“Here, here,” added Giles, a handsome youth in his twenties. The two-carat diamond stud in his ear and eighteen-karat gold Cartier on his wrist hinted that his interest in Tony was more pecuniary than personal. Gavallan hoped his friend wasn’t being played for the sap.
“The honor is mine, ladies and gents,” he said, touched by the outpouring of affection. “It’s rare that you get to work with your friends, and for that I feel both privileged and grateful. Now enough of this smarmy nonsense. Let’s sit down and enjoy the evening.” Raising his glass, he quoted from Bum Phillips, former coach of the Houston Oilers and honorary “good old boy.” “Every man have a drink. Every good man have two!”
“Hoo-yeah!” shouted Tustin, glass raised high.
Gavallan clinked glasses with Tustin and his wife, Two Names, Giles, Meg, Harry, and Nina. He couldn’t help but think of the one man who was missing from their ranks. After everyone quieted, he raised his glass again.
“To Grafton Byrnes. Let’s pray for his health and safe return.”
It was midnight in Potomac, Maryland. Streets in the leafy suburb were so calm as to be deserted. A warm, gusty evening breeze carried the sweet scent of cut grass and the merry sawing of crickets. On Dumbarton Road, the lights in most houses were dimmed, the occupants asleep. But in the Vann residence, a stuttering spectral light glowed from the second-floor dormer windows.
In his bedroom, Jason Vann dashed from computer to computer, pausing long enough to type in a sentence or two, before moving to the next. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. A hunted look shadowed his drawn face. Round and round he went, enraptured by this game of his creation. A game of cat and mouse. Vann was after the Private Eye-PO. He was trying to lure him into the open, and his bait was praise and scorn and disbelief and any number of the hundred emotions that stock enthusiasts routinely express.
At that moment, he was working five characters on the IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, and they were discussing the Mercury Broadband IPO to be brought to market in five days by Black Jet Securities. Mario was a high school student who was president of his stock club. Julie was a middle-class housewife who grew interested in the market after her husband had lost all of their money. Al was a New York know-it-all, a seasoned investor, and a veteran of many (losing) campaigns. Krystof was a programmer of Polish descent who believed that the stock market was every immigrant’s way to riches. Heidi was a computer science teacher in Mamaroneck, New York, who had just invested her first five thousand dollars. And they all lived in a twisted corner of Jason Vann’s conniving mind.
Aclass="underline" The market’s gonna gobble up Mercury like a pastrami sandwich. I’m saying double the first day. Think positive.
Krystof: You are sure? I also think it time for big success again.
Heidi: Is it safe?
Mario: I doubled our stock club’s fund investing solely in IPOs last year. But be careful. Didn’t you see the latest news?
Julie: Where were you when my husband started trading?
Aclass="underline" The Private Eye-PO don’t know his ass from his elbow. He’s probably a trader pushing his own stocks, knocking down the others. Caution!
Vann rushed from chair to chair, simulating the voices and thoughts of these five would-be investors. He’d spent three hours online introducing them, getting them into a chat room and allowing them to grow comfortable talking in the open. His job was to create a fictitious universe the Private Eye-PO might stumble upon and wish to join. So far he hadn’t had a nibble. He was getting discouraged. It was time to up the ante.
Mario: I disagree. I think he’s the only one we can trust. I follow his advice to the letter. If he’s a trader, he’s a darn good one. Remember what he called Mercury? A scam dog!
Julie: Sounds like you’re the Private Eye-PO himself, Mario. Come on, tell us the truth!!
Mario: Ha, ha.
Krystof: Who is this Private Eye-PO? In Poland, you never trust man who does not tell you name. I mean, his name. Excuse me.
Aclass="underline" No way a company like Black Jet is gonna touch Mercury if it’s got problems. No way. Be real. I saw Gavallan on CNBC. The guy’s a pro. He was a pilot!
Vann had slid back into Mario’s chair when a new name popped onto the screen.
Vaclass="underline" Pros, schmoes. Make up own mind. I buy Mercury and buy big. I have own sources. Nay to Private Eye-PO.
Dismayed, Vann frowned. No way was Val the Private Eye-PO. He sounded like a foreigner. Jumping into Krystof’s chair, he tried a ruse.
Krystof [in Polish]: Hello, new friend. Welcome. You are a fellow Pole, perhaps?
Val [in Polish]: From Gdansk. The great Lech Walesa’s home. And you?
“Score!” cried Vann aloud, grabbing a Nerf basketball and stuffing it for a quick two points. Then, collapsing back into Krystof’s chair, he typed:
Krystof [in Polish]: Kraków. I left in ’98.
Vann, whose father’s real name was Wladisaw Vanniewski, didn’t dare add more. His Polish was rusty; anything more than the basics would expose him as a phony. Anxious to keep the dialogue afloat, he moved to Heidi’s chair.
Heidi: A friend of mine is from Warsaw. He made a fortune buying tech stocks. Can they still go up?
There was always at least one total idiot in any chat room.
Vaclass="underline" They can only go up. Mercury will lead way. To heaven!
Boy, thought Vann. He’s a real supporter. As he slid back into Al’s chair, another name popped onto the screen.
Spade: Hey, kids, you want the inside skinny? Talk to me. Your very own celebrity reporter has come to the rescue. Heidi, dear, listen closely to me if you want the oop-scay on Mercury. All the rest of you neophytes, am-scray!
Vann froze in his chair, eyes wide. “Spade” as in Sam Spade. As in the Private Eye-PO. Could it be? Scooting his chair closer to the computer, he felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. The bait had worked. The fish was on the line.
Wiping his forehead, Jason Vann smiled.
Now he just had to reel him in.
The first course had been cleared. Peter Duchin and his orchestra had begun to play an up-tempo version of “Witchcraft,” the vocalist doing a very acceptable Sinatra. Couples flocked from their tables to the dance floor. Deciding he’d done enough penance for one evening, Gavallan turned to Nina and asked if he might have the next dance.
“Sorry, Jett, but I’ve promised Giles. He’s dying to cut the rug.”
Gavallan smiled understandingly, though he was a little irked. While same-sex partners might be permitted at society functions, their dancing with each other was still touchy. If Tony or Giles wanted to dance, it had to be with a member of the opposing team. Gavallan thought the whole thing ridiculous. He couldn’t care less who did what with whom as long as they were happy. Still, Nina was his date and he wanted to dance. “Try and save one for me, will you?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
Gavallan watched the happy couple dodge their way to the dance floor, then stood up and set off in the opposite direction. The path to the bar looked mercifully clear of congestion. If he moved swiftly, he might make it scot-free. Fifteen seconds later he was there, leaning against the oak railing and perusing his choices. Whiskey had been his daddy’s drink, but Gavallan preferred vodka. Spotting a familiar bottle with yellow script, he decided on one more of the usual. And why not? It wasn’t often you put all your chips on red and gave the wheel a spin. After a day like today, a guy deserved to get hammered. It might even add a few laughs to his speech.