The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  The minutes ticked by with glacial slowness until Dwight returned. “No problem. He signed the stack and handed it back to me, didn’t read it, didn’t even question what he was signing once I said that Logan had gotten waylaid by Edgar. Just….” Dwight scribbled in the air with an imaginary pen. “All the way to the bottom of the stack. What are we going to do with it?”

  “What’s this we?” Jon poked up a price on Intens, slightly higher than the 26.25 that Ricky paid for the position. Judging the stock’s volatility over the last few months, Jon paused only a moment and scrawled in 24.5, trying to avoid a price that would trigger a sale just from daily fluctuations. He handed the completed stop-loss order, duly signed by the originator of the trade, back to Dwight. “Take this to Clerical, tell them whatever story you need to. What we’re doing, Dwight, is protecting Ricky from himself.”

  “Should have had him sign three of these things.” Dwight read over the form. “Because he also opened big positions in Lasker Builders and WideWest Financial.”

  “Then he should make a pot of money.” Jon waved Dwight toward the door.

  “He opened long positions: long, highly leveraged positions.”

  “Good Lord, in a sector that’s heading for a fall?” Jon felt his heart try to stop—he should have read over the pilfered paperwork. “How much?”

  “About six million bucks.”

  Jon put his head into his hands, despairing. What would it take to keep Ricky from blowing himself up?

  “HEY, Jon.” Ricky had wandered in to stand behind Jon’s chair to rub his shoulders, digging deeply into tight muscles with his thumbs. “Figuring out all sorts of ways to make some money?”

  “Yeah.” Jon leaned back into Ricky’s hands, soaking up the massage and trying to think fast. Ricky was probably reading over his shoulder, and the longer Jon let him rub, the more information he’d absorb on his own. A full-frontal approach never worked with Ricky, except in naked situations, so letting him steal the data and draw his own conclusions might work better. “Rrrrrr.” Jon shut his eyes and let his head fall back against Ricky’s stomach. His hand fell to his lap, oh so casually revealing the latest columns of figures.

  “Rrrr indeed.” Ricky bent to kiss the top of Jon’s head, sliding down to nibble the top of Jon’s ear. Knowing that it was as much for a better view as for affection, Jon stayed still, not twisting to seek kisses, and willed Ricky to see the significance of the numbers circled on the page.

  “I’ll give you an hour to stop that.” It would be worth the ground-in wrinkles in the shirt if Ricky would read enough to understand that he’d bought into an industry with looming problems. The problems weren’t leaping off the page, it was true, but Ricky knew Jon’s investing style and the sorts of things he would search for. Just seeing some of this laid out ought to be a sign that all was not well in the housing market. Then he might ask, and once he did, he’d listen to what Jon had to say.

  Diplomacy sucked sometimes.

  Losing millions of dollars of borrowed funds would suck harder.

  “I might take that hour.” Strong hands worked their way down Jon’s arms.

  “Take it tonight instead of tomorrow.” Could Jon shuffle his social obligations?

  “I might take more. I might need all night.” Ricky’s breath was hot in Jon’s ear. “Don’t wanna wait ’til tomorrow.”

  “My place or yours?” Jon was up for all night. In fact, he was up right now, his erection growing within his clothing and his concentration slipping away. Ricky’s palms now pressed flat against Jon’s chest, stroking down his pecs and bumping over nipples that had turned firm, finding the lightly rippled abs. Jon did turn to nuzzle Ricky, but not so demandingly that he’d interrupt the reading. Vaguely he wondered if the door was shut. If Ricky was going to reach lower, that door would have to be shut.

  Ow! That was his clavicle, his poor little clavicle he’d had since he was a child, that Ricky smashed with his forehead.

  “Damn, it isn’t going to work tonight. I have an eight o’clock with my personal trainer.” Ricky left his head bowed on Jon’s shoulder.

  “Carlos or Jason?” It made a difference.

  “Jason. If I don’t toss my cookies after, he thinks he hasn’t worked me hard enough.”

  “Now you know why I won’t work with him anymore.” “No pain, no gain” didn’t extend to “be reduced to a puddle of misery” in Jon’s book. “I could come feed you small sips of liquid and wipe your sweaty brow after.”

