Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

Trading was about to begin for the day, and he planned to temporarily dump the stock into the toilet, hopefully causing some panic selling so he could make some short term profits from a slug of short positions and put options he’d bought – both of which were time sensitive, but could make a lot of dough if the stock lost twenty percent during the day and he covered, then took the other side of the trade and the stock magically recovered. This was a fairly routine exercise for his group, and was just another in the myriad ways an inventive and enterprising fellow could eke out profits in a relatively flat market. Unexplainable and unexpected radical stock moves were exceptional profit-making exercises if you were in control of when and how the dips and rises happened. That was one of Griffen's specialties, and he was about to make some easy gains from what he referred to as the moron money, which would sell at the low and then buy back in at or near the high. If he could control the emotions of how the small retail investors traded, he could play them like a violin. And today was the day for another of his concertos.

  Griffen punched in the digits for his attorney.

  “Glen, any movement on the matter we discussed yesterday?”

  “I’m working on it. Let’s get together for lunch, someplace quiet. The club?”

  Griffen frowned. “Today’s kind of busy, can’t we do this over the phone?”

  “I’m hungry. Let’s make it around one o’clock. I’ll have some news.”

  Griffen paused, calculated. “One o’clock. Sounds great.”

  That was a good sign. It meant Glen had some information he wasn’t comfortable sharing over the phone. Perhaps things were improving after all.

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven finished his morning run and was at the computer by 6:20 a.m.. The markets were jittery and rumors were floating on the message boards about insiders wanting to sell ahead of bad news.

  Allied opened on time and the trading was muted, with sixty thousand shares trading hands and the price up twenty cents in the first forty-five minutes.

  Then it all crumbled.

  The boards lit up with negative chatter, the volume spiked, and the price started fluctuating wildly. The carnage hit at 10:30 EST as the stock went into freefall for six minutes.

  Breaking through $34, it fell quickly through the $33s, and then into the $32s. It just kept dropping and dropping.

  There was nothing on the wire service; no news or reason for any of it. Steven sensed opportunity and decided he’d call the bluff – he’d witnessed enough of these attacks to know a head fake when he saw one. If this was a short term manipulation he could throw his day trading budget at buying shares and call options – which increased in value if the stock went up – and use the profits from the swing to offset most of this month’s losses on his Allied short position. It definitely wasn't for the faint of heart, but he'd been watching the trading for enough time to have a pretty fair idea of the game that was being played.

  He started buying shares and calls at $32.10 and kept reloading his three thousand-share buy order every time it was hit. After accumulating eighteen thousand shares and five hundred near-term expiration call options, a bid jumped in above his, and then another bid jumped in above that one. Pretty soon steady buying was coming in and the price climbed above $33.00.

  He watched as other buyers came into the market and the price stabilized. As the day progressed it became obvious a wall of buy orders sat at $34, allowing him to sell his day’s shares and options towards the close, making a tidy profit from just a few hours of understanding the nature of the beast.

  Not a bad Friday; he was up six percent on the session’s buys, which had bought him breathing room on his underwater short position. It hadn't gotten him whole by any means, but it was better than sitting idly by watching the price swings and doing nothing.

  The trading day done, he spent the rest of the day preparing for his flight to the East Coast for an impromptu weekend trip he’d thrown together. Jennifer was staying in California; she detested flying and wasn’t a big fan of New York. She’d agreed to stop by and take Avalon for walks and keep him in kibble, so he couldn’t complain. He kind of didn’t blame her; New York in the summer could be brutally muggy, and Jennifer wasn't much of a big city girl, so the population density and crowds inevitably made her claustrophobic. There was a part of him that was secretly glad she was staying at home. For what he wanted to do, it would be better if he flew solo on this one.

