by Roman Klee
Antonio appeared on deck and announced that the yacht’s tender was being launched to rescue the fallen banker. He asked for calm. Someone threw a life saver over the side and the captain radioed the New York harbor coast guard.
Antonio assured his guests everything was under control. Then he quickly disappeared to his master cabin. No one saw him until the yacht returned to the dock and an officer of the NYPD requested an interview.
Later in the evening, after questioning by the police, Antonio met up with his friend and accomplice.
“Nice one Sandro. Skywalker took his time to swallow it.”
“Well, he’s no guinea or he’d have flipped sooner.”
“Anyways, you got the job done. You’ll get the usual.”
“Who’s next?”
Antonio hesitated before replying.
“There’s a bunch more on the list, R2-D2, Obi-Wan Kenobi and C3PO. The real big fish is Darth Vader. But I don’t think we’ll ever reel him in.”
The two men shook hands and parted.
On the way home, Orofino checked his cell phone and couldn’t stop laughing at the short grainy video clip, Sandro had taken of Brinkley spitting out blood as he drowned.
Orofino texted back a single word reply: LMFAO.
Δ = T +3
The ladies moved from room to room, asking each other, “Do you know what dark pools are?” No one seemed to have any idea, but that didn’t stop many attempted explanations. Before long, the conversation switched to critiquing the artwork, which seemed to cover every available surface of Antonio Orofino’s triplex penthouse on Fifth Avenue.
“They say his work is highly derivative,” declared the heiress daughter of a cosmetics tycoon, pointing at a Jackson Pollock.
“I guess you’re right. I read that the New York Times art critic accused him of using too much paint.”
“Gee, it is very colorful.”
“Our Canadian cousins call that le dripping!”
On a low raised platform at the far end of the top-floor ball room, a chamber orchestra played the overture to the Marriage of Figaro. The notes ricocheted off the fine Swarovski chandeliers and floated out through the open French windows, mixing anonymously with the noise of a busy Manhattan afternoon.
“What do you think of the Bacon?”
“Oh my God, the anguished expressions!”
“That’s how I feel about my ex, when we argue over the size of his alimony payments.”
In another part of the sixty-foot room, anxious parents of trophy children, debated the state of the local education system.
“I’m trying to get my kids into pre-school. You can’t believe what it’s like in New York.”
“Oh, believe me, I can!”
“Where do you hope to send your son?”
“92Y.”
“The school for young plutocrats and Wall Street’s finest!”
“It’s impossible to get a place.”
A woman dressed head to foot in Armani, who was smoking a menthol cigarette through an art deco holder, cut into the conversation, “No, it’s easy babe, just make a donation to the school’s do-good fund. I heard one or two million does it.”
“Well, if you want the best, you gotta pass the greenback test. That’s what my late husband always said,” replied a lady, wearing an emerald and diamond twist bracelet with matching vintage necklace that had the unintended effect of accentuating her crepey, sun damaged décolletage.
Another added, “Somebody told me the Y banned the kids from playing with abacuses—it’s something to do with heading off deviant financial behavior in later life.”
“It’ll never work, but I guess they get a gold star for effort!”
“I’ve a better idea. Send them to an Austrian school.”
The title on Antonio’s invitation read: A Real Time Experiment with Dark Pools. It was all part of a promotion to launch his new Orofino Capital Accumulator Tail Fund. He described the event as an opportunity of a lifetime. He intended to reveal something truly magical; a way to create money out of thin air, right in front of his guests’ eyes.
This was an occasion for Antonio to use a live trading demonstration to showcase his firm and display his skills as a master trader. Using complex algorithms (which he did not intend to explain because their code was a trade secret) he would make a couple of million bucks in seconds, whether stock prices moved up or down.
The guests were a different mix compared to the people invited on the Figa d’Oro. Thanks to the laws of divorce and superior genetics, the majority were wealthy ladies of a certain age. Though he was pleased to see a few younger faces, many coming from Nathan’s client list; a result he expected Nathan to improve upon in the future.
Then someone asked Antonio to tell them all just exactly what dark pools were, and whether they placed private investors at a serious disadvantage.
Antonio wanted to reply, screw the little guys!, but instead explained how dark pools allowed institutions to buy and sell anonymously and without revealing the size of their orders. This meant all the moms and pops who bought mutual funds got a better deal.
The lady who asked the question quietly nodded. She seemed unimpressed, but it was difficult to tell because her Botoxed face barely registered a flicker.
While Antonio Orofino had been busy entertaining his guests on the top-floor of his triplex apartment, an overweight man, dressed in faded chinos and a black cashmere turtle-neck, held hands with his fiancée. The couple stood in front of the iron-gated salon of Henry Winston Jewelers. As if by magic, the gates opened and they crossed the threshold into a veritable emporium of shimmering gemstones.
The man was on time, remembering distinctly the hour and day his personal assistant had made the appointment. Passing through the security check, he hurriedly walked over to the most prominent display case and pointed a full fat finger at a platinum ring, set with a huge twenty-five carat pink diamond.
Slightly out of breath he shouted, “That one!” Then he turned to his fiancée and asked, “You are sure, honey?”