  “And listen to me whimper.” Ricky reached over the back of the chair to nibble Jon’s neck, working the tender flesh with lips and the slightest graze of teeth. “That’s about all I’ll be good for. I should do you now.”

  “Did you make any money today?” The electric current going from neck to cock nearly short-circuited his voice.

  “Let’s find out—log me in. Less than sign, three, little J, cap H, dollar sign.” Jon fumbled his keystrokes when Ricky licked, thrusting his tongue along the ridge of muscle in Jon’s neck. “Hmm, no, not yet.” He paused in his nibbling to check the screen. “I just bought the stocks, give them twenty-four hours.”

  “Ahh. Did you put stop-losses on them?” Torn between getting up, shutting the door, and dropping his trousers versus just dropping his trousers, Jon did manage to recall the other demand he’d make.

  “Not yet.” Biting gently on the strap of muscle that popped out when Jon turned his head, Ricky gave the first sign so far that he might protect himself.

  “Then you don’t get laid at the office.” Putting up a hand to Ricky’s cheek, Jon stroked, feeling the small rasp of whiskers that announced the late afternoon.

  “Slave driver. Taskmaster.” Ricky nipped harder between imprecations. “Boy who’s going to stay frustrated. Brat.”

  “Go do your paperwork and meet me on the couch.” Maybe he could press the point in a daze of horniness.

  “Right, like I’m going to walk the central trading floor with this boner.” Ricky did slide a hand down now, his fingers finding a way under Jon’s waistband.

  “Hold the clipboard in front of you.” Jon allowed himself to hope that Ricky would really do it. “A perfect fig leaf.”

  “Not if I’m walking all funny.” Ricky wiggled his hand farther into Jon’s slacks.

  “Imagine what happens if you don’t do it; that will fix your gait.” Jon arched his back in spite of himself. “I’ll bring you back in a hurry.”

  “Let me do you now.” Ricky abandoned his efforts to get into zipped trousers and gripped Jon’s stiff cock through the fabric, stroking promises. Jon leaned his face against the strong arm reaching over his shoulder. “C’mon, you want your cock in my mouth and a finger up your ass.”

  Oh, yes, Jon did. “Is that door shut?”

  A small squeak and a click said “Yes,” but Jon knew exactly where Ricky’s hands were and he couldn’t possibly have reached far enough back to kick the door closed. Jon froze with his eyes squinched shut and resolved to rearrange the office so his back wasn’t to the door ever again. He peered around Ricky to face his nightmare.

  “Hello, Edgar.”

  “Don’t mind me, boys.” The bastard licked his lips. “Carry on.”

  How long has he been there? “The golden moment seems to have passed.” No way. No way. No way. Jon didn’t know he could go from rock-hard to limp in less than two seconds.

  Mercifully, Ricky took his hand away from Jon’s groin and placed both hands on his shoulders, standing tall and commanding. “We’re done now.”

  “A pity.” Edgar rearranged his erection to a less conspicuous lie, disappointment wrinkling his jowls. “You were going along very nicely too. Don’t leave the door open when you start if you don’t want company. That nice ass all bent over will attract a crowd.” He let himself out, closing the door behind him, but Jon had spoken accurately: the golden moment was gone.

  “A new low in workplace adventures.” Jon slumped, his gut churning from the encount
er.

  “That door wasn’t open wide when I came in. More sort of ajar.” Ricky’s hands were where they’d started, massaging tension from Jon’s shoulders. It had worked better the first time. “I really didn’t think I’d get so worked up; must be from the proximity of a great trader and the prospect of profits.” He leaned to kiss Jon’s head again, but more quickly, an apology rather than a caress. “I was going to shut it once you’d said yes.”

  A shudder wracked Jon. “That was horrible.” And it was exactly why he wouldn’t play backroom games at the club with Ricky.

  “I’ll make it up to you. Want to take it to the couch?”

  “No.” Jon shuddered once more, the bile rising in his throat. “He’s probably in there whacking off now, or worse, lurking in a stall hoping to catch us again.”

