Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (29 page)

'I introduced them,' said Aram smiling proudly. 'About a month ago, Ruff said that he was thinking of retirement. I told him that LeashTrade wanted to expand in London.'

'How do you know them?' asked Tong.

'They invest in my fund. They're nice guys. Good friends. They're very interested in you, Jack,' said Aram.

'Why me?'

'They think you could go places. They've heard a lot about you.'

That was the first time that Aram had shown any admiration for me. I wondered what his role would be.

'You can come to Edinburgh, Jack, but you'll have to stick to the rules. We are traditional, conservative investment managers. We don't speculate,' said Hastings sternly.

I was flattered but wasn't sure what to do. I wished that Maffie was around to advise me. I shouldn't have discarded my friendship with Stan Slimcop. It was strange. I had made all this money and yet I felt insecure.

*   *   *

The International Coffee Organisation invited me to a Christmas cocktail party in Berners Street in the West End. Coffee prices had fallen from their heady peaks and were trading around $3 a pound.

'It suits us, Jack,' said Louis Rondario, Colombian Coffee delegate. 'We were uncomfortable with prices of more than $4 a pound. We don't want coffee to become too expensive.'

'You mean that you don't want us British to drink more tea,' I chuckled.

I wandered around the room, but without Maffie, I didn't have any contacts. It felt strange. I was an outsider in the crowd and it was lonesome without her. I stood in a corner, sipping my glass of wine, observing some young guys joking around. One of them was John Spittlefields of
Bloomberg.

Spittlefields, about six foot tall with floppy brown hair and a cheerful friendly face, spotted me and came over. I liked him. He was straight and had reported the interview with me fairly.

'Hi, John, Sorry, don't have a story.' I said, glad to have company. 'Nothing much is happening in the markets.'

'No problem, come and join us.'

He introduced me to reporters from the
FT, The Times, Reuters, Dow Jones
and
Associated Press.
They were not much older than me. They were happy and cracked jokes. I wondered what it was like to be a journalist. On the outside, looking in. Scrambling for stories.

'Why isn't Pearl Fleecer with you tonight, Jack?' asked
Times
reporter, Max Radar, a skinny guy, with an annoying smile.

'We've broken up.'

'Surprise, surprise,' grinned the reporter.

'Surprise? What do you mean surprise?'

I was irritated. What did Pearl have to do with him?

'Horoshi Kofia Corp is Pearl's biggest client.'

I was puzzled: 'Never heard of it.'

'Come on Jack! Horoshi is one of Russia's biggest coffee manufacturers. Surely you know that Pearl worked for them?'

'No, really. It's news to me. Pearl told me that she was doing market research and branding for a new chain of coffee shops.'

'That's news to us. Branding?' laughed Radar. 'Maybe a bit, but that's not her main line. Pearl's in public relations. She's a spin doctor.'

'She's been spinning for Horoshi,' said Spittlefields. 'She phones us regularly. Says her client supports fair trade.'

I was silent, thinking. What was Danny trying to tell me about Pearl? Why didn't I speak to him? Stupid!

'Pearl said that speculators like you disrupted the coffee market,' said Radar. 'She even mentioned manipulation.'

I shook my head: 'Rubbish! We never manipulated prices. You know that! Speak to Rondario. He'll confirm that coffee farmers are only now making a decent living.'

'Pearl said you were just interested in the money. Not the farmers.'

'Pearl and I had our differences, but she would never say that about me,' I growled. 'She knew very well that we gave money to the farmers. That we cared for them. OK, she did leak stuff to the
Daily Mail,
but it did me good. People now know who I am. Pearl brands companies and people. I was one of her clients.'

Two of the reporters started to snigger. Spittlefields shut them up: 'That's Pearl for you. The
Daily Mail
piece was meant to embarrass you Jack. That's why she fed them that information about drugs. Get you guys out of the market. The police to search your firm. Perhaps get you fired! Slick operator, that Pearl.'

'No doubt Horoshi Kofia Corp was using her to get information about you guys,' said the
Associated Press
reporter.

'OK, Pearl asked me questions. But that's because she was interested,' I insisted, still hoping that they were wrong, but in my heart of hearts, knowing that they were right.

