The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Ricky chanted under his breath. Jon could hear the desperation with every bad keystroke that he had to back up and retype. Why was Ricky this frantic?

  “You bought the options, right?”

  “Yeah, but a lot lower than this—they won’t be in the money until I’ve had one hell of a haircut.”

  Stifling the groan, the scream, and the punch he wanted to deliver to the back of Ricky’s head, Jon remained still and quiet—Ricky knew his fat was in the fire. An outburst wouldn’t make him type more accurately or the market-maker pick up that line any faster.

  “What are you finding, Logan?” Ricky had his screen up and was scrolling down to his holdings—he could press the “sell” button in a scant second—the computerized pricing followed the market-maker’s spoken directions. “Damn, that’s close.” He clicked the icon and the screen refreshed. “Hey, could have been worse. I’m still up a quarter point even after transaction costs.”

  “Um, Ricky….” Logan’s blue eyes had a lot of white showing. “WideWest is….”

  “Different market-maker!” Ricky flipped screens, typing furiously again, more accurately this time. The phone slipped from his shoulder—Jon caught it and dialed the number from memory, a big firm with offices that had had to be recreated in a building one street over after a plane had flown through its main trading floor in 2001. He didn’t know the direct number for the trader Ricky needed, and got caught in the phone tree, punching numbers. In three choices he’d made it to the market-maker’s hold queue and stuck the phone against Ricky’s ear.

  Ricky had been faster to reach the sell screen, where a number flashed red in the center of the screen. It dropped by two tenths between flashes, and Ricky clicked the sell button before it could drop again.

  Ricky toppled forward, his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands. All the I told you sos died in Jon’s mouth. Ricky knew each step of this descent into negative territory, aside from the details of why WideWest had tanked. Jon worked Ricky’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs into muscles that had knotted faster than the stock had fallen.

  “What happened, Logan?” Ricky asked without looking up. “Why did….”

  Reading from the Bloomberg screen, Logan reeled off the tragedy. “‘WideWest Financial’s CFO, Charles Perlov, announced in a press conference today that the lender will be restating second-quarter earnings and expect third-quarter earnings to be substantially below previous Wall Street estimates. One of WideWest’s major sources of loan originations, Lasker Builders, announced today that they have had a record number of purchase cancellations, leaving them with approximately six hundred uncontracted single-family dwellings, and will also miss estimates for third-quarter earnings….’ Do you guys want to hear the rest?”

  “How’d we miss a hundred eighty million bucks’ worth of unsold inventory, Logan?” Ricky didn’t lift his head, then popped upright, out of Jon’s hands. “Oh, my God. CertinBuild.” He typed frantically, and Jon could only rack his brain for the company—Ricky’d mentioned owning some, and it sounded like a supplier to the construction industry. Six hundred unsold units meant a supplier was looking at lean times until the builder’s inventory moved.

  Ricky did a double take at the screen, his hand on the mouse. “I am screwed.” Then he clicked.

  “Down how much?” Logan whispered.

  “Nine points. The small float got us.” Ricky’s voice was nearly inaudible.

  Jon understood—the company had a relatively small number of shares outstanding, and everyone had piled toward the door at once. The sudden increase in volume pulled the price way down, and CertinBuild had been last of Ricky’s stocks to sell. “How bad?” he whispered, letting the gravity of the disaster dampen him too.

  “About four hundred and thirty thousand bucks. Add that to the hundred and twenty I’m down on WideWest, laugh at the $25,000 profit on Lasker, throw in the four hundred thou from last week on Intens; I’m screwed.” He fell back against the chair and didn’t move when Jon put a consoling hand back on his shoulder. “Should have listened to you.”

  He should have. He could have been profitable today, not staring at a cumulative loss of over a million bucks in a week. Ricky’d given everything back that he’d made just a few short weeks ago, plus a third. If $730,000 of profit made him a hero, today made him—

  “Santeramo!” Edgar bellowed through the open door. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “The housing industry seems to be a bit unsettled.” Ricky sat straight in his seat, swiveling around to face Edgar. “And the Yankees are favored to win again tonight against Detroit. They beat them 8-4 Tuesday.”