  Ricky swiveled the chair around and drew Jon to his feet. “Bleah. I am not giving that old goat the satisfaction of watching, or anything else.” He pulled Jon to his chest, and Jon leaned against him. “Damn. What did you want to do tomorrow night?” Firm fingers worked into the knots in Jon’s back.

  “Baseball game.” There, he’d said it.

  Ricky pulled his head back and looked at Jon a bit sideways. “I thought you wanted to do something with me?”

  “I did. I do.” Jon held his ground.

  “Why baseball?”

  “The Yankees are playing the Royals at seven. My dad gave me tickets.” The timing could have been better, but the tickets were for that one night.

  “Couldn’t we paint a wall instead and watch it dry?”

  “Some of us like baseball, Ricky.” Jon swatted Ricky’s ass and pulled away.

  “We could have sex while it dried—we’d be multitasking.”

  “Just because you don’t like baseball shouldn’t mean that I don’t ever go.” Jon was stung. Ricky didn’t do without any of his favorite things that Jon didn’t want to do. “Why shouldn’t I see the Yankees? You don’t have to come with us and be bored.”

  “‘Us’?” Ricky narrowed his eyes. “Who else?”

  “An old friend who does like baseball.” If Ricky would slow down, Jon would tell him the details. “His name is Davis, and he’s recently moved to the city.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “We’re going to a baseball game. What does it matter?” Jon couldn’t believe he was getting the third degree this way.

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah,” Jon admitted, and then told the complete truth. “Very.”

  “And you’re going with him why?”

  If Jon didn’t know better, he’d say Ricky was jealous. “Because we both like baseball? Honestly, he’s—”

  “How long have you known him?” Ricky interrupted.

  “A hell of a lot longer than I’ve known you,” Jon barked, not at all what he’d been intending to say. “What is your problem?”

  “You’re going to a baseball game with ‘a very good-looking old friend’ and you’re going with me or without me,” Ricky growled. “What do you think my problem is?”

  “What I think is that you of all people have no business questioning where I go and what I do and who I do it with,” Jon growled back, livid at all the assumptions. “And I’m giving you the option of not going in case you’d wreck the evening for me with your snide remarks and big martyr act, like you did at the opera. I have the tickets, and I’m going with someone who likes baseball. He’s—”

  “Yeah, well, I like baseball now.” Ricky crossed the small office and ripped open the door, letting it bang against the wall.

  “You don’t have to go with me and Davis.” Jon glowered at Ricky’s retreating back. “In fact, don’t go!”

  He should keep Ricky from joining them at the game. Davis was exactly the kind of guy Ricky would find incredibly attractive, and not only did Jon not want to find out if Ricky would hunt such a delectable target right there under Jon’s nose, there was no way he wanted to expose Davis to that kind of attention. Grown man or not, Davis was still Jon’s kid brother in some weird, acquired-family sense. Not to mention straight.

  And damn. Ricky’d stomped out without ever promising to post the stop-loss orders.

  Chapter Ten

  THE stacks of paper teetered dangerously; the large rubber bands struggled to contain the forest of slain trees littering the table now taking up most of Jon’s office. The papers had been multiplying like bacteria since Monday and, in two days, had become nearly as dangerous. Piles of 10Qs, 10Ks, prospectuses, printouts, and sales materials of odd sizes threatened to slide to the floor, because of course the pages Jon wanted were at the bottom of the stack. He grabbed at the top.

  Dwight stopped the landslide with a shipping box, pinning the small mountain in place, smashing Jon’s hand in the process. Slowly he and Jon disentangled box, hands, and papers, and nothing hit the floor. Jon stuck his grazed knuckle into his mouth.

  “Sorry.” Dwight set down the box and tidied the stack into semi-stability. “I’ll lift, you get what you want.”

  “Is that the lot from Corax?” Knuckle soothed, Jon extracted the 10Q he’d been searching for and checked the address on the box Dwight had brought in.

  “Yes.”

  “Subprime loan originations up 100 percent in 2004, another 100 percent in 2005, and who knows how much this year?” Penciled notes all over the table with dates, numbers, and percentage signs testified to Jon’s doings since Monday.