They looked at me silently, probably wondering how a successful trader could be so naive.

'Don't worry Jack, she's also fooled us,' said Spittlefields. 'They call journalists, reptiles, but spin doctors! They're alligators!'

'Pearl's very shrewd. She builds up relationships, milks them and then dumps them,' chirped the
Dow Jones
reporter.

And she gets paid twice, I thought to myself. All those presents. Jewellery and designer clothes. Five star hotels!

'Pillow secrets,' said Radar.

Sensing that I was getting angry and could hit him, he put up his hands: 'Take it easy Jack. It happened to me. I was busy on a big story. Pearl made a play for me and I foolishly showed her my article before it was published. I don't like saying this to you, but we were in bed at the time. She told her clients about it and they persuaded my editor to kill the story.'

It should have been obvious why Pearl questioned me about my coffee trading. It mostly happened after I had had a drink, smoked pot or we had made love. When I was most vulnerable and accessible. Branding! Coffee chain! How could I have been so stupid? My brains were in my balls and fame filled my head. A prize sucker.

'Can you excuse me guys, I have to phone someone in New York,' I said gloomily, walking to an empty corner of the room.

Danny Dovetail was on the phone swiftly: 'Hi Jack, thinking of going back into coffee, it's come back a lot.'

'Danny, remember you were going to tell me something about Pearl?'

'Why are you only interested now? Bit late isn't it?'

'Some reporters have told me something. Maybe you can confirm it. They say that one of her major clients is Horoshi Kofia Corp.'

'I'm afraid they're right Jack. Remember when you were recovering from a panic attack outside the Russian Samovar?'

'How could I forget?'

'Pearl arrived quickly because she had been working around the corner.'

'So?'

'She said that her client was on West 51st Street.'

'I don't recall that. What's the significance?'

'Don't you remember what I told you? Veruschka and Borodino have their New York offices there.''Oh my God, no!'

'That's not all. I found out that Horoshi Kofia Corp also has offices in West 51st Street.'

'You think there's some link between Hiroshi and the Russian hedge funds?'

'Draw your own conclusions. They're in the very same building. There's something else . . .'

'What?'

'I don't believe that Pearl's Ukrainian. I think that she's Russian. I had a Russian girlfriend who lives in America. Her accent is exactly the same.'

'You think that she's some Russian Mata Hari?'

'Jack, tell me. Does Pearl question you about the coffee market? At odd times. Romantic moments. After sex, that sort of thing.'

'Not now. We've broken up. She did when we were involved.'

'Just as well you've broken up with her Jack. Watch your back, my friend.'

After he hung up I felt depressed. Yes, I had made lots of money, but my girlfriend had slept with the world and had knifed me. My good friends, Maffie and Stan, were no longer around to give me support. Why did I listen to Pearl and write that silly letter to Stan? Why did I let her influence me? I had to apologise as soon as possible. Feeling stupid and humiliated, I decided to go home.

Spittlefields, who could see that I was down, asked if he could accompany me. It was dark and chilly outside. We walked along to Goodge Street tube station, passing some homeless guy with a dog. He brought back memories and I gave him £100.

'How long have you been writing about the markets, John?'

'About five years.'

'Ever wanted to be in the game yourself? You make much more money.'

'No . . . Brokers offered me jobs. But I like to chase stories. You become addicted to it. Gives you a kick. It's fun being on the outside, looking in.'

'I suppose you know Issie McTavish.'

'Issie the veteran? Good guy. Top-notch journalist. Been doing it for years. Very helpful. Taught me a lot.'

'He certainly got the story out of us,' I said.

'Great story. Zulu battle plan corners bears.'

We continued to walk slowly and silently.

'Do you know that you've made enemies Jack?'

'My former boss warned me about that.'

'Watch your back Jack! The hedge fund managers who lost, are out to get you.'

'A friend of mine said the exact same thing. Who cares? If you play the markets, you have to lose sometimes. They know that.'

'Someone told me that the Russian mafia controls the funds, but I haven't confirmed it,' said Spittlefields. He suddenly stopped and looked straight at me. 'Former boss?'

