The trading room of Black Jet occupied the entire western length of the fortieth floor. Desks ran perpendicular to floor-to-ceiling windows, twelve carrier decks bisected by a flight tower constructed from the newest in flat-screen monitors. Currencies were to the left of the room, followed by bonds, options, and finally, equities, both domestic and international. Chairs were situated at four-foot intervals and nearly every post was occupied by a man or woman, standing, seated, or in some pose in between. One hundred forty traders in all, and when things heated up, the place took on the frenetic currents of a Middle Eastern bazaar. It was the Casbah gone California, Evian and Odwallah replacing hookahs and hashish.
Gavallan leaned a hand on Tustin’s desk, marveling at his ability to goad the price of the stock ever higher. Picking up a receiver, he patched himself into Tustin’s call.
“Hey, Brucie, what d’ya got for me on Incisex?” The voice belonged to Frank MacMurray, a trader at Merrill Lynch.
“Her name’s ‘sexy’ and I can give you a block of ten thousand at 18.”
“Eighteen? Last bid’s 17½. Gimme a break.”
“Got ten other johns lined up right behind you, Frankie,” Tustin said. “But listen, pal, since you’re cute, I’ll cut it to 177/8. Buy or fly.”
“Done, and get me ten more at the same price.”
“You’re filled.”
Tustin aimed a finger at another flashing button, this one connecting him with Fidelity Investments, the nation’s largest manager of mutual funds. “Yallo, Charlie, what are you looking for?”
Gavallan knew from reading the “book” that Fidelity was a buyer of Incisex. They’d loved the stock’s story and planned to build a position in it in one of their biotech funds. Accordingly, they’d given an indication they’d take 10 percent of the issue. No one firm would be allotted a full 10 percent of the offering—in this case over five hundred thousand shares. As it was important that Incisex had a broad and liquid market, Black Jet had a duty to sell shares to a great many customers, some of whom were retail brokerages—Merrill Lynch, Paine Webber, Bear Stearns and the like—that would in turn pass on their allotments to their own clients. To say you wanted 10 percent was equivalent to requesting as much of the new issue as Black Jet might give you. Powerhouses like Fidelity, Strong, Janus, and Vanguard couldn’t waste time following small positions in hundreds of stocks. When they committed to a new stock, they expected the issue manager to help them acquire a meaningful stake in the company, somewhere upward of 2 percent of the offering. All through the day, Fidelity would be phoning to buy more shares—especially as the price continued to rise.
“Yo, Brucie, give me everything you got at 18.”
Tustin checked his screens for available shares. Many of Black Jet’s clients had bought the stock not to buy, but to “flip”—that is, to sell after an hour or two with the expectation of making a small, risk-free profit.
“Got you five grand at 18 and another five at 18 and a teeny,” said Tustin. A teeny was a sixteenth of a point. It was Tustin’s job to mark up the stock each time he made a sale as a commission to Black Jet. The amount of his markup depended a lot on how good the client was. In the case of Fidelity, one of the firm’s best clients, he would slap on a sixteenth at most. “And this just in: a block of twenty thousand at 183/8. You a buyer?”
“Send ’em over,” said Charlie. “We’re buying and we’re buying big. We’re starting to feel good about this baby.”
Tustin put down the phone, grinning like a madman. “Five days from now, it’ll be Mercury’s turn. Two billion dollars. Oh yeah, we’re hitting the big time!”
“Yeah, Mercury,” said Gavallan, the words stale in his mouth. “Great.”
Tustin stared at him oddly. “You okay, Jett? You look kind of like shit. You go out after the ball last night? It was that Nina, I bet. She looked like a goer. Wearing anything less, they’d have arrested her. You always get the sexy ones. But then, you’re the boss.”
If Tustin was cheeky, it was no more than his usual self. Everyone was in a grand mood since Byrnes had resurfaced; Incisex’s successful launch had capped it. Instinct told Gavallan not to reveal his suspicions about Byrnes’s situation. He’d explained that Graf was remaining in Moscow for the weekend and would be accompanying Konstantin Kirov to New York come Monday. The words “prisoner” or “hostage” never entered the discussion.
“I’ll tell you what Graf’s really doing,” Tustin went on. “He’s shacked up with some Russian babe. I’ve heard they’re lookers over there. Yeah, that’s it. Graf’s getting himself some commie cooze. Probably got a dozen of them in bed with him.”
“Can it, Bruce!” Gavallan barely reined in his outraged voice, infuriated by the insinuation of illicit sex.
But Tustin insisted on going on, his compact figure bouncing up and down in his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “I can see that old fart now. Probably got a club sandwich going, laying there between a blond and a redhead like the filling in an Oreo. Got some pussy in his face and some chick gnawing on his hog. Hoo-yeah! Go, Air Force!”
“I said shut up, Bruce. Now!” Gavallan felt his shoulder tense, his fist bunch up, and he knew that if he didn’t leave this second, he’d either pick up Tustin and chuck him across the room or belt him a good one right in the jaw.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” asked Tustin. “Ah, you’re jealous, that’s it. Maybe Nina didn’t take such good care of you. No, no, no. I got it. It’s Cate you were after all along. I saw you two, cheek to cheek. You want some of that poontang, that it? I’m a sucker for black bush myself. Drives me cra—”
A cord snapped inside Gavallan and he slugged Tustin, a lightning-fast jab to that oh-so-loud mouth. The trader tumbled into his chair, gasping, raising a hand to his bleeding lip. Thankfully, the Incisex crew had moved down a few aisles and were talking to Mr. Kwok about a listing on foreign exchanges; only the traders in the vicinity saw what happened. For a few seconds, they froze, no one speaking or moving a muscle. Just as quickly, they discounted the act and continued with their work. The expressions on their faces said Tustin had been due a spanking.
“Sorry, man,” squealed Tustin, dabbing at his swollen lip. “I was just joking. Really, Jett. No offense, man.”
“Damn you, Bruce,” whispered Gavallan, sitting down, lowering his head next to Tustin’s. “Why can’t you just learn to shut up once in a while? Shit. I’m the one who’s sorry. I apologize. I was out of line.”
And looking into Tustin’s pained eyes, he asked himself, Is it you, Bruce? Has Kirov got his hooks in you?
Just then, Tustin’s private line rang. Gavallan grabbed the phone. “Hello… Yeah, Emerald.”
“Jett, I’ve got a caller who says he has to speak to you right away. He says his name is Jason. He won’t give me his last name, but he insists you know him and that it’s urgent. Should I send the call down or do you want me to take a message?”
“Tell him I’ll be right up. Pass it through to my office.” Gavallan handed the phone back to Tustin, a surge of adrenaline making his feet antsy. “Make my good-byes for me. I’ve got to run… I’m sorry, man.”
Two minutes later, he was upstairs, standing beside his desk. Spotting the shaman, he offered the crude, powerful statue a hopeful nod before picking up the phone.
“Jason, that you?”
“Guess what,” said Jason Vann. “Good news. Got a pen handy?”
“Shoot.” Gavallan scribbled furiously as Jason Vann rattled off the name, address, phone number, and E-mail of the Private Eye-PO. Gavallan read the name a second time and smirked. “You sure this is the guy?”