by J. S. Monroe
“Is that an FT?” he asked. I handed my copy to him. He sat upright, looked at the inside page. “Crap, isn’t it? No tits.” He halved the paper and tossed it back on to my desk. “Watch he doesn’t charge you.”
Pete was coming back with my coffee, its heat buckling the flimsy cup.
“So, are they paying you?” Pete asked.
“Always on about money,” Dan said.
“And you aren’t of course.”
“Just earn some, yes?”
Toxo came up and joined us, his hand on the back of Pete’s chair. He was short, about my size, with an oval face.
“Has Pete told you yet, about his first sexual encounter?” he asked.
“Back to work, Toxo,” Dan said.
“He was in bed. It was dark, he was frightened. He was alone.”
Pete had a squashed face and his cheeks were slightly puffed, as if he was permanently about to exhale some air. His forehead was sheer, tight, brought to a halt by coarse black eyebrows that started gathering somewhere around his temples.
“Here comes Doris,” Dan whispered, turning to his screens.
A woman in a long purple dress walked across to join the gathering. At first glance, I thought the room was staffed entirely by men. I looked around again and counted two other women.
“We had a very large input error yesterday,” she began.
“Rose, this is Douglas,” Pete said.
“Nice to meet you, Douglas.” I shook her warm hand. She smiled and turned to Pete. “Slight problem with your noughts. Concentrate on them today please, there’s a sweetie.”
“Some chance. Tugger’s in the khazi,” Toxo said.
“Really?” She was about to go, but leant forward on the top of the screens, youthfully. “Take me through it.”
“I had my first ever snakebite,” Pete began.
“Sounds vicious,” she said.
“Tugger!” someone called.
“Red Rock in one hand, Rolling Rock in the other. That was six o’clock.”
“And what happened then?” she asked.
“All I can remember is tearing a naan bread in half, sticking one piece in each ear and singing Dumbo.”
“Then he danced around the restaurant with his testicles in a spoon full of burning Sambuca,” Dan added.
“Did I?”
“A teaspoon or serving spoon?” Rose asked.
“Serving spoon, please.”
“I’m glad I didn’t see this,” she said, lying.
“His jacket and tie caught fire,” Toxo added.
“How did you get home?”
“No idea. I woke up this morning and realised I only had one suit.”
“And you were wearing it,” Toxo said.
“What about you, Toxo?” Rose asked.
“Raging bull,” Dan said.
“I jacked out early.”
“Jacked off early,” Dan added. “Who with?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Right hole?”
“Wrong woman,” Pete said.
“Last time he got so pissed he shagged his sister,” Dan added, for my benefit. “Up the fudgeshop and he didn’t even notice.”
And so it went on throughout the morning, all for my benefit, it seemed. No one appeared to do any buying or selling, except Toxo, who placed a £200 bet with Pete that he would bed the same woman again before Friday. Apparently the week before had been hectic, following a hike in interest rates by the Fed, but today was quiet. They were showing off, of course, but I could live with that. I wasn’t being challenged, no one was questioning my story.
*
The morning came and went. Kenny, who dealt in Yen, was busy, but his day was nearly over. He had been in since three this morning. Rose came over and chatted, asked a few harmless questions. She behaved like a mother to her boys, none of whom looked over thirty. Pete showed me around the four screens (the end one was a touch screen telephone, connecting me instantly with dealers around the world), explained about PIBOR three-month futures and OTC swaps. He was helpful, but his breath stank of lager and spices and his leg kept bouncing up and down under the table as he talked. He hadn’t been shagged for a very long time.
“Who sat here before?” I asked him, rolling back my chair. I put one foot on the edge of my desk and then took it off again. I had waited until midday before asking the question and it failed to sound casual.
“There?” I sensed the room go quiet for a moment, miss a beat. “Samantha.”
I pressed my back teeth together and thought of the photo.
“Where is she now?” I asked breezily.
“God knows. She was here one day and gone the next. The last time we all saw her she was going out to buy everyone sandwiches. We thought she’d been run over.”
“But she hadn’t?”
“No. Phoned in at the end of the week. Said it was family trouble. Nothing personal, not with us anyway.”
“Phoned?”
“Yeah. Or did she write to the boss? They had something going. I can’t remember to be honest. She never came out with any of us.”
“Except on Fridays,” Charlie said, smiling slackly. He walked on past us, hands in pockets.
“Chuckster gave her one,” Pete said, nodding at him.
Charlie – I could barely bring myself to call him Chuckster – was how I had imagined everyone would be: a tosser. In fact he was the only one of his kind on the floor. He wore a multi-coloured waistcoat and rearranged his hair a lot. According to Pete, he didn’t have to work, but he got bored doing nothing at the family home. A good man despite his wealth, that seemed to be the consensus. And he had bedded Samantha. Somehow we would have to become friends.
“Pastrami on Walnut, Tugger?” Toxo asked.
“I’ve done that,” Pete replied. “O.d.’ed badly.”
“Seven weeks wasn’t it?”
“Too many. I feel a Ham on Mediterranean coming on.”
“Mayonnaise?”
“Then again, there’s always Hot Tuna Melt.”