  Maybe Ricky could bluff it through; maybe he could keep Edgar from bursting any blood vessels. Jon admired the sheer guts it took to understate the situation that calmly, and had to wipe the puzzlement off his own face—Ricky never knew who played or who won “team golf” games. As a diversion it probably wasn’t going to work.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about the Yankees! Is your ass covered?!” Hands raised and curled into fists, Edgar looked ready to beat the answers out of Ricky.

  “Sold everything.” Ricky could remain calm in the truth; he always had.

  “And?” A huge blue vein, Y-shaped, stood out in Edgar’s forehead.

  “Came out ahead on Lasker.” Ricky stopped.

  “Don’t make me pull it out of you, Santeramo.” Edgar spoke between clenched teeth: his fists stayed ready.

  “Bit of a haircut on WideWest, but”—Ricky checked the monitor—“missed the worst of the damage, and CertinBuild got slapped around.”

  “Do not bullshit me in any way, Santeramo.” Edgar’s voice was low and dangerous. “What’s the total damage?”

  “Five hundred thirty-five K.” Ricky didn’t flinch, and for that Jon could only give him credit.

  “And that’s after you covered your ass?” Edgar demanded, his forehead vein throbbing visibly. “After I gave you explicit instructions to get your strategies together?” His angry, pouchy eyes flicked from Ricky to Jon. “Did you not do that?”

  “We did. I bought puts to cover.” Ricky stood up, taking a sidestep in front of Jon. “He convinced me.” Jon stepped sideways too, not wanting Ricky to stand bulwark. And now he’s trying to protect me, even when it’s his ass on the line.

  “And you still took a beating?” Spittle flew toward Ricky. “How?”

  “Give it a couple of days, the puts will be in the money.” Ricky scooted sideways again, putting himself in front of Jon. Behind him, Logan took refuge in both their shadows; Jon could feel his presence.

  “You did a shitty job!” Edgar glared around Ricky to Jon. “I should fire both your asses. Insubordinate and incompetent!”

  “Not Jon.” Ricky’s shoulders came back and he stood taller. “He did his damnedest to convince me; I’m the one who made the ultimate decisions.”

  “You’re so busy looking after everyone else you forget to cover your own ass,” Edgar raged. “Now you’re down a million bucks in a week. More. You and busy boy hiding back there—I can’t afford you two. Out!”

  “What?” came from three throats. Jon pushed beside Ricky to glare at Edgar.

  “Out. You’re fired.” Something ugly passed over Edgar’s face—not rage, but a more measured reaction. “Gone. Do I have to draw the artist a picture?” A triumphant, bitter smile wrinkled his jowls. He jerked his thumb to the door. “Out, Ricky. You too, Logan.”

  He’d held his tongue too long—Jon protested. “That isn’t right!”

  “Down a million bucks because he can’t cover his ass?” Edgar fixed a beady glare on Jon.

  “That wasn’t Logan’s decision. We’ve had trades go bad worse than this—we recover!” Icy tendrils of despair wove through Jon—he had no better argument to save Ricky, because the trade wasn’t the problem.

  “You can go with them, Hogenboom.” Gloating made Edgar look more like a toad than ever.

 
; “No!” Ricky whirled and grabbed Jon’s arm. “Don’t do it! Don’t—”

  “Oh, do.” Edgar smirked. “Push me one more time….”

  “Don’t!” Dark eyes imploring, Ricky’s face begged him not to make the gesture, and deep within, Jon knew it would be an empty sacrifice, accomplishing nothing but to remove a thorn from Edgar’s side. The gall of retreating rose through him, and words of defiance bubbling in his throat got swallowed back. “They need you here,” Ricky whispered.

  Had Ricky said anything else, Jon would have spat out anatomically impossible suggestions, letting anger drive his course. Ashamed, Jon knew he’d been no defense so far, and Ricky had more faith in him than he deserved.

  “Keys.” Edgar held out his hand, breaking the moment and sealing all their paths. “You can wait in the lobby; someone will clean out your desks.” He snapped his fingers. “Do I need to call Security?”