Perhaps I was being indiscreet, but I liked John.

'Yes, I've got a story for you,' I said.

*   *   *

A few days later LeashTrade Inc. came to town. Through the glass walls, I could see my new boss, Leash Grobnick. He was sitting in Ruffish's chair with his feet on the table. I knocked on the door politely and entered his office. Grobnick stood up and shook my hand briskly. He was about fifty five, medium height with a powerful build, a red face, a grey moustache and thick black hair, tinged with grey on the sides. He was dressed in a smart pinstripe suit. On the sofa were two guys who looked as if they were in their late twenties or early thirties.

'Good to meet you Jack, we've heard a lot about you,' said Grobnick with his New Yorker accent. 'Let me introduce you to my sons, Cy and Max.'

'I saw a picture of you in
Hello!
magazine with quite a girl,' grinned Cy. 'It must be fame, money or both. Certainly not your looks!'

He laughed at his own joke and I decided that I had better join in. Cy was taller than his father. He looked like Leash, except that his face was softer. Leash showed me a photograph of his son's little daughters.

'Cy has done me proud. Max I'm still waiting,' Leash scolded playfully.

I felt sorry for Max, who was about five foot four with a large crooked nose and a face scarred by acne. Instead of a suit, Max was sloppily dressed in a creased pink shirt and brown corduroys. His father and brother seemed to dominate him.

'We think that we have a good business here, Jack. Your fund has a lot of potential, so we have decided to merge it with the Eastern European and the Resources Fund.'

I could understand why he was combining Aquarium with Maffie's Resources Fund, but why Aram Zabkian's Eastern European Fund?

'We want Zabkian and you to be partners. We'll keep the name Aquarium and the merged fund will have $300 million under management,' said Leash. 'Our aim is to make Aquarium one of the biggest macro hedge funds, trading right across the spectrum - stocks, bonds, currencies and commodities.'

His decision took me by surprise. I liked Krishna and Tong, but Aram had never been helpful. He was no friend of mine.

'What about Krishna and Tong?'

'They're joining Hastings & Murray in Edinburgh.'

'What are you going to do with their funds?'

'We'll merge them as well. Our own team will manage them. This business is going places, Jack. The New York and London funds now manage around $1 billion,' said Leash. 'Cy is director of marketing and Max is systems manager. What about a basic salary of $300,000 and a 7.5 per cent profit share in Aquarium?'

The offer astounded me! For that sort of money I could work with anyone. Even Aram.

'That's just the start, Jack. We want to build up the business to $10 billion in the next few years,' said Cy. 'Max, can you go and get some coffee for us?'

'Where's Bess?' I asked.

'She wanted to be a trainee fund manager, but it didn't suit us,' said Leash, abruptly. 'We let her go.'

*   *   *

In the markets, decisiveness was the name of my game, but in life I procrastinated. At last I picked up courage to go and apologise to the Slimcops. It was better to see them face to face than to talk on the phone. On that cold, grey January day with Jazz alongside me, I struggled to think of the right words to say. The light drizzle turned into sleet, a contrast to that bright hot summer's day, when I first visited Constable's grave and walked down the pathway towards their home. This time I had to walk gingerly as the path was muddy and slippery and the dog was pulling on his lead.

No one responded to the security button at first, but I waited and then rang again. A woman answered. It was difficult to speak to her on the intercom as it wasn't functioning properly. She eventually opened the gate and we made our way to the entrance past the lone sculpture of the Eagle. In the winter it looked fairly menacing without sunflowers and roses surrounding it.

A middle-aged woman, in a blue nurse's uniform, opened the door.

'I'm Jack. Can I see Stan and Leila?' I asked.

'I told you they're not here.'

'I couldn't hear you properly. When do you think they'll be back?'

'You're wasting your time. They've gone away. I'm looking after the house.'

Are they OK? How's Leila?'

She wouldn't answer.

'Can you tell me where they are? They're good friends, I want to talk to them about something.'

'What?'

'It's personal. Where can I reach them?'

The woman looked at me closely.

'You said you were Jack?'

'Yes.'

'They talked about you.'