Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series)

by Neil Behrmann

  8 - THE SILVER FOX

  I wandered about alone during the next few days, didn't read newspapers and switched TV channels to avoid the news. My dark glasses were on all the time except when I went to bed, or sneaked into the movies. Martha was bemused but didn't pry. My new mobile wasn't charged and I didn't bother phoning Wardle to find out how my shares were doing. That was another lesson that Manson had taught me. Don't get involved in daily dealings. Day traders who buy and sell shares every day, every hour, every minute, lose sight of the big picture. They make small profits, if they're lucky. Big events make the big money, he wrote.

  Martha refused to take rent and fed me for free. To help out, I took her and the dogs out for breakfast and bought some groceries.

  A welcome surprise. Martha told me that Sandy had phoned. I returned the call as soon as I was through the door.

  'Hi Jack, got your number from an Australian barmaid,' said Sandy.

  'Great. Didn't expect her to remember. Wanna have a drink? We can meet at the Freemasons Arms.'

  'Sorry, Jack. I'm packing tonight. Flying back to Perth tomorrow. Maybe next time. You've got my address and email.'

  So that was it. Sandy would be out of my life. Just like that. To think that she was the main reason why I had come all the way to London. She would soon be gone. What a letdown. I felt pretty flat.

  'Plenty of fish in the sea,' said Martha, noticing my mood.

  'No sea here, Martha. When I sell my shares, I'm skipping London.'

  The next few days I jogged and swam in the ponds. Other than Martha and the dogs, I had no friends. So I went to Swiss Cottage Library and read more books about the stock market. I wasn't keen on the latest investment books. Most were full of jargon. Maths and stats that I couldn't understand. I preferred books that kept it simple. Traders' stories and good ideas. There were some funny old books like The Money Game by Adam Smith. He called fund managers 'gunslingers' - Wild West type guys who threw their weight about and dominated the market. How To Trade in Stocks by Jesse Livermore, the speculator, was one of my favorites. His trading methods were similar to Manson. Besides shares, he also traded commodities such as wheat. Made a fortune in the roaring twenties when there were bootleggers and gangsters such as Al Capone. In 1929 the market crashed and he lost everything. A few years later Jesse was so depressed that he blew his brains out. Jesse showed me that you could make a killing in shares and commodities. A fortune. But you had to know when to stop. If you didn't, the market would kill you.

  Manson's book was still the best. It showed that you didn't have to be an expert to make money in the market. He was a performing actor and he did it. That's what I was going to do.

  * * *

  About ten days later, I arrived at Wardle's office, without knowing what had happened to my gold shares. But for the whirring printer, the office was dead quiet. They were observing me in silence. In the reception area, in the corner, the silver haired man was reading his newspaper.

  'What's going on?' I asked.

  'You should know. Your shares have gone through the roof,' said Drummond.

  I looked at the screen on his terminal. The price of gold was $398 an ounce, a fifth higher than the day I had bought my gold shares. From my research in the library, I knew that if gold was up by about twenty per cent, gold shares were likely to be fifty to sixty per cent higher. I asked for the prices of my gold shares. Sure enough, their value had jumped from under £10,000 to more than £15,000.

  Wardle walked in and shook my hand: 'Not bad, for beginners luck, my boy.'

  'It wasn't luck,' I insisted.

  'If you say so,' he said smiling, knowingly. 'Want to take profits?'

  'Not sure,' I replied. 'Can I see some charts?'

  I walked past the silver haired guy but couldn't remember his name.

  He seemed to realise: 'Stanley Slimcop. Good to see you again. You can sit here.'

  They were all watching me. I stared back and waited. Slimcop walked away and stood alongside Drummond's desk.

  I sat down by the coffee table, examined the charts, took out my notepaper with the prices of the shares and updated the figures. I got hold of my aquarium drawing and drew a new level in the tank. With my orange crayon I drew gold fish swimming in the higher compartment. According to Manson, it was far too early to sell. There was a good chance that my gold fish would swim to the top of the water. This would happen if gold burst through $400.