  “I won’t give you the satisfaction.” Ricky unsnapped three keys from his ring and dropped them in Edgar’s palm. “Send my stuff downstairs; I’ll be at the fountain in the lobby.” He stalked out past his former boss, speaking to no one as he crossed the main trading floor, though all eyes followed him. Tall and proud, he pushed through the glass doors, his back straight and his head high, to be swallowed in seconds by the elevator.

  “You.” Edgar turned to Logan, who stood shakily in his spot, his eyes fixed on his boss in the way of birds watching snakes. “You can still save your job.” His words turned lascivious.

  For a moment Logan hesitated, then shrank with a sigh. “Okay.”

  Deciding abruptly that he’d rather forfeit his job than his honor, Jon said a flat, “No.”

  Both men snapped toward Jon. “He’s got a line on something else, something better.” Failing in Ricky’s trust before the elevator even reached the lobby was not an option. “Clean out your desk and wait downstairs with Ricky.”

  “Maybe you’d better clean out your desk, Jon.” A furious red bloomed in Edgar’s cheeks once more.

  Neither job nor honor need be sacrificed. “Maybe you’d like a wrongful termination suit, Edgar.” Jon exposed his teeth, but it wasn’t a grin. “With all the dirty laundry that will air. I have the time and the resources to pursue it.” If Ricky hadn’t provided Edgar such a glorious excuse, Jon would be calling lawyers already.

  The color drained from Edgar’s face with the same speed the investors’ cash would leave the fund once news of Jon’s suit hit the papers. “Pack up Ricky’s crap and get back to work. Somebody’s got to make some money around here.” Edgar disappeared, and to Jon’s satisfaction, it looked like he fled.

  Logan remained, and he was angry now. “Edgar only wants blowjobs, but you—you just fucked me. Fucked me over good.”

  “I just saved your ass and everyone else’s. You cave, and his reign of terror starts up again, only worse. You want to bend over for him too?” Maybe the little shit had bent over for Ricky, but even if he’d kept his nasty smirks to himself lately, Jon wasn’t above satisfying his own desire never to see the man again. “I wasn’t kidding about the job, although you might be too big a jerk to fit in at that outfit. Think you can remember how to act like a businessman instead of a sex toy?”

  “Hell, yes.” Logan’s blue eyes narrowed.

  “And watch your mouth. It’s respectable, not like here; you can’t offend the trust-fund clients.” Ricky would need a position as well, but could he work with Ben and his conservative style? Calling to mind that Ricky was waiting, Jon tossed his head toward the trading floor. “Meet me downstairs, I have stuff to pack and calls to make.”

  Liberating a box by dumping out reams of copier paper, Jon returned to clear out Ricky’s office. The top drawers got thrown in wholesale, but the large lower drawer’s contents made Jon slow down. Sketchpads, all well used, needed to be placed gently so as not to bend the pages, and he couldn’t resist snooping. Sheet after sheet of pencil drawings, all realistic, and some like looking in a mirror. Studies of legs, arms, torsos, mixed with faces, full and partial, and more nearly complete figures. Ricky had spent a lot of time on these—only a few small, pointed drawings appeared here and there among the beautifully representational studies. His heart in his throat, Jon turned another page, only to slam the pages shut when a noise startled him.

  “What happened?” Geoff stood in the doorway.

  “Edgar fired Ricky and Logan. Ricky took a loss on the housing stocks.” Jon wished he could look through all the pads, but stowed them carefully. Geoff didn’t need to see.

  “Even so, that’s not a reason.”

  Jon dropped a carton of granola bars, the last of Ricky’s possessions, into the box. “It was an excuse, and you know it. He propositioned Logan practically before Ricky was out the door.”

  Geoff suddenly looked tired. “I’ll talk to Edgar.”

  “You do that.” Jon had very little hope for help from that quarter. He shut the door behind Geoff—might as well make the calls from here. “Hello, Ben, it’s Jon Hogenboom. About that open position….”

  “Ah, Jon!” Ben’s voice was warm with welcome and a tinge of something else. “You’re going to join us after all?”

  “It’s not for me—here’s the situation.” Jon summarized the recent events, playing up Ricky’s part. “And Edgar fired him and the analyst, mostly for spite.”

  “I’ve never liked you working with that man; this isn’t the first time I’ve heard such things.” Ben sounded weary. “He’s never approached you, has he?”