  ~ ~ ~

  Griffen entered the hushed foyer and was greeted by a vested attendant. Cherry wood paneled the walls and oil paintings of long-forgotten dignitaries scowled down at the heavy green velvet furnishings, setting a somber tone. Very old school, old money, cigars and cognac-feeling establishment. He was known at the Manhattan Polo Club, and was shown to one of the private dining rooms by the maitre d’; a serious British gentleman who’d held the coveted position for decades.

  Glen Vesper was already seated, a glass of Chardonnay half consumed, looking appropriately lawyerly. Glen was thin to the point of resembling a praying mantis, and had looked sixty-something for the fifteen years Griffen had known him. During that time, he’d seen Glen smile twice. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “Sorry I’m late. We’re getting creamed in the market today.” Griffen ordered a glass of Shiraz from the waiter, who disappeared soundlessly.

  Glen nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering two poached salmons. They should be here in a few minutes. I’ve some good news. We have some info on your mysterious admirer.” Glen paused to sip his wine. “First, we think it’s a civilian, not a pro. The site address was bogus, the Hotmail account a dead end; the name a fake. But we know who their service provider is, and we know they were careful. We hacked into the server and scanned the pay statements before the security software shut us down. A year’s worth of service was paid for via postal money order. No name other than the fake one, so dead-end there.”

  “Why do you think it’s a civilian, then? Seems pretty sophisticated to me,” said Griffen.

  “A pro wouldn’t have used a domestic server, for starters. And they would have used an anonymous registration service rather than filing false information. And most importantly, they wouldn’t have used a registration service that demanded payment with a credit card, which is how the registration service selected does it. You can’t fake a credit card. It was their only slip-up, and one we would have ordinarily missed.”

  Griffen smiled. “Ahhhh. I get it. You work upstream through the registrar. Have you got a name?”

  Glen shook his head. “Not yet. The registrar’s in Germany, and we’ve got one of our correspondents over there working that angle. It’ll be a few days but we should be able to get it. May cost a few bucks. I figured you’d have no objections.”

  “Gotta spend money to make money,” Griffen conceded.

  “Precisely. We also contacted our person at the message board service and were able to secure an IP address for the poster who’s the site creator, but unfortunately it’s a cable company IP, so there’s an additional level of diligence required to get individual account info. That probably isn’t possible, but we’re working it as well. So far Germany looks best.”

  “What can we do once we know who this is? Can we get the site shut down? Can we sue him for libel?”

  Glen looked at the ceiling. “I’m going to say this very carefully. In my opinion, there’s little to be gained by suing the person responsible for this inconvenience; I don’t see it as being worthwhile or ultimately successful.” Glen returned his gaze to Griffen. “As an officer of the court, I can’t condone you taking matters into your own hands or doing anything rash. Can I presume you won’t do anything untoward if we discover the creator’s identity?”

  “Of course not. You have my complete assurance…”

  Glen held back a smile. “I anticipated your response and instructed the German firm to contact you if they’re productive in their endeavors. How’s the Shiraz?”

  Griffen considered the win
e. “Beautiful finish. I think we understand each other, Glen.”

  After lunch, Griffen returned to his office to find that a two million dollar profit-making session had turned into a net one million dollar loss on Allied.

  They’d tried some more runs at the stock later in the session but once the momentum was broken on the day’s swings they’d been forced to liquidate their remaining trading shares at a loss. Not a good day. As he closed his office for the evening, Griffen had one thought at the forefront of his attention.

  The site was screwing up his ability to make money and needed to get taken off the air, and quickly.

  Chapter 7

  Steven had come to New York after discovering that Griffen was going to speak at a fund-raising dinner for the Vice President. On Saturday afternoon, Steven stepped out of the cab he'd taken from JFK airport and checked into his hotel at 51st and Lexington. After getting situated in his room, he went down to the business center, got online, and broke the Allied site address to his Group. He was roundly chided for the amateurish job on the interface, not to mention the technical glitches and formatting flaws. Several of the gang found typos and grammatical errors, and one hacked his computer while he was online and momentarily superimposed a baboon flashing his bulbous bottom on one of the pages. The boys were having fun with it, as Steven had expected they would.

