange feeling. While it was well within normal range there was something funny about it. She called her broker.

  Leonid Dashvilli, a civil servant in Tblisi wasn’t just suspicious. He knew. But you could forgive him, with everything he had seen, for being a bit of a cynic.

  In Cali, Columbia, the cartel maintained a serious econometric research effort. Omar Julio Rozas, trained at Stanford, stared at his print out and shook his head. His team had been developing neural network forecasting tools. This datum just made no sense. He wasn’t looking forward to making his monthly presentation.

  Others, hundreds of others, noticed something, or thought they did. Of course, other hundreds of others had noticed something last month, and the month before that.

  Chapter 19

  Hansi was finally coming back to New York, Estelle said, and he didn’t want to meet on his first night. They arranged dinner for that Wednesday. Hansi insisted on the endless small talk through dinner. Josh had a hard time keeping a civil tongue.

  “So, Mr. Calder, it would appear that your forecast was quite accurate in the event.” Finally, Josh thought.

  “As I told you, I think we’ve made a real breakthrough. I’m glad to hear you agree.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I shall subject you to still more of our famous Swiss caution. But, yes, I was most impressed,” Hansi said.

  This time they were at LesPinasse, in the St. Regis. Another four bills, Josh thought, if Hansi picks the wine. I thought the Swiss were frugal. Of course, what could be more frugal than never picking up a check?

  “So, Hansi,” Josh could not get used to calling a grown, boring man ‘Hansi’, “may I inquire what your advice would be at this point?”

  Hansi sat, holding his chin, with that smug half-smile of his. He wasn’t looking at either Josh or Estelle. Josh sat on his hands, his knee bobbing rapidly under the table. Estelle sat with her mouth open as though she were hanging on Hansi’s every word. That’s not all of Hansi’s she's been hanging on, Josh thought.

  “Well, as I explained on our last visit, I’m not really in the investment side of things. So you would do well to take any investment advice I would volunteer with a piece of salt, as you say,” Hansi said.

  “Grain,” Estelle and Josh said the word together.

  “Pardon?" Hansi said.

  “It’s ‘grain of salt’. You said ‘piece of salt’” Josh said. He felt a little silly correcting Hansi’s nearly perfect English, but he was still miffed.

  “Thank you. One does one’s best,” Hansi said.

  Josh decided the best strategy was to just shut up and let him get to his point, at least until the little guys with the vacuum cleane
rs replaced the captain who had been glancing at their table with increasing frequency.

  “Perhaps it would be helpful if I gave you my thoughts regarding some investment ideas you already have been considering,” Hansi said.

  Josh was sort of ready for this. “I’ve been thinking about foreign currency futures.”

  “Indeed.” Josh knew Hansi was going to say ‘indeed’.

  “As I understand it, the performance of the U.S. economy is a major predictor of the exchange rate of the dollar.”

  “The analysts do watch carefully. The American consumer remains the engine of the world economy,” Hansi said.

  “And a lot of dollars are bought and sold every day, right?” Estelle said. She touched Hansi’s hand.

  “My dear, the amount is almost incomprehensible. Literally hundreds of billions of dollars,” Hansi said.

  “With a ‘b’,” Josh said.

  “Of course, we Swiss take a conservative view of currency values. Our Franc is the only major currency fully backed by precious metal reserves. Most Americans still believe in the myth of Fort Knox. But, yes, the rest of the world economy is based on less, shall we say, substantial principles.”

  Josh leaned forward. “So, in principle, a person who was highly confident in advance of how an economic indicator would change would be in a position to, to leverage that information.”

  “My good fellow, in a free market the return on a given investment is dictated by the risk of the investment. If one can ameliorate that risk, it stands to reason that the return should be more favorable,” Hansi said.

  ‘Ameliorate?’ Give me a fucking break, Josh thought. “Well, I think the demonstration of our forecasting ability went well, don’t you?" Josh said.

  “Went well? It was right on, wasn’t it?" Estelle said. “Come on Hansi, you know you were impressed. I thought you told me you weren’t going to be such a frump.”

  To Josh’s surprise Hansi blushed a little. For once he had nothing to say.

  Josh waited.

  Finally Hansi said “Well, yes, among friends, it was a notable accomplishment. Of course, one would be unwise to draw too strong a conclusion from a single data point. . .” Estelle cocked her head with a shame-on-you look on her face.

  “All right. Yes. Very good. I look forward to future examples,” Hansi said.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Josh thought. It must be fun to be a woman like Estelle.

  “Hansi” - Josh winced – “my colleagues and I want to leverage this ability. We’re very confident. But we have a problem. To do so, we would have to borrow substantial assets in order to invest in the scale we believe the opportunity deserves. And we were hoping you might get us in touch with, with resources that would be sensitive to our special needs.” Man, I’m starting to talk like this guy, Josh thought.

  “I see,” Hansi said. “Resources. Yes.”

  “Hansi, you must know a lot of people who would be interested in backing a deal like this,” Estelle said. Don’t blow it, Josh thought.

  “It’s true that I am at ease in the world of money,” Hansi said. Oh no, Josh thought, he’s going to get on another roll. Just be cool.

  “Let me think about this for a few days. I assure you I shall give it serious consideration. Yes.”

  The captain’s impatience had just about overcome his politeness. Josh glanced at him. How’d you like to be that guy’s old lady, he thought. Josh waited another moment, then pantomimed ‘check please’. The guy burned rubber as he swooped toward them.

  - - -

  Later, Mona said “How'd it go, babe?”