  “No, but that doesn’t make everything else right.” That would be a frequent thought at 3:00 a.m., Jon was sure.

  “Here’s my problem, Jon. When you declined, I promoted someone from within. I don’t have a senior level desk open, and frankly, your Ricky sounds like too much of a cowboy for us. Is the analyst any good?” Ben stole the hope and gave a bit back.

  “Green, and needs some help seeing the bigger picture, but yeah, Logan’s good.” Jon gave the most accurate assessment he could—Ben had to know.

  “Send him over.” Ben chuckled. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  Not quite the same as “yes, of course,” but Logan would have his chance. And Jon had never known Ben Fleisher to “see” about something when he hadn’t made it so. Jon’s heart was a bit lighter on the way downstairs but dropped again when he saw Ricky at the fountain, backed by a small bamboo forest, staring into the dancing waters. Fresh off a big loss, Ricky’s job prospects were dimmer than they’d been a week ago, even without a vengeful Edgar to blight them further.

  “Joseph Fleisher and Sons Capital Management: I already talked to Ben.” Jon handed Logan a slip with an address and a phone number. “He’s Mr. Fleisher to you; he’s fair and conservative. Don’t screw it up.”

  “I won’t,” Logan declared fervently. “Thank you, Mr. Hogenboom.” He snatched up his possessions and scurried out to catch a cab on the street.

  “I’m sorry—he didn’t have a senior position for you.” After all Ricky had done to protect everyone, and Jon didn’t have a safety net for him.

  “I’ll be okay, Jon, and that’s not my kind of trading, you know that.” Ricky pulled Jon onto the sectional couch that faced the fountain. “Enough recruiters call me that I should find something new before word gets around too bad.” He squeezed Jon’s hand. “I’m glad you didn’t play hero.”

  Jon squeezed back. “I should have told him to fuck off.”

  “I should have listened to you.” Ricky smiled with only half his mouth. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Jon lifted his head to see what prompted Ricky’s sudden exclamation. The elevators had opened again and disgorged several riders, all carrying boxes much like what Jon had brought to the lobby for Ricky. “That’s Dr. Iggy!”

  “Yo! Dr. Iggy!” Ricky jumped to his feet, waving.

  Iggy hunted around for the source of the hail and trudged across the marble floor to join them. He sat down heavily on the fountain’s ledge, his b
ox of desk objects at his feet. A copy of Hansen’s Econometrics stuck up over the top.

  “What happened?” Ricky asked for both of them.

  “Oh, about what you can expect when you bet the farm on natural gas futures with steadily declining spreads. It dropped below sixty cents, and that, my friends, essentially shut us down.” Iggy glanced at the banks of elevators, where more men and women carrying boxes and plastic bags emerged. “The only ones left get to try to untangle the mess and sell off what’s sellable. Mind if I hang with you for a few minutes? They probably wouldn’t beat me up in front of impartial witnesses.”

  “Why would they…?” That’s right, Ricky didn’t know the backstory.

  “Iggy saw it coming, but no one wanted to hear it.” The people coming off the elevators looked a bit too shocky to mount assaults, but if they noticed their target, they might get livelier.

  “A couple of things done differently, and we could have made a bundle. We lost a couple billion instead.” Iggy shrugged. “I’ll miss you guys.”

  “I’ll tell Dwight.” Jon would miss the two of them arguing theory.

  “No need—I won’t be missing Dwight.” Iggy winked. “He’s coming over for dinner.” Rejoining the exodus to the street, Iggy got into a cab with two box-laden women. Ricky and Jon watched him in silence, which grew more awkward with each moment.

  “I—” they both started.

  “I better go now,” Ricky finally said. “And you need to go back upstairs and be Edgar’s bane.”

  “I’m sorry, Ricky.” How very many things Jon was sorry for.

  “Me too.” He stood up and held his arms out to Jon, who curled into them after the smallest of hesitations. They held each other tightly, wordlessly, but Ricky accepted only a small brushing kiss before pushing Jon away. “I need to go.”

  “Ricky, maybe we—”

  “No. We still aren’t seeing each other.” Ricky cut off Jon’s hesitant question. “I don’t want it to be because you feel sorry for me.” He collected his box and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine