The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  “Yeah,” Dwight agreed absently, poking at his keyboard. “Until they can’t sustain the payout, which will be right after the ABX drops.”

  “Do those mortgages stay on the books at the lender until the bond gets sold, or does some intermediary pick up that risk?” Jon knew that pipelines could develop clogs anywhere along the length. “All the big investment banks are making markets in those bonds.”

  Dwight looked up, alarmed. “I don’t know. That’s something to find out. Oh, man, Jon, imagine having a $3 billion mess you can’t move.”

  “Three billion looks like the monthly loan origination amount at just one of these lenders, and how many of them are there? Dwight, what if there’s a whole lot of those bonds that no one can sell?” Jon felt sick. He thought back to the call he’d gotten on the mortgage-backed bond. “They had to be feeling desperate to even call me; the assets Wolfe Gorman controls aren’t public knowledge. They wouldn’t know that they were offering me something we couldn’t afford even if we wanted it, and they usually know their customers pretty well.”

  “We don’t want it even on a plate. Not at full price.” Dwight made a note.

  “Is there a price we do want it at?” Jon shook his head before he even finished the question. “Even at half off that’s too big for us, and the bond would be in default anyway.”

  “Any idea how many defaulting mortgages per bond it would take to default the whole thing?” Dwight whispered.

  “Not yet.” Jon made a note. “I think I can figure it roughly, though, enough to make some educated guesses about what happens next.” He put another bullet point on his to-do list.

  “What was that you were saying about ‘it hasn’t been that long since the savings and loan crisis’?” Dwight went pale. “Calculators aren’t going to have enough zeros to describe this mess if it all goes south.”

  “It may not get that bad. One saving grace to it, though.” Jon pushed the legal pad away. “It isn’t going to happen overnight, and it is going to provide some opportunity for short sales and options purchases. We’re a hedge fund; we can buy what we want. We just have to decide what. You look at these six lenders; decide which three are the shakiest. I’ll find out where….”

  Oh yes, there would be opportunities galore. Where the economy would be in three years’ time, now, that would be a hard call.

  “WHAT have we here, Logan?” Ricky accepted folders from his pet assistant, as Jon called him, and wasn’t that about right? Big, awkward Dwight had latched on to Jon just about as hard as Logan had latched on to Ricky—he would twit Jon later about the relative scenery, although he wasn’t so sure about the relative brains of their new remoras. Hitching a ride on the sharks, that was what they were doing.

  This could be interesting—another little competition to go with “who made the most money today?”

  “More information on the lender, whose growth has been phenomenal.” Logan put out a hand for Ricky’s drawing. “Another cartoon? Who’d you skewer this time?”

  “Never mind.” Ricky crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash. He’d been trying to draw Jon, but the result was worse than any caricature. He’d really have to work on his representational style.

  “Okay. Any move on Intens?”

  “It’s early yet, Logan, give it until ten before you start whining it hasn’t made us rich yet.” Ricky leaned back and started circling numbers, liking what he saw.

  Chapter Eight

  JOINING the throngs of suited people pouring out onto the sidewalks, Ricky and Jon headed to the subway station.

  “I’ve been staring at too many numbers,” Ricky complained. “I have got to work it out in the gym.” They entered the bowels of the subway station. “Oops. Monday night. Your parents are expecting us, aren’t they?”

  “Do some reps for me.” He wouldn’t demand that Ricky come along if his heart wasn’t in it, not after getting possessive this weekend. It was actually a relief—Jon did not want to juggle Ricky and Davis tonight. After he’d had a chance to assess Davis’s state of mind, he might risk the two of them in one place.

  They entered the subway car with what felt like half of Wall Street shoving them in more tightly, and found an unoccupied strap. Ricky took his usual position, hand over Jon’s, and stood very close, even closer than the press of strangers required. Against his back, Jon could feel Ricky’s warmth, toned and smooth within his suit, and yes, a bit lumpy around the groin. Even after all the sex this weekend, even after Jon’s unaccustomed bout of neediness Saturday night, Ricky was still responding to him. That was as good as it was going to get—he couldn’t insist on anything more, unless he was willing to watch Ricky bolt. They rode silently, conversation overwhelmed with clacking over the rails and too many eavesdroppers.