“If Birley’s looks good I’ll get a Melt. Otherwise Ham. Douglas?”
“Yeah, Feta on Marbled. Thanks.”
“One Feta.”
I had done my homework. A Berlin Whirlitzer was tempting, but I didn’t want to show off.
I watched Pete shovel a spoonful of cornflakes down his mouth and return to work, scribbling some numbers on a notepad. He was ugly, unlaid, the butt of office jokes, but he was quick around his screens, mentally dextrous, a “rocket scientist” according to Dan. Everyone sung his praises whenever he was out of earshot: he knew more about the Deutsche Mark than the Bundesbank. After he had finished the deal he was on, I asked him what he had just done.
“300 Deutsche Marks. I’ve just agreed to buy them in one month’s time from BZW.”
I sniffed. I had been expecting larger amounts.
“Not that much, is it? 300 Deutsche Marks.”
Pete looked at me, searching my face.
“300 million Deutsche Marks,” he said earnestly.
I sniffed again. “Relatively speaking I mean.” I remembered Charlotte’s words on the phone the previous night – “He’s not stupid either” – and was grateful she hadn’t heard me.
*
Just before lunch arrived, Pete inadvertently gave me my first lead about Samantha. It wasn’t much but the day suddenly had a reason. He was explaining Reuters Dealing 2000, the e-mail system which dealers use to send messages to each other.
“You see here,” he said, pointing at the second screen from the left. “Kredietbank are offering Deutsche Marks. Red March – that’s March next year. They’ve sent that message to the JKA dealing room, and I’ve picked it up. It’s a pretty unexciting rate so I type in ‘NO TKS CIAO’.”
“Could they send a message directly to you?” I asked.
“They use a general prefix for the bank, JKAB. Anyone in this room could take it. But as it’s Deutsche Marks I’m the only on
e who’s interested. So there’s no need for it to be addressed directly to me.”
“But if they wanted to?”
“They could, I suppose. Technically it’s possible. You would have to set up your own prefix.”
I looked at my own screens; they were still unintelligible. According to Walter, dormant terrorist units seldom knew who the other team members were. They never met until the day they were activated, opting to communicate cryptically. Walter had mentioned some ways they could stay in touch. Reuters 2000 was a possibility. It was a difficult subject to raise without arousing suspicion, but I needed to know what deals Samantha had made on the morning she left. Charlotte had said the City was paranoid about malpractice and kept tape recordings and printouts of everything. Was there a record of all these matey business transactions?
“I was thinking, Pete,” I asked, failing to sound casual. “Is there something I can take home tonight, a transcript of conversations like the one you just had with Kredietbank?”
“A transcript?”
“Yeah, to familiarise myself with the jargon. It’s all a bit foreign at the moment.”
“Sure, sure. Not much has happened today. We could get a print-off from last Thursday. Bloody mayhem it was.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem. It’s a good idea. Debbie dear,” he called, stretching his fists into the air and yawning. Behind him was a partitioned-off room where three secretaries were typing.
“Yes Pete?”
“Dear Debbie, could you give my friend here a print-out of Thursday’s transactions? A copy.”
Debbie came over. She was compact, high-heeled.
“Just Deutsche Marks?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Do you want it now?”
“Thanks.”
I watched Debbie totter back to her office. She removed a ticker-taped print-out from a filing cabinet and went over to the photocopier in the middle of the room. I needed to talk to her.
“Coffee?” I asked Pete.
“Just had one, thanks.” And I had just got it for him. Cursing, I got up and walked towards the coffee machine, stopping at the photocopier.
“Thanks,” I said, standing a little too close to Debbie.
“New here are you?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I lowered my voice. “Is it possible to get printouts from further back?”
“How far do you want to go?” She asked, enjoying the innuendo.
“Three weeks,” I replied coldly.
“When do you want them by?”
“Tonight.”
She looked at me for a moment, taken aback by my sudden bluntness.
“Research,” I continued, letting my face dissolve into a smile. “I’m very keen.”
“You’re sitting by Pete aren’t you?” she said, moving the conversation on. I nodded imperceptibly. “I’ll bring them over.”
It was a longshot, but judging from the first morning, dealers spent all day typing messages to each other. “Nothing there, bye for now.” “Sorry, another time. Ciao.” Samantha might just have received an unusual message.
*
“Douglas, line three. It’s your girlfriend.”
Toxo was holding his phone receiver in the air, looking down the row of desks, grinning. For a second I froze.
“How do I work this?” I asked, staring at the phone screen.
Pete was on the phone himself. He leant across and touched a box on the glass saying “line three”, cupping his own phone under his chin.
“Douglas, is that you?”
“Charlotte,” I said stiffly, trying to regain my composure. “How are you?”
“Don’t sound so formal. I’m your girlfriend, remember? We had great sex last night. I was just ringing to see if you are alright.”
“Everything’s fine. Thanks.”
“Will you be back for supper?”
“What? I’m not sure what’s happening yet.”
“Ring me. You should go out if you can. Have a few drinks.”
“I won’t be late.”
I hung up. It was all too surreal. Way beyond. My old man would be ringing up next with tickets to the opera.