  One of the more cynical regulars suggested that he could get a photo of Griffen for the site, as he lived in New York and ‘knew some people’. Steven responded that it would be a hoot.

  The site was now up to 4,700 hits, so people were visiting it. The message board dissemination campaign had been more effective than he could have hoped for. Word was spreading, the collusion gathering more exposure, the boards full of talk of filing SEC complaints referencing Allied's suspicious trading – and apparently some money guys were coming into the stock on the short side. Whether any of this related to the website was anyone’s guess. But still, it was positive.

  Finished with the internet, Steven returned to his room and donned a light summer suit for the dinner. He’d shelled out two thousand dollars to sit at Griffen’s table because it appealed to him to sit within twenty feet of his adversary without Griffen ever knowing who he was. He wanted to get a feeling for the man – up close and personal – look his enemy in the eyes and take his measure; and he’d flown a long way to do just that…

  Steven enjoyed the caress of the balmy, blustery evening as he walked the few blocks to the event. He admired the baroque interior of the overblown hotel lobby before making his way to the large banquet room. At the door, security went over him with a portable metal detector before allowing him to enter the room and pick up his reservation. Griffen was scheduled to deliver a speech about the importance of free enterprise in the market system, which Steven supposed could loosely be translated as ‘why no one should ever regulate me’. He was genuinely interested in seeing the great man make his presentation.

  Seated at a large round table, along with twenty or so other well-to-do men and women, he chatted with the older fellow on his right, who worked in real estate in Connecticut. Steven had decided to pose as the owner of a software company from Washington, in town for the week, and having taken the seat in place of a friend who’d become ill at the last minute. Nobody seemed particularly interested in discussing his background, which was just as well.

  Griffen entered at precisely seven o’clock, the start time for the function, shaking hands and greeting people all the way to his table. He seemed to know many of the attendees, which wasn’t surprising since he and one of the Fed governors were the event’s main draws. It reminded Steven of a celebrity high-fiving audience members at a concert. Griffen was clearly a star.

  The filet turned out to be outstanding, the wine pretty good, and the speeches self-importantly tedious and predictable. Griffen’s seat was on the far side of the table so the opportunity to interact was limited and Steven felt disappointed his target was out of reach for discourse. After the entree, as he’d listened to Griffen’s self-righteous presentation about the importance of keeping the markets as unregulated as possible, he’d grown increasingly angry at the man – and the situation before him.

  Some of his anger could be attributed to the wine, which reduced his tolerance for bullshit in general, but the biggest irritant was the knowledge that this weasel enjoyed a position of prominence and prestige even as he cheated Joe Sixpack out of his retirement money. He thought about the shareholders who’d lost their life savings on Griffen’s pump and dumps, and had to bite his cheek to sit still.

  Steven’s mood had upgraded to belligerent by the end of Griffen’s speech, and built up a full head of steam while he’d watched his hard-nosed target pontificate on free markets from his bully pulpit – even as he orchestrated a criminal conspiracy.

  After the coffee was served, a gentleman in a tuxedo circulated with a humidor. Steven watched Griffen select a cigar. He did the same, and followed Griffen out to the veranda which was designated as a smoking area.

  Steven waited until Griffen finished lighting his cigar before approaching him to ask for a light. Griffen obliged.

  “That was quite a presentation,” Steven said.

  “Thanks.” Griffen was obviously not interested in chitchat with some peon. Steven forged ahead anyway, figuring this would be his only opportunity to annoy the man in person.

  “I especially enjoyed the part where you defended the actions of big money pools as being helpful in maintaining necessary liquidity in the market,” Steven recalled innocently. “It made pumping and short selling seem almost like doing the Lord’s work.”

  Griffen regarded Steven, appraising him carefully.