  “We’ll know, at least through the second quarter.” Dwight sorted out the newest sets of booklets. “A couple of these lenders are heavier into the Alt-A borrowers than subprime. Their risk exposure is still there, just not as heavily.” He opened a flimsy booklet and ran a finger down a column of numbers. “If it all goes bad, they’ll be the last to collapse; it won’t save them.”

  “So we short them last.” Jon grinned toothily. “We can probably make money on any of these; we’ll make the most if we do it in the right order.” He added another set of numbers to the paper.

  Hours passed in diligent sleuthing through numbers. Jon and Dwight worked in near silence, occasionally passing paperwork to one another. They’d given up trying to work with the columns and rows of numbers on the computer screen two days earlier. After flipping to the wrong screen once too often and then accidentally closing a whole rank of tabs in mid-calculation, Jon had thrown up his hands in frustration and sent Dwight in search of printer paper.

  “Maybe we should list them by the number of salespeople they have.” Jon tapped his pencil against his lips, trying to wrap his mind around the figure he’d just come across, and reaching for a calculator. “NovaFin has 32,000. Have you found one with more?” He tapped out numbers. “And they’re making an average of—good Lord, that can’t be right.”

  Dwight looked up. “Maybe it can. What did you get?”

  Jon told him.

  “That explains my cousin’s new Jaguar. He said he had to keep up with the other guys.”

  “But still—” Jon goggled at a six-digit number that dwarfed what any of the Wolfe Gorman support staff made and came into hailing distance of his own base salary. “Unbelievable. The spread on these loans is paying their salary and commission. We know what they’re lending at, but what are they paying for the use of the money?” He dove into a yearly report in hot pursuit of the answer.

  An hour later, an extremely disheveled and disconcerted Jon threw down a booklet. “There is no record whatsoever of a deposit here. There are no deposits here. Where is the money coming from?” He drew one hand through his hair, trying to smooth the rumples he’d put in during his fruitless search.

  “Maybe this has something to do with it?” Dwight turned the Bloomberg so Jon could see the graph he’d pulled up. A line wobbled more or less horizontally across half the screen, then began a steep ascent. “The commercial paper outstanding has risen from around $1.3 trillion in 2004 to uh, whoo, about $1.7 trillion.”

  “In two years. That’s steep.” Jon messed his
hair again, displeased with the numbers on the screen. “But this is short-term loans. A couple of weeks to a couple of months at the most. But if they’re borrowing short term, selling the mortgages to the big banks to get repackaged, then they can probably keep those short-term loans rolling for a long time, paying off and getting new. And that all works just fine as long as credit is easy to get. But if it’s not….”

  “I’ll start sorting for which of these banks has borrowed the most on the short term.” Dwight scribbled a header on a new sheet of paper.

  “Don’t call them banks. They lend, but they don’t have deposits and they don’t exactly make investments.”

  “What should I call them?” Dwight sifted through a half ream of paper representing a quarterly filing.

  “Ticking time bombs.”

  RICKY pushed back from his desk and stretched, tilting the chair almost to the point of overbalancing. “Think it’s time to call it a day, Logan.”

  “Yeah. I need to focus on something besides fine print for a while.” Leaning back, Logan knuckled one blue eye.

  “The big print giveth and the fine print taketh away,” Ricky quoted, though whom, he couldn’t recall.

  “Ergo, we read the fine print.” Logan still hadn’t quite lost his sucking-up ways, although he’d stopped playing kneesies after Ricky barked at him that morning.

  “The fine print seems to be saying, ‘We made a lot of money in the last few years, and we’re going to make more.’” Several land purchases in California, land of the ever-appreciating house, looked like a sure bet.

  “Lasker Builders closed at 31.5,” Logan read off the Bloomberg. He and Ricky had both gotten pretty good at picking LASK off the scrolling lists of ticker symbols and prices.

  “I’ll calculate out what kind of a position we’ll take; that can wait until morning.” Ricky stood up and stretched again. “In the meantime, I have a baseball game to go to.”

  “Baseball? That’s fifteen minutes of action crammed into two hours.” Logan made a brief “yuck” face.