by Jim CaJacob
The amount of money that was changing hands was so large that it was meaningless to the young men. It was simply numbers changing every second on old-fashioned green screen terminals.
The publication of the U.S. Consumer Price Index was just one of the many events around which the torrent of money flowed. Once in a while something happened in the real world – a hurricane, a devaluation – that was dramatic enough that the media would mention its effect on foreign trade. Usually the trillions just sloshed around, computer-to-computer, balance sheet to-balance sheet, noticed only by the traders.
The flow of tangible money from place to place was a tiny fraction of the trading that took place, and lagged the trades by weeks or months. It was maintained more or less to maintain appearances.
The system allowed Indonesian women to sew shoes together that teenagers in Los Angeles would purchase for what would be a week’s pay for the women. Through it a pump, made in Germany, extracted chemicals from a hole drilled in the Kuwaiti desert that were turned, half a world away, into energy to nudge a Pepsi truck over a Guatemalan ridge. But most of the money that changed hands each day – more than a trillion dollars, about $200 for every human on the planet – had nothing to do with goods and services. It was money in the form of interest and foreign exchange conversion and commissions.
A trillion and a half dollars each night. Say there were 5,000 people, worldwide, who managed this. That meant that each trader managed the flow of $300 million a day. Nine thousand dollars a second. The computers made it possible, but it took a very large, very unusual trade to get anyone’s attention – trader or computer.
Riegle, the supervisor, said “you find something here amusing, Renggli?”
“I was just thinking of something funny I heard the last time I was in New York.”
Chapter 22
Mona and Estelle decided on two p.m. for lunch. It was basically impossible to get a decent table around noon. Mona changed favorite spots about every seven weeks. This one was a dainty looking tearoom done in restful earth tones. The menu looked unsatisfying to Estelle.
“So, how did it go?" Mona said.
“How did what go?”.
“The meeting silly. Don’t be cute with me, girl.”
“What meeting?’
“Estelle. The meeting with you and my Josh and your little Swiss cheesecake.”
“I didn’t know you knew we had a meeting. What has Josh told you?”
“Sweetie, I keep my little muffin on a very short leash. You think I’d let him go out with trouble like you without my permission?”
“I’ve told you a million times. Josh and I are just friends.”
“And I’ve told you a million times that ‘just friends’ is bullshit, at least between heterosexuals between fourteen and ninety. One or the other always wants the other one to some degree.”
“So who wants who? Me or Josh?”
“Josh wants you. Of course. Every straight guy wants you, Estelle, and probably some of the gay ones. Of course, he wants me more. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you want Josh too?”
“Don’t take this wrong, but not really.”
“Whatever. So, how was the meeting?”
“It was weird. Hansi is like this egotistical jerk who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Plus he spends all night trying to show off how sophisticated he is. And then Josh is sitting there practically wetting his pants about the plan while Hansi goes on and on about subtle this and delicate that.”
“Where did you guys eat?”
“That’s another thing. Gallagher’s. Hansi orders this steak that was the size of your legendary handbag. The waiters are grouchy old winos and the place smells like burnt fat.”
“Could you even talk in there?”
“It was hard until it thinned out in the dining room. Then it got better.”
“So, did Hansi tell you the plan?”
“The plan?”
“Estelle, I repeat, don’t get cute with me. You know what plan I mean.”
“Has Josh told you about the plan?”
“He came home wiped out. Did you three share any recreational substances?”
“Christ, Mona.”
“Did you?”
“A couple lines. Then Hansi and I had a couple more later after Josh left.”
“You bad girl. Corrupting a married man.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty tough to get old Hansi off the old straight and narrow. Did you ever notice how European businessmen always wear those sleeveless undershirts and long socks with garters?”
It was Mona’s turn to be taken aback for once. “The plan, Estelle. Tell me the plan.”
“Are you sure Josh wants me to tell you. I mean like I thought he might want to protect you?”
“Josh protect me? Please. Give.”
Estelle thought to herself: Mona would never give up until she got what she wanted. Josh hadn’t specifically told her not to tell Mona what was going on. What the hell.
“Well, I don’t exactly understand all of it. Hansi knows some guy who’s going to make an investment before the next set of inflation statistics come out. We get sort of a commission on the investment if it turns out.”
“How much?”
“That was the funny part. Hansi kept saying stuff like ‘a very equitable arrangement’”. Estelle said this with a mock Hansi voice. “Josh and I are like ‘Hansi, get to the point’. Hansi finally said that the commission on the first experiment would be between one and two million dollars. It would go up in the future.”
“And what’s your share of that?”
“I get twenty-five percent for setting up the deal between Hansi and Josh.”
“And you get the sex on the side as a little bonus?”
“Mona, I don’t exactly have a lot of trouble finding men who want to sleep with me. Maybe you go for the pompous jerk type but I don’t. That part’s work.”
“Well, I must say you’re just the girl for the job. That’s why I love you. What next?”
“The deal is set to happen this coming month, in like a week and a half. Then we have another meeting to set up the next forecast, as Josh calls it.”