  'I think that I will hold on for a while,' I told Wardle.

  I was about to leave, when Slimcop called out to me: 'Want some lunch? Chinese?'

  I turned to Wardle. He smiled and nodded his head: 'Silver Fox owes you one!'

  I couldn't understand what he was getting at, but I felt like some Chinese.

  * * *

  It wasn't like the takeaways that I knew. This Chinese restaurant was real cool. The decor was white, the tables were white, the chairs were white and the waiters were in white. The restaurant was well above ground level. Our table next to the window overlooked Hampstead High Street below. The Community Centre was on the left and two banks and some mobile phone and clothes shops were across the road.

  I looked at the menu and was at sea. I had never seen such a choice of fish, chicken, duck, meat and vegetarian dishes.

  'Want a beer?'

  'No thanks. Just a coke.'

  Slimcop smiled: 'Anything you like?'

  'Duck, anything, thanks.'

  Slimcop and Wardle ordered and the waiters came with dishes ranging from crispy duck and pancakes to sizzling chicken and prawns. A waiter taught me how to smooth sweet plum sauce on the pancake, place duck, fresh strips of cucumbers and spring onion on it and then roll it up. I tried out chopsticks and when I dropped them, the waiter passed me a spoon and fork. I was so hungry that I didn't listen to the conversation. The food was so tasty that I picked up crumbs with my fingers and sipped coke in between mouthfuls. I looked up. Slimcop and Wardle were smiling. Wardle pointed at my chin. I wiped my face and some food fell off my serviette.

  'What school do you go to?' asked Slimcop.

  'Bridlington . . . Just finished my GCSEs'

  'Going back to do your AS levels.'

  'Dunno. Maybe.'

  'You get your results in August don't you? How do you think you've done?'

  'Not sure.'

  I was beginning to get annoyed with this grilling. Slimcop seemed to realise it and he turned to Wardle and winked.

  'He did me a good turn you know.'

  Wardle smiled, as Slimcop stood up.

  'Have to go. Tell him what I'm going to do,' whispered Slimcop.

  The two shook hands. Slimcop, about six foot three in a sleek light grey suit, towered over Wardle. The broker, in his crumpled dark blue suit, looked sloppy in comparison. With full, longish silver grey hair and a white moustache, Slimcop could have been anywhere between sixty five and seventy five. Despite his age he was still handsome. The waiter brought the bill.

  'You pay, old boy,' said Slimcop.

  'Typical,' replied Wardle, but they grinned at each other as if it was a private joke.

  I stood up and shook Slimcop's hand. He passed me a large plain white card with his name and address.

  'Come and visit us.'

  Wardle pulled my arm and made me sit down. I tried out Jasmine tea but found it bitter.

  'What did he mean by good turn?' I asked.

  'After you left the office last week, he bought a lot of gold shares.'

  'He just asked me what I thought about gold. I didn't do anything for him.'

  'He wasn't sure about gold. He knew that there was a big seller in the market. You helped him change his mind.'

  'He bought just because I did?'

  'Yes. He said that you made sense. Despite heavy selling, the price of gold didn't fall. That was a sign that there were informed investors who had started to buy.'

  'I just said that I thought that gold was going to rise. That's all. I could have been wrong.'r />
  'You were so sure of yourself that he was convinced you would win. We call him the Silver Fox, because he's canny.'

  'Foxes are cunning.'

  'No, canny is the word. He's not slippery. He's straight. I would trust him with my life. That's where you come in.'

  'How?'

  'He's going to give you a cut of his profits.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You're going to get about £50,000. Ten per cent of the profits that he made on his gold shares.'

  I was stunned. Some stranger asks me a question and then gives me 50K!

  'You must be joking.'

  'No, I'm serious. That's the sort of guy he is. He's the only one I know who does it. He helps people who he thinks need it. We have some extremely wealthy clients but none of them would give you a penny. They would just boast that they made a fortune from gold shares. They wouldn't even give you credit for the idea. They would brag that they thought of it themselves.'