  “I’ll call your folks, tell them not to expect me,” Ricky told him. “I’ll be there next week, for sure. What are we doing Wednesday? Think of something. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He laid a tiny kiss on the edge of Jon’s ear and shoved his way out when the doors opened at his stop.

  DINNER with his parents wasn’t normally the equivalent of bearding a lion in its den. Once Jon greeted his mother and father, Chaz, he turned to greet the lion.

  “Jon, Davis is here.” His mother had no reason to know why Jon wasn’t overjoyed. “It’s so good to have one of my ‘other sons’ here again. Perhaps we can get Spencer and his family to come out from Connecticut.” The six-foot-something of blond man uncoiling from the comfortable Pullman chair was Davis? Jon tried to still the sudden roiling in his belly at the mention of Spencer’s name, focusing instead on the man before him.

  Jon put out a hand, trying desperately to avoid saying something stupid, banal, and embarrassing, like, “My, how you’ve grown.” The angles of cheekbone and eyebrow were the same, allowing for maturity, as were the blue eyes, but everything else…. Jon remembered a gawky teenager, still trying to come to terms with elbows and knees that suddenly flapped on limbs grown unaccountably long. No hint of childish softness or adolescent gracelessness remained, lost, perhaps, in the mad scramble to keep up with an older brother and his friends, who alternately ditched and tormented him. His hand caught firmly in Davis’s strong grip, Jon made do with, “I think I’d better not try picking you up by your ankles and bouncing your head on the floor again.”

  Davis laughed, and the deep sound was far different from the small giggles that had become ha-has that shifted in mid-note. “Best not, Jon. It would be your head thudding against the parquet. I haven’t forgotten that I owe you a couple dozen good whacks.”

  “The statute of limitations has run out on that.” It might indeed be Jon’s head on the floor; Davis topped him by at least four inches, and the biceps stretching the hems of the shirt’s sleeves suggested that lifting Jon’s one hundred sixty pounds high enough to drop him on his head might not be much of a strain. “Besides, little brothers are for torturing, it says so in the rule book.” He’d had to borrow a younger brother to plague, having none of his own, but had done reasonably well for not having daily practice.

  Jon’s mother laughed. “We did warn you that little brothers don’t stay little forever and that they do have long memories.”

  Under his mother’s gaze, Jon dropped Davis’s hand, his mind spinning in confusion. Had it really been ten years since he’d seen the kid? No, not a kid anymore. He had to be, what, twenty-nine now? No, thirty-one. Some quick math let Jon adjust his estimate, allowing for four years he’d been away at school. “I haven’t seen you since Spencer’s wedding. How have you been?” He hadn’t seen Spencer since the wedding, either.

  “Not bad at all. I completed my master’s and worked a couple of years in Philadelphia, but I found a position with a firm here in the city, so I’m in the process of moving.” The conversation had moved into the dining room, where sparkling china lay on the polished wood table and a silent housekeeper laid out the last touches for the meal. Davis sat down on the far side of the table from Jon, gravitating
to the particular chair as if it were his.

  Apparently it was. “Davis is staying with us while he finds a place to live,” Chaz Hogenboom informed his son.

  “We certainly have the room, and I couldn’t possibly let my sorority sister’s son stay in whatever short-term housing he might find.” Jessica shivered. “Davis might end up somewhere dreadful, all glass and aluminum, and people across the street staring through binoculars.”

  “People-watching is the unofficial sport of Manhattan, Mother.” Jon didn’t care to think how accurately she had described his own building and his neighbors. He drew the drapes for a reason, a custom surprisingly rare in the city.

  Jessica passed the bread basket to her son. “I’m surprised you haven’t purchased shares in optics companies on the strength of it.”

  “I’ll certainly have to look into that,” Jon promised, only partly joking. He’d heard worse reasons for investment. “You stayed in architecture, Davis?”

  “Yes. I did both undergrad and master’s at Cornell. I had to get out of Ithaca before I put down roots. Philadelphia’s okay, but I got an offer too good to pass up here.” Davis helped himself to some bread.

  “You’ll find that New Yorkers are some of the most rooted people around, simply because after a time, the costs of moving have run away from you. Choose wisely; you’ll be there awhile,” advised Chaz. So said the man who grew up in this apartment, which was paid for shortly after the building went up some eighty years earlier but the market value of which was nearly equal to the entire firm of Wolfe Gorman Equities.

  Jon decided not to disclose his own real estate plans just yet, being unwilling to expose himself as the flighty sort who bought and moved if there wasn’t a big profit involved. Of course, Davis might love the place and want to take it off his hands. If he could—the Willinghams were wealthy but there would have to be some delicate probing first. Jon didn’t recall his building’s requirements on mortgages—he’d paid cash through his trust fund—but didn’t think they allowed more than 40 percent of the price. Such policies made New York a city of long-term renters. He shot his mother a look before she mentioned anything of their conversation earlier.

  The talk wended on, Jon contributing little to the discussion, lost in memories of other days. Once again he and Spencer rambled through the Connecticut countryside, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, through lazy summers and frequent visits to Jessica’s dear college friend. Davis had tagged after them, sometimes welcome, often the butt of their humor. As they grew older, Spencer had intermittently abandoned both Jon and Davis in favor of some girl, using their willingness to cover for him in order to get laid, or to at least claim it. Those hadn’t been bad days, exactly, unless they hadn’t gotten their stories straight before facing the dinnertime inquisition. Davis had been a pretty good companion, wanting to show off the best aspects of his home to the older, glamorous visitor from the city. Jon had taken shameless advantage of it and bounced the kid on his head to boot. Then it ended.

  The sound of his name dragged Jon back to the present. “I’m sorry? I missed that.”

  “I was just saying that if you had some free time, you might be willing to show Davis around. Help him get reacquainted with the city.” His mother arched an eyebrow at him.

  Yes, showing kid brother the sights would at least distract Jon from wondering what Ricky was doing on those nights they weren’t together. “I could, if you like. At least you can’t shove me into the creek.”

  Davis showed his teeth. “Considering how many times you and Spencer soaked me, I think once into the East River might be big enough for paybacks.”

  “Jon, you didn’t!” His mother turned mock-sorrowful eyes on him.

  “’Fraid I did, Mom. Terrible abuse of hospitality.” Jon pretended to flinch away from the gentle swat she delivered years late.

  “And Davis, you wouldn’t.” She impaled her guest with a mother’s glare.

  “I really do owe him, Aunt Jessica.” Davis fixed Jon with a stare full of promises. Jon made mental notes not to include any ferry rides in their sightseeing.

  “You two can start by doing something nice and dry,” Chaz suggested. “One of my clients sent over four tickets for the Yankees game on Wednesday. I’m not going to use them, and you could bring some friends, Jon.”

  Ricky would want no part of a baseball game. Not exciting enough, or so he’d informed Jon more than once. Scratch Wednesday with his lover, because Davis did think baseball was a good idea.

  “That’s very generous of you, Uncle Chaz. I haven’t been to a game since spring. Too busy. And the Yankees are in contention for the league championship.” Right, Davis had always been one for the stats.

  Jon could say no, but then he’d have to explain more than he wanted to. “Sounds good to me. If you want to meet me at the office, Davis, we’ll leave from there.”

  “Do you two want to go catch up on old times, or would you join us for some bridge?” Jessica inquired once the table had been cleared. Jon didn’t think she’d missed the strain in the conversation; ever the gracious hostess, she’d come up with a distraction. If only she knew.