“Hmmm. Little Josh. Maybe he’s trainable after all. Do me a favor, sweetie. Keep our little chat a secret. I want to hear Josh’s version. I’m sure you understand. You’re buying lunch, right?”
Chapter 23
Josh though, for such a nice guy, Scott could be a major pain in the ass. Scott had insisted that they have lunch. They chose a joint with rude waiters – Josh thought they must go through training to get it just right - and great burgers.
Scott was one of those people who were either oblivious or too focused. Right now it was the latter. The best plan was to rope-a-dope, let Scott vent, and get on with things. I’m really getting sick of doing all the rope-a-doping, Josh thought.
“Josh, I don’t understand. I’m not even sure I want to understand.”
“What can I say? Do you want me to explain it again? Things got a little complicated. We have to do this a couple more times before we can release.”
“What things got complicated? I thought I had the hard thing to do – putting the hooks in the CPI code. How many more times?”
“I’m not exactly sure. A couple more.”
“We’re recording next week and mixing right after. I was planning to be ready by the next release date.”
“So, wait a little while.”
“I guess it’s OK. But what other things got complicated? What aren’t you telling me, Josh?”
The waiter showed up, saving Josh by the bell for the moment. Scott said, “Could I trouble you for some Tabasco?” The waiter stuck a perfect full stop with his best I-don’t-believe-what-I’m-hearing face, then stalked off, shaking his head. Scott looked at Josh and shrugged, the tension across the table palpably lessened.
“Scott, you have an agenda. I’ve been straight with you about it. We’ll get it out there. But I have an agenda too.”
Scott waited.
“I want to, to. . . leverage this concept too” Josh said.
“Leverage.”
“Look, like it or not we’re playing with fire here. If there’s a chance of getting burned I also want a chance of getting something worthwhile out of it. If for you that means educating the masses about the inequities of capitalism, go for it. My needs are simpler.”
“So you are going to make money with this.”
“Is that so bad? Guilty. Guilty as charged. Sometimes you’re so fucking naïve.”
“’Naïve’ as in ‘don’t see things my way?”
“No, ‘naïve’ as in ‘I wouldn’t make a buck if it kicked me in the ass’.”
“Josh, we’ve had this conversation. Making money is fine. Screwing people is not fine. I refuse to accept that you can’t make money without screwing people.”
“Who am I screwing? The poor, unsuspecting central banks of the industrialized world?”
“You know as well as I do that the money in those banks belongs, ultimately, to real people.”
“Several times removed.”
“Granted.”
“Scott, look, let’s not make this so hard. I have set up a trade, based on the CPI. Nobody really knows how the exchange rate will fluctuate based on the report. I’m just taking my best shot. And, by the way, you know I would cut you in if we do hit it.”
“Just because I don’t act interested in your schemes doesn’t mean I’m naïve. Maybe I just don’t want to get involved.”
“We’ve always looked at things different. That’s probably why you’re my best friend.”
“I am?”
“Jesus Christ, what do you think? You’re the best person I know. The smartest. The most honest. You keep me sane.”
“So this is what you call sane?”
They laughed. The waiter, who had remained fashionably distant from his customers, looked over his shoulder and gave them a dirty look.
Josh thought: well, he’s back on track, at least for now.
Chapter 24
“Yo, listen up. The thing is, we got to sustain the groove throughout. We’re getting off all right, but somehow the pulse is, like, evaporating.” Ernest sat with one foot up on the bar stool, with earphones jammed down over his pork pie hat.
They had decided on a live take, even the vocals. They wanted a loose street feel, kind of like Marvin Gaye on What’s Goin’ On?, with Lem Barney and Mel Farr of the Lions chanting the backup. It had gone pretty well so far, but pulling off twelve or thirteen minutes in one take was clearly a challenge.
Scott was playing a vintage B3. He hadn’t done that much Hammond work, but a guy in Columbus had shown him how to set the drawbars to get a dark yet clicky jazz sound.
Mikal Soares, the vocalist, was a third year medical student at Howard. He looked like a preppie. He had collaborated with Ernest and Scott on the script. It wasn’t really a lyric, since it was to be delivered over, around and through the groove in hip-hop fashion.
They say there’s no inflation
In truth, manipulation
They tell us life is better
Who’s the lender, who’s the debtor?
A system of oppression
That talks about progression
The fox that guards the hen
It’s time that we ask “when?”
The rich, they just get richer.
You understand the picture?
They’re giving us the evil CPI
The working man can only sit and cry
The rich know that it’s easier to lie
Than to be fair – why should they even try?
They’re giving us the evil CPI
The struggling single mother
Ground down by her Big Brother
School treats kids of color
Like they are somehow duller
Industry spreads cancer
It’s time we got an answer
They pay us pauper’s wages
Their projects are our cages
They’re giving us the evil CPI
The working man can only sit and cry
The rich know that it’s easier to lie
Than to be fair – why should they even try?
They’re giving us the evil CPI
Each month the government publishes the Consumer Price Index. This is supposed to tell us our buying power. Many of our union contracts and cost-of-living allowances are based on it. Yet no one knows how it is calculated. We will prove that this Index is just another government lie, designed to keep us in the dark and in the gutter.