  'I'm not a charity case.'

  'I know that you're not. But you helped make him some money, so why not? We brokers get commissions when clients buy and sell. He likes you, Jack. You remind him of his son.'

  'His son?'

  'He died. But when you see him again, don't talk about it.'

  Wardle then told me Stanley Slimcop's story. His Dad died when he was fourteen. While he was at school he decorated houses on weekends to earn money and help his mum and sister. Hilton Safron, a stockbroker, owned one of the houses and offered him a job. Stanley, who was then sixteen, left school and went to work for the broker. He was so popular that new clients flocked to the firm and it became one of the biggest brokers in London. Slimcop became a senior partner and at the age of thirty five was rich. Safron and Slimcop became one of the most prestigious London brokers. It was a household name in the City. Members of the Royal Family were clients.

  Safron and Slimcop were so busy, that they entrusted their accountant to bank money belonging to clients and the firm. Unfortunately Cecil Shweisder, the accountant, was a gambler. He speculated in the markets and bet on horses, football and golf. He also loved playing roulette and blackjack at casinos. To pay off his gambling debts and to make more bets, Shweisder began to steal cash from the firm. Stan and Hilton Safron were so busy with clients that they didn't know what was going on. Shweisder cooked the books, so they thought that they had plenty of cash. One day a client sold his shares and demanded immediate payment, but the firm couldn't pay. The clients' accounts were empty. In the early hours of the morning, Shweisder drove to a supermarket's parking lot, slammed a gun in his mouth and fired. The suicide was front page news and clients rushed to the firm to salvage their securities and cash. All gone. Safron and Slimcop were bust. Stan, his partners and clients lost everything.

  'The courts cleared Stan, but he was in total disgrace,' Wardle went on. 'He could never be a broker again.'

  'But he has money now. How did he recover?'

  'Leila, his wife, is a sculptor and artist. She held an exhibition and sold virtually all her work. I bought one and that's how I first met them.'

  They sold their house and went to Johannesburg, South Africa, Wardle continued. Slimcop became friendly with a geologist and learnt about the gold mining industry. Later there was a gold mining boom and Slimcop made a lot of money. He came back to London and bought a house in Hampstead.

  'The Silver Fox is so canny that he bought the house at a fire sale price during a property depression,' said Wardle smiling. 'Leila has a studio there.'

  Wardle continued: 'What I really like about Stan is that he went out of his way to find Safron and Slimcop clients who had lost money. He first paid back pensioners and other poor clients. Recently he settled his debts with the richer ones.'

  'Some guy,' I said.

  'I haven't come across another like him,' Wardle replied as we walked back to the office. 'You couldn't find a better friend.'

  * * *

  Dr Klugheim wants to see me again. Why the attention? What about the other cons? He's excited when I enter his room. His face, red from sunburn. Doesn't have his jacket on. A shirt button undone. Hairy and fat. I can't help but smile. He looks down and sorts out his shirt.

  'Your book's getting really interesting,’ he says keenly.

  I know that look. Seen it many times before. Greed! I glance at file on desk. It says 'Portfolio'.

  'What's that?' I ask, fully aware what this is all about.

  'My shares.’

  'O fuck, here we go again,' I whisper, loud enough for him to hear. 'What about the hypocritical oath?'

  'The Hippocratic oath states that the doctor must do his best to take care of the patient. Any complaints, Jack?' he snaps.

  'You scratch my back and I. . .'

  'We're not going to get into that Jack. Doctors are entitled to make a living. Save for school fees, holidays, old age.'

  'How your shares doing?'

  'Not so good. We can talk about that later. First you.'

  'What about me?'

  'When you made your first few thousand, how did you feel?'

  'Shit of course, what you expect?'

  'Stop trying to be funny,' snaps Klugheim. 'I'm giving you extra time. I've got other patients. If you don't want to be here . . .'

  'Obviously it felt good,' I reply, deciding I'd better play ball.