*
At five o’clock the office went across the road to The Frog and Radiator. We each drank five pints of beer in an hour. Everyone, that is, except Chuckster who had gone to the gym in the basement to tone his stomach muscles. I tried to buy my round but I wasn’t allowed. I didn’t complain (I was running out of money) and sat in the middle of a velvet banquette, penned in by Dan and Pete. Dan was pissing me off.
“Come on Douglas, what’s the deal?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I said, sensing trouble.
“I mean, we’ve never had anyone on work experience before.”
“It’s just the boss, trying to get something for nothing,” Pete said.
“It doesn’t add up,” Dan said. “No offence, but I asked for another dealer.”
“Give him a break, he’s only just arrived,” Pete said.
I drank heavily from my glass.
“The boss is a friend of the family, yes?” Dan continued. “Perhaps you’re from the Fraud Squad. I don’t mind if your dad’s chairman of the Bank of England. I just need to know.”
I struggled to gauge how serious the conversation was becoming.
“Why put me on Deutsche Marks if you think I’m shit?” I said.
“I never said you were no good.”
“Because I’ll fuck up quicker and you can get someone else?”
Dan returned my stare and then looked away. I had to keep control.
“Ignore him,” Pete said quietly to me. “Whose shout is it?”
“Pete,” Dan asked. “How much would we have to pay Debbie to suck your dick?”
I needed a break, and squeezed out to the Gents. The urinals were all occupied and I went into one of the cubicles. There was a window above me and I thought of Martin. I came back out, washed my face in a basin, and returned to the bar. There was a seat next to Toxo. I could relate to him, he was an outsider. There was something desperate in his manner, the false camaraderie. Maybe it was because he was the only black guy on the dealing floor. Like Pete, he took a lot of ribbing. Some of it induced fragile, token smiles, like my own. The blacks I knew would consider working in the City on a par with joining the police. Coconut stuff.
“Dan, he’s the boss, right?” I asked him.
“Yeah, he’s in charge of the floor. Briggs is the big boss. He wasn’t in today.”
“You like Dan?”
“He’s a good man. Don’t tell him I said that. No, he’s alright, works us hard.”
“He’s an arsehole.”
“He’s always like that to begin with.”
“Where’s he from?”
“From? Does that matter?”
I didn’t answer, hoping the silence would coax out more information.
“He used to work on the LIFFE exchange, in the Sterling pit. You know, the guys in bright jackets, doing all the funny hand signals. Then he moved up here.”
“Most of these guys, they’ve been to university?” I asked.
“Maybe half. It varies. Dan left school at sixteen and became a runner in the pit. Pete read pure Maths at Cambridge.”
“You been here long?”
“Me? A couple of years.”
“And you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s a good laugh.”
“Despite the hassle.”
“Hassle?” He looked thrown.
“Gyp. Aggro.”
“Where you coming from, man?” he asked laughing, letting some steam out of the conversation.
“You get a lot of lip.”
“I give as good as I get. The markets were quiet today.”
“Hey Toxo!” Kev shouted across the table. He was sitting next to Debbie. “How many two p’s was it? She doesn’t believe me.”
“For
ty-three.”
“Forty-three?” I asked.
“It’s nothing. Crazy man.” Toxo was laughing.
“He once put forty-three two pence pieces up his foreskin,” Pete said, sliding past. “Forty fucking three! They wrote about him in The Lancet.”
*
At six o’clock, I made my excuses and left. Clearly the manager had taken me on under the guise of work experience. It was a good story. It kept my options open, allowed me to leave the firm without suspicion.
I meandered across the street, wondering whether Chuckster was still downstairs in the basement fine-tuning his pectorals. Then I saw him, coming out of the office. He went to the boot of a black Porsche, parked on the other side of the street. Opening it, he pulled out a pot plant, snapped the lid shut and went back through the revolving doors. I watched, surprised. I was too drunk to talk. There was no rush, I told myself. But I knew there was. This guy had been with Samantha, poked one of the people who had killed Annalese.
“Chuckster,” I bayed, waving my arm in the air. I prayed no one I knew would ever hear me. Chuckster was coming back out of the building.
“Douglas. Been across the road with the lads?”
“Yeah. They like their drink.”
“Dear chap, it’s only Monday.”
“You trading in plants, then?”
“Oh that. No, I’ve been meaning to bring one in for ages. We’ve got dozens of the damn things at home. The one in reception seems so sad, don’t you think?”
“Can’t say I noticed.”
“You see, that’s my point entirely. Nobody even notices them anymore. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
I looked at the black Porsche, its fat bitumen wheels. In the eighties, I had danced on the roofs of a dozen of them. They still had an aggressive opulence, the dual exhausts, the smugness of the low curves.
“Which way you heading?” I asked, hoping the answer was north.
“Across the river. Battersea any good?”
“Near enough.”
I climbed in and sat rigidly in the moulded seat, barely believing what I was doing. I didn’t say anything as Chuckster twisted and turned down to the Thames. Twice I was asked if everything was okay. The heating was adjusted, the angle of the seat was changed in three dimensions, the balance of the CD player was altered in favour of the rear speakers.