  Josh said “Mone, you have no idea how hard I work for a living.”

  Chapter 20

  Jenny kicked her shoes off as soon as she crossed the threshold of her hotel room. She grimaced at the striking brown heels. She tried to remember the last time that a new pair had hurt her so much. Cole Haan or not, she wasn't prepared to take that shit from any conservative shoe. She dropped her briefcase on the desk and headed straight for the mini bar to get a San Pellegrino. She noted that there was a message light on her phone. As she worked the latch to the bar, she smiled to herself, remembering the lecture that the front desk clerk gave her when he handed over the silly, nowhere near unique key.

  The water tasted great. She actually missed this water when she was at home. She grabbed the TV remote and arranged the plump chair so that she could put her feet up on her bed while making her phone calls. Making sure she could see the TV, she plopped down into the chair and put her feet up. Ah! Her feet immediately started to feel cooler and hurt less. She clicked on the TV and surfed until she found CNN Headline news. She muted it and dialed the hotel's voicemail. It was irritating to have to listen to all of the information about how to set her "private" greeting before being given the hotel specific codes to retrieve, save and delete her messages. The last thing that she wanted to do was to admit that she was basically living here and actually record a personal message to greet her callers.

  She only had two messages and they were both from Lewis Charles. He just said that he was thinking about her and would try her again later. She made the long distance call to her office voicemail and was happy to find that there weren't any urgent messages. Everything could wait until tomorrow. She then called her home answering machine and found that her neighbors were frantically trying to get in touch because they wanted to borrow her grill for a Thursday night barbecue, and that her sister wanted to know if she would fly to Orlando for a family reunion – a year and a half from now. She took advantage of the time difference and called her neighbors and gave them her blessing in time. She decided that the Orlando trip didn't need to be confirmed for a while.

  The top stories were on again, so she listened to the headline news. Nothing earth shattering. She turned the volume down a little and started to setup her laptop. She hadn't had a chance to check her email all day.

  This had been a productive day. The team had met this morning at the Dulles airport and had arrived at the BLS a little before 11:00. Val hit the ground running and had managed to get the team system access and a workspace by 1:00. The environment wasn’t ideal but at least they had been assigned an empty cube and one telephone so far. While she and Val went to lunch with a couple of the managers, Wilton was able to set up and start his data mining. The rest of the day was one meeting after another with various middle managers. Tomorrow would be more of the same. She was glad that Val had scheduled himself in on these initial meetings. The two of them could analyze a situation faster working as a team, but mostly she enjoyed being around Val. They had gotten quite good at working in this way. They approached problems from different yet complementary angles and seemed to be able to amass a good understanding of a business and its internal operating quirks very quickly. It seemed like every time one would ask a question that would turn on the lights for the other.

  Sooner or later, she would be the sole participant in these meetings. This was a sign that Val had decided that the team needed to continue the meetings mainly for goodwill purposes. Useful information continued to turn up but from that point forward a non-linear, unscheduled approach was more productive. This was when the meetings began to feel like one chorus after another of some lame old song. In any case, Jenny knew that she was going to have to put in extra hours on this job – some for writing the summaries of her daily findings, some for doing her own research.

  Right now, she knew that Josh Calder and Scott Crane were up to something even if she wasn’t sure what. She knew they’d find out pretty soon. Hacker types were actually fairly easy to bust. It seemed like the best ones were always brilliant and fatally immature at the same time. At least Wilton had a sense of humor about himself.

  She was well aware of the stakes involved on this scam. The money was substantial and the political exposure much more so. Even though Val was her boss, she felt naturally prote
ctive of him. He was somewhere between idealistic and downright naïve. He said he was aware of the sensitivity of this assignment, but she would make a point of reminding him.

  The phone rang. It was Lewis Charles, the closest approximation to a boyfriend she could claim at the moment. calling back. He had a Masters in English Lit from Rice, but currently made his living as a bull rider. She was attracted to that kind of contradiction, although she never could get used to the two name Billy Bob thing. Plus he was a stone babe, in a polite, Clint Black sort of a way.

  He was at a rodeo in some town in Canada that she had heard of but couldn’t place on a mental map. He had broken his pinky again. She shivered. Physical damage assessments aside, his conversations had a certain courtly quality that she found appealing. Plus he didn’t drag his calls out. A really nice guy. She wasn’t sure whether he was, or even whether she wanted him to be, more than that to her.

  She rarely dozed off. She sort of had to make a conscious decision to sleep, and had to plan to invest fifteen or twenty minutes of lying still in the dark to do so. A TV was playing, too loud, down the hall.

  Staring into the darkness, Jenny had the kind of uneasy feeling that bothered her the most. Something was seriously wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. Her mind, a potent weapon, could also be a liability. Like now, when it kept telling her to be careful, but couldn’t figure out what to be careful of.

  Chapter 21

  Hansi didn’t usually go into the Trading Room. It was a noisy, crowded, unpleasant place. He had done his turn there early in his career. He made an exception today, at least as far as standing in the glassed-in observation area, which overlooked the floor.

  Most of the people in the Trading Room were young men, in their twenties. They all wore dress shirts and ties. Their spoke urgently into headphones, emphasizing their points with timeless hand gestures, invisible to their distant clients. The young men here in looked much the same as their counterparts in New York and London and Tokyo, except the Swiss never loosened their ties.

  Almost all the trades were actually made by computer. The technicians set a bewildering array of hedges and triggers, based on the respective movement of the leading currencies against each other.