  ‘I want to know how you really felt. Was it like gambling? Did you get a buzz when you beat the system? Was it a high?'

  'Not like that. Never thought it was a gamble. Just made sense.'

  'I'm not sure I understand,’ says Klugheim, drawing me out.

  'Dunno how to explain. When my gold shares did great, it was like slamming a ball into the goal post. Felt like doing high fives with the brokers.'

  'Did you?'

  'No. I could see they felt crap when I got it right. They were losing. I was winning.'

  'How did you feel afterwards? When it sank in?'

  'Pretty good. Funny though, it wasn't so much about the money. It was the respect. They began to take me seriously. Saw that I wasn't just a boy. Was someone.'

  'Good. I want you to start feeling that way about yourself again. Regain your self-esteem,’ says Klugheim, snapping his fingers.

  'Time's up.'

  He's smiling a genuine smile. I'm beginning to like him.

  'The deal is that I take a look at your shares, right?'

  'You'll continue with your book and we'll see each other again,' he says.

  'Can I look?' I ask, as I open the portfolio file.

  It shows that Klugheim owns shares in thirty companies. No wonder he doesn't know what's going on.

  'What you reckon they're worth?'

  'They've fallen from around 200K to 120K.'

  'OK, get me stock prices and charts. Provided. . .'

  'Provided what?'

  ‘I get ten per cent of the profits.'

  Klugheim smiles: 'Know what chutzpah means?'

  'Got some idea.’

  'This is between ourselves,' says Klugheim.

  We shake on it. Not sure if I'll get my ten per cent, but maybe he'll get me out of here.

  9 - NEW FRIENDS

  Reading a map that Wardle had given me, I crossed Hampstead High Street and walked through some narrow alleyways into Church Street. At the end of the road, I wandered into the church's shady graveyard. Tombstones, three to four hundred years old were in the shadows of beech and oak trees. John Constable's tombstone was there. He must have lived in Hampstead. Mum was a fan of his landscape paintings. We often walked in 'Constable Country' which was in Suffolk.

  The church and graveyard were on a hill. Over the fence, about twenty metres below, I spotted the gravel road that Wardle had drawn on the map. I ambled out of the graveyard, turned right, walked down a path and reached the road. Iron railings surrounded a modern bungalow. I rang the security button and called out my name. The gate opened. Giant sunflowers and roses were on either side of a short, narrow, winding ston
e path that lead to the front door.

  A large bronze sculpture of a bird was near the entrance. A boy and a girl opened the door. They were both blonde with freckles and looked about twelve. I guessed that they were twins.

  'Hi Jack, I'm Tom,' said the boy in a broad South African accent. 'Stan told us you were coming.'

  'I'm Tess. Are you going to swim with us?' asked the girl.

  I followed them through a large open living room with wide windows and lots of light. The walls were covered with paintings and charcoal etchings of sparrows, eagles, vultures and other birds. Sculptures of birds, heads and torsos were on pedestals, bookcases and stools.

  Slimcop was sitting on the patio with a woman dressed in white trousers and an emerald, silk, blouse. She was about seventy, with grey hair in a bun, lined but pretty, with lots of make-up. So much so that she looked like a painted doll. Slimcop stood up, came towards me and shook my hand and introduced the woman. He towered over her.

  'Good to see you Jack . . . Leila, my wife.'

  She held out a limp hand and I shook it softly as she looked me up and down. I felt a bit nervous.

  'Take off your dark glasses, young man. Let's take a good look at you.' She turned to Slimcop: 'He's got an interesting face. You said he's sixteen. He looks older.'

  'I turned sixteen on June 1,' I said.

  'Marilyn Monroe's birthday.'

  'Yes, my Mum always reminded me.'

  'Gemini. Dual personality. Know what time you were born?' asks Leila, looking at the palms of my hands.

  'Just before midnight,' I said.

  I wondered if she was a mystic or something. She let my hands go.

  'You could be a good subject, Jack. Want to sit for me?'