  They adjourned to the cards, though Jon’s whirling mind destroyed his ability to concentrate. He botched his bidding, missed tricks, and, in his father’s words, played his worst game since he was a sulky fifteen-year-old and just learning. His mother gave her husband a swift kick under the table for that assessment, an example of table talk that Jon was inclined to let pass, since it wouldn’t have affected the outcome of the game. Davis and Jessica ran the table, making overtricks galore, taking the score into the realm of insult. Jon excused himself after two humiliating rubbers, knowing that he couldn’t concentrate on something as trivial as a card game.

  “Would you like to stay over?” Jessica asked. “Davis has your old room, but there are plenty of beds.”

  “No thanks, I think I’ll head back to my place.” Not that Jon had so much as a cat to be fed, but he needed to be elsewhere than down the hall from the younger brother of his former friend.

  “I’ll walk you down,” Chaz offered, waiting while Jon made his goodnights. In the elevator, Chaz inquired softly, “What happened with you and Spencer? You were so close for so long, and then—nothing. Was it that he got married?”

  Jon shook his head. “Nothing that simple, and I got along fine with Ashley. He thought…. Dad, I really don’t know what he thought, but he made it clear that I had no part in his life or his family’s. How do you go against that?”

  “If he rejected you because he found out you’re gay, I’d be very disappointed in him.” His father could bluster about the small things like cards but went quiet for the truly important matters.

  “No, Dad, he knew. Since we were, I think, about fifteen. It didn’t make any difference after the initial shock.” The elevator bonged softly and opened into the lobby.

  “I suppose not, since you shared rooms at Harvard and were one of his groomsmen.” Chaz frowned. “It’s a serious about-face.” They crossed the lobby, waving at the doorman, who would let Chaz back inside in a moment.

  Once on the curb, Jon put his hand out for a cab. “I wish I knew, Dad. Maybe when he finds out Davis is staying with you, he’ll finally tell me how I screwed up so badly.”

  “Are you really expecting an angry phone call now?”

  A yellow cab pulled over at Jon’s hail. “At the very least. Good night.”

  He got into the car to his father’s warm, “Good night, son.”

  An angry phone call might be the best possible outcome. The way Spencer’s eyes had bulged out and the spittle had flown as he’d hissed his threats, Jon didn’t think that a trio of angry goons with blackjacks was entirely out of the question. He could hope that ten years without contact with the family he’d considered an extension of his own would dial Spencer’s reaction back to just words.

  Chapter Nine

  JON barely paid attention to the litany of “traded this” a
nd “holding that” that was the morning meeting. “More research,” he came aware long enough to say, but he did hear Ricky mention that he was working on a new position. Funny, last time Ricky’d said that, they were in private and Jon’s hips had hurt for two days after.

  This time, though, Jon wanted more details, because the last position Ricky’d opened was eating at him. Four million borrowed dollars and no stop-loss order churned his gut—why didn’t Ricky see that this was unnecessary risk? Sure, Intens looked sound, but the rare event could happen. Would he protect this next position? Ricky said nothing about it, and brushed silently past Jon on his way to his office before the roll call could get to Miranda.

  There was no protecting Logan’s position, though. Edgar ended the meeting with his usual, “Trade wisely, boys and girls,” and then, “Logan? A moment of your time?”

  Waving a clipboard with papers, gurgling, “But Ricky needs….” didn’t buy the young man a reprieve.

  “Now, Logan. I have a few things to ask you about.” Edgar turned toward the hall, leaving Logan with deer-in-the-headlights eyes.

  That didn’t sound good, quite aside from the encounter on the couch. However, it was a big chance for Jon.

  “I’ll give it to him.” Snagging the clipboard, he left Logan to his task. Jon would get those papers delivered.

  First, a side trip to his office, to hand the clipboard to his accomplice. “Dwight, you are going to take these to Ricky for signature, now, before Logan gets back.” Digging in a desk drawer produced the triplicate form Jon wanted, but not enough time to fill it out. “The bottom one comes back to me; the rest can go to Clerical as usual.” Dwight stowed the blank form on the bottom of the stack. “And if he notices, it’s all on me, got that?”

  Dwight said nothing, only nodded and slipped out the door.