We, Artists Against Oppression, proclaim in advance that the Consumer Price Index for October will increase by one half of one percent. We predict this because we have learned how the government manipulates the information it generates.
Artists against Oppression will periodically release additional information to cast light on the systematic exploitation of working men and women that goes on every day in this country.
The spread was emblematic: Big Mary’s barbecue and Sushi by Saito. The musicians, trained by years of having just one shot at the dregs of the wedding buffet, showed admirable restraint.
Ernest and Cletus both played tenor, setting up ad hoc riffs like Benny Moten’s K.C. band, then swooped apart into separate but equal modal runs. The conga player and drummer were clicking. Ernest and Scott had struggled for a while about whether to use a fretless or a standup bass, and settled on both. Maury Rosen, on fretless, wore a yarmulke and a perpetual smirk. Chester Odoms was a classical player, switching from time to time to bow to lay down a low pad. It was like Miles’ Bitch’s Brew session, where he filled the studio with every bad cat he could find – imagine Herbie and Chick and Keith and Larry Young and Zawinul all on keyboard on the same cut!
Scott had worked an algorithm to digitally disguise Mikal’s voice, which incidentally gave it a nice edge. They figured no Fed geeks would be hip enough to recognize Cletus’s legendary tone, and even if they did he and the rest of the cats could just say he knew nothing about the vocal tracks which must have been recorded later.
Scott couldn’t stop grinning. They really were creating something new, a synthesis. Mikal took another drink out of his plastic water bottle, held one earpiece over his ear, and dug in. Scott glanced over at Ernest, who winked and nodded.
Chapter 25
Val’s mother had left a message on the hotel voice mail. About once a week Val reminded Mrs. Coleman, the office manager, that his mother didn’t need to know his day-to-day whereabouts. Then Val’s mother would somehow dupe the otherwise supremely efficient Mrs. Coleman into giving up just that. Val chose to ignore the likelihood that the two women were in collusion, jointly decided what was best for him. To give her credit, Val’s mother only paged him when she thought it was important or when she was sitting with a group of her friends and wanted to show off how dutiful her only child remained.
This message was typical. Larry King had on some guy who was talking about the Java programming language and did Val’s customers expect him to be “up to speed” on it? He was glad she took an interest and thought it helped keep her young. He figured they talked on the phone at least once a week.
There was one bad part. She insisted on calling him by his given name, which he called the “V’ word. This was less of a problem now that so many places had voice mail, but he still got called “Valentine,” in the same, annoying, sing-song way about once a week.
Once he asked his dziaj – his grandpa – why his parents had named him Valentine. The old man just said “Good name. Polish name” – practically a speech for him. Val never really thought of himself as Polish growing up. Just about every other kid at St. Hedwig’s grade school was Polish too. Certainly all his buddies were. He rememb
ered the Zychowicz cousins, eternally relegated to last place in the alphabetically ordered world of Catholic education. His parents talked about their Polish friends as Silesian hicks or Krakow snobs.
Like many rust belt cities that had so far escaped the tender mercies of gentrification, Toledo retained a strongly ethnic flavor. The Polish neighborhood was a self-contained world, with its own butchers, funeral homes, shot-and-a-beer bars and VFW lodges. Despite Val’s best attempts to raise her political consciousness, his mother still referred to African-Americans as “the colored,” and provided him with block-by-block updates on their incursions into the neighborhood.
Before his divorce, Val had tried to convince his mom to move in with him and Lisa. For all her complaining, she stayed put in the old house, watching Larry King and keep her son informed.
Val sat on the bed and took off his shoes. He decided to put off going down to the exercise room until later, maybe about 9:30, when it would be less crowded. He opened the room service menu and spent a moment deciphering which cute name this place had chosen for the club sandwich. Here it was: Our Famous Flag-Wavin’ Red, White and Bleu Cheese Extraordinaire. He ordered one with Tabasco on the side, and two Amstel Lights.
Wilton and Jenny were off to a good start. Val looked at his job as clearing the way for these people to do the real work. This involved the mundane, like finding an analog line in an office, and the subtler, like getting an administrator password to a key system. The idea was to turn Wilton loose on the programs and Jenny on the content, and wait for them to meet in the middle while he worked the human angle.
Wilton looked at every assignment as a puzzle. He had the ability to get inside the mind of the person who wrote the original program. Even a short computer program could usually be written in any number of ways, and it took intuition (a word that Jenny hated) to go down the right path. Val’s big problem with managing Wilton was keeping him from being bored.
On the other hand, the hard part about managing Jenny was that she was the one doing the managing. He had to admit that he liked it that way. She was the most intelligent person he had ever met. That, however, was not why he thought about her so often.
She was physically attractive in all the right ways. He could end up staring at her mouth in an otherwise boring meeting if he wasn’t careful. But it was more than that. His current hunch was that it was the combination of her constant proximity and the air of disinterest she conveyed. He didn’t think he was jealous of her cowboys. He had met a couple and they both were kind of neat guys, not at all hicks. They did both sport the largest belt buckles per inch of waistband that Val had ever seen, however. They must play havoc with airport metal detectors.