She nodded, embraced him and placed her over-inflated lips on his, making a huge sucking sound as if she was extracting his very life breath.
For a split second, Raymond the head sales manager averted his gaze. Then he smiled, emphasized how eager he was to oblige, but had to admit he felt embarrassed.
The multi-million dollar ring, with its ultra rare gemstone (the fancy Winston Pink) had already been bought—by a Mr. Tim Tramontano.
Clearly, one of his assistants had made a mistake and should have taken it out of the display case and placed it in the back-room.
“At Henry Winston we never sell the same item twice. It’s against company policy.”
Jay Frostman could see the visible disappointment in his fiancée’s face. But he didn’t skip a beat.
“I don’t think there’s a problem here, Tim is a personal friend of mine. I assure you he’ll see the funny side of this—when you tell him. I’ll pay double what he paid.”
Frostman stepped back from the counter and immediately felt the return of a sharp pain in his left shoulder. On leaving his cottage at the Sebonack Golf Club the previous week, he had ignored the minor inconvenience, convinced it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was enjoying a more active sex life.
It started when he met Eva at Sammy’z nightclub in Monaco. She enthusiastically demonstrated a novel way of giving Frostman a hard-on and told him it was guaranteed to work every time. And ever since, he referred to it as her Monte Carlo stimulation technique. He stopped taking Viagra, which came as a relief, because he got the blue vision thing that almost made him freak out.
Eva was making all the difference—the twenty-five year age gap was nothing he couldn’t handle. After all, Frostman was one of America’s great entrepreneurs. He enjoyed a cult fo
llowing among his customers and fanatical investors. His face regularly adorned the covers of Forbes, Bloomberg, Fortune and Time magazines.
He’d lost count of the number of times they’d made him their Person of the Year. He was the irreplaceable CEO. Without his creative inspiration and visionary zeal, MiHap Corps would be nothing; everyone knew he was the company.
Then the unimaginable happened. Frostman stumbled. Clasping at his chest and before he could utter a single word, he collapsed on the floor.
High above street level, Antonio stopped his presentation. It looked like all the action was taking place outside. Half his audience was now on the south side of the penthouse’s wrap around terrace, watching the scene below.
Was it a robbery, one of those smash and grab raids, where some brave citizens intervened, putting themselves at risk? Or could it be more serious? A terrorist group attempting to detonate a dirty bomb in the center of Manhattan? Had the FBI foiled the plot?
The police sirens were joined by the wail of an ambulance. A couple of news crews arrived outside the jewelers and they were about to set up their broadcasting equipment.
Someone suggested switching on the TV. Antonio eager to please, tapped the control panel of his home automation system. From behind a gilt framed picture by Monet of a poppy field, a sixty-inch screen appeared. Orofino selected the NY1 channel. A reporter was getting ready to interview Frostman’s fiancée.
But no one in the room noticed, when Antonio’s cell phone vibrated and he discretely read the text message.
He should have been as baffled as the rest of his guests by the unfolding scene. Not least, because it looked like his carefully planned event was starting to come apart at the edges. But oddly enough he was the picture of serenity, even if one thing was certain; he’d lost the attention of his audience.
Only Antonio didn’t intend to wait around to win it back.
He instructed a colleague to take over and then walked briskly down one flight of stairs to his second-floor office, barely glancing at his grinning face in the wall of mirrors that lined the stairwell.
A remarkable opportunity had come up. But before he could take advantage of it, he needed to access his trading account. It would be too late, once the media released the name of the guy, receiving emergency medical treatment on the red carpet at Henry Winston’s.
Despite what looked like a ruined afternoon, Orofino still had one good reason to celebrate. Fortune had struck in the way it often did—totally at random. His finely attuned instincts for spotting another money-making opportunity had served him well again.
And it also meant he could cross R2-D2 off the list.
Δ = T –31,536,000
The email was a mistake. Nathan checked the sender’s name again. He was certain she wouldn’t have included him on her best buddy list. The reason was simple—guys like him never received messages from the wife of a billionaire investor.
He was about to mark the email as spam, but didn’t. Instead, he returned once more to his Rolodex of clients and flicked through the names. There were plenty of Highs, but not enough Ultras. He glanced at the Louis XVI clock above the mantle, opposite his desk.
Lunch in twenty minutes with Tiffani in the local cafeteria.
Nathan wanted to cancel but knew he couldn’t. Tiffani was important. Okay, she was not quite an Ultra, but she was a High Net Worth Individual.
Her good fortune was entirely down to winning a first prize in the most unpredictable contest of them all; the genetic lottery. Her parents had set up a successful hotel supply business out in Las Vegas.
Then one day, their Lear jet disappeared shortly after taking off from Bermuda. Although their bodies were never recovered and probate was a drawn out process (there were outstanding gambling and business debts to settle) Tiffani still inherited a multi-million dollar estate.
And yet she talked endlessly about how unfair life was. People thought having money bought abundant happiness, but she had another take on that well-worn theme. Events forced her to face life’s storms as an orphan. She had no say in the matter.