  “Look, everyone on Wall Street cheerleads for the stocks they’re pushing and bashes those they’re betting against. The whole street talks its book, and the media sings along with them. That’s the way things have worked since shares started trading. You don’t like the game, too bad. It has nothing to do with the players.” Griffen tapped his ashes on the railing.

  Steven nodded. “That’s probably true. Still, if you happen to be able to read tomorrow’s headlines today, that would mean making huge money was as easy as knowing which reporters to call, right?”

  “That’s an oversimplification,” Griffen said. “Eventually in any market, all facts will be known. That’s the whole idea of the system. I tend to believe that the system works pretty well, and that the last thing anyone needs is a bunch of regulation in a market that’s working just fine.” He held up a manicured finger. “Everyone whines when they’re on the wrong side of the trade, and wants government to step in and get them out of their bad bets. I say, too bad. The market isn’t about coddling losers.”

  Steven considered the logic. “Hmmm. Perhaps. But in your case, where you hold sway over a lot of media outlets, I could see where the temptation to pump the prospects of loser companies you’d gotten into for pennies would be pretty strong, then once the moron money was following along and believing your line of BS, taking the opposite side of the trade and crushing them would be child’s play. Seems to me like that’s a recurring pattern in companies you’ve discovered – probably just coincidence, right?” Steven smiled. “Anything for a buck, and all’s fair, right?”

  Griffen’s face flushed with anger. “Everyone’s got an opinion. One man’s treasure is another man’s junk. Nobody holds a gun to anyone’s head to invest in anything.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t catch your name,” Griffen said.

  “I didn’t mention it. Just thought I’d share an idea with you; you’re more vulnerable than you think. I know what you’re trying to do with Allied, and it’s not going to work. I wanted to tell you that you’ve overstepped this time. You’ve bitten off a big piece – bigger than you can imagine.” Steven stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and turned to walk away.

  Griffen grabbed his arm. “Just who in the hell do you think you’re–” he started.

 
; Steven pinched Griffen’s wrist at the nerve meridian, causing him to yelp and release his grip on Steven’s arm and clutch the spot from where the pain emanated.

  “It’s rude to get grabby with people you just met.” Steven smiled again. “Consider this fair warning. You’re nothing but a thug, and you’re not going to get away with your little game on Allied.” Steven glared at Griffen, who had a scowl on his face from the surprise of being accosted – and the discomfort of being so easily swept physically aside.

  Steven looked him up and down. “Have a nice night. I’m sure the rest of your cockroach buddies are waiting for your next line of horseshit. You don’t want to disappoint them, leave them waiting.” With that, Steven turned and walked back into the banquet hall, made his way to the exit, and then out onto the street.

  Griffen was suitably annoyed by the incident, and his wrist hurt like a bitch, but he was unfazed by some idiot’s threats. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years and was accustomed to his adversaries vowing to bring him to justice. It never amounted to anything. Talk’s cheap.

  This was undoubtedly some disgruntled investor who’d taken the wrong side of the Allied bet and was losing his ass. Boo hoo. Everyone wanted to blame someone else for their bad investment decisions, and Griffen was always a highly visible target for their ire.

  As the pain diminished, he rationalized that if you weren’t pissing people off and making enemies, then you probably weren’t doing anything worth talking about.

  The Police Commissioner came out onto the balcony with a cigar and greeted Griffen like his long-lost brother. They toasted with hundred-dollar-a-glass cognac, and the incident was forgotten.

  For the most part.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday morning, still at the hotel in NY, Steven checked in with the Group and was delighted to find a picture of Griffen walking out to pick up his morning paper. That was hysterical, especially since he’d been standing across from him in a business suit just twelve hours earlier. The photographer explained he’d tracked down Griffen’s home address in Connecticut. His buddy had snapped some shots that very morning using a telephoto lens. Nice to know the great man went to the bathroom the same as everyone else.