Life was tough and now she’d been left alone, with no one to turn to. And all the while she was desperately seeking closure. Tiffani decided to alleviate her suffering, by consuming expensive junk food—a taste acquired after stints playing the Black Jack tables with her father along the Vegas Strip.
Her favorite dish was a Kobe beef burger, served with sautéed foie gras, black truffles and a bottle of ’95 Pétrus. And yes, she liked fries with everything.
Maybe one day soon, Nathan’s message would get through. He wanted to wean Tiffani off showy indulgence and get her acquainted with cultivated restraint. Hopefully, dining at the Four Seasons on Maine crab cakes and a good bottle of American Shiraz would be a small step toward rehabilitation. (Although he conveniently overlooked the fact that he sounded a lot like a failed teacher, instructing a wayward pupil to, do as I say, not as I do.)
Then Nathan hoped for another miracle. One day, Tiffani might metamorphose into the beautiful Ultra High Net Worth Individual he imagined her to be. And his life would change forever, because collecting a set of Ultras was a guaranteed way to make partner at the Banderbilt Trust.
There was also another good reason for not canceling Tiffani. They called December the Killer Month. Never fail to make all your appointments on time. No paperwork backlogs. No billing rate mistakes. Exceed your commission target. Obligatory attendance (preferably accompanied by a spouse of the opposite sex) at the Waldorf-Astoria for the Christmas party. Finish December on a high and a fat bonus was awaiting collection in the New Year.
And now that Paul Castellano had cleared the contents of his desk into hastily assembled bankers’ boxes (with the intention of spending even more time on the golf course) an additional incentive dangled itself in front of the hustling herd—an opening for a new partner.
Nathan could clearly see what the candidates in the running were up to. They smiled at Myron Salzman and Harvey Schleicher, saying, Sir, yes sir! Sir, no sir! They couldn’t afford to make enemies, but they had to be careful—aggressive lobbying was frowned upon. But if everything went to plan, in just a few months time, one of them would turn out lucky and win a golden lottery ticket.
By most people’s standards it would be considered golden. But not by the descendants of Croesus who labored on Wall Street. Every year, operating according to the law of divine birthright, they demanded and received the equivalent of several state lottery jackpots.
Sometimes it seemed as if the entry ticket alone had been fashioned out of solid platinum and studded with multiple rare gemstones.
Nathan knew that even with Castellano’s departure, he had only the slimmest of slim chances of ever making the short list, because his client roster was not rich enough. Still, there was no point in having regrets.
Actually he had many, but it was an expensive exercise lying back on a Mies van der Rohe, white leather pocketed day bed, and talking them through with a Carl Jung wannabe. So now he practiced the much less financially draining techniques of letting go and accepting.
Letting go … of the brief but failed Wall Street career. Letting go … of the double dealing, backstabbing, acts of betrayal … letting go of serial infidelity and a nymphomaniac wife.
Accepting his good fortune … his new job, new friends … the generosity of Antonio Orofino.
But however hard he tried, certain things continued to gnaw away inside.
Snowed under with family and Christmas commitments, desperate to create a good impression at work, Nathan soon forgot about the email—until one evening in January, after a two-hour drive from Davos, when he found himself sitting in the VIP lounge at Zürich airport.
Δ = T –28,746,000
Nathan held his complimentary copy of the Wall Street Journal high enough so it covered his entire face and peered more intently at
the commodity prices. Here was a traditional use for a newspaper none of those geeky, bug-eyed evangelists in Silicon Valley had yet worked out. In an instant, it could take the form of a cloaking device, offering protection from a particularly virulent strain of investment banker.
Like Noboru Takeshita for example. The guy was a total douche-bag and he was heading in Nathan’s direction. But unfortunately, Nathan’s makeshift defense was easily compromised. He felt the front page crumple, as Takeshita tried to ram his fist through a story about a Mayfair hedge fund cornering the cocoa market.
“Who the hell let you in?” said Takeshita, his grin exposing eighty-thousand dollar porcelain veneers.
Nathan wanted to punch the guy in the face. Once upon a time, they both worked at Solomon. They put together what would have become the biggest CDO issue in the history of Wall Street—until it all went disastrously wrong.
Nathan discovered critical mistakes in the algorithms used to value the various tranches. He knew Takeshita was responsible, but covered for the guy. Yet when it came to handing out the blame, Nathan was made the sacrificial lamb. He was fired but Takeshita kept his job and moved across to another department.
“I don’t do scheduled flights any more. You know what they say? Can’t waste time … gotta skip the line.”
No surprise there then, thought Nathan. If lowly employees of some Wall Street banks couldn’t be bothered to wait in line at Shake Shack (they insisted on their own private grill) what hope was there for someone like Takeshita, who had a very high opinion of his worth and skill set? He claimed to be the guy who bought Microsoft at the bottom of the market.
Years later, he had not lost his knack of selecting stock bottoms. He bought Amazon and Apple for cents on the dollar, just before both stock prices enjoyed multi-year uptrends.
Nathan didn’t want to stir up too many past associations and bad memories. So he asked, “I guess you’re busy?”