“I’m looking at your problem – you’re tripping all the rogue-trader alarms. What do you want to do?”
“There’s some serious action on the way and I want to hit it hard.”
“Looks like you’re pulling a Martingale, Jim.”
“I am.”
“If you keep doubling up on your winnings and then going all in, you’ll get fucked pretty quick.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, huh?” clucked Wolfsberg.
“I want two hundred times leverage.”
Wolfsberg laughed. “Not on my balance sheet.”
“Come on,” said Jim. “What harm can it do?”
“Plenty.” The banker laughed again. Wolfsberg knew there were several reasons why he was the most successful banker in Europe, and at least three of them were Jim. “OK, Jim, you can keep your hundred-times leverage and Martingale your face off, but your old friends on the floor are going to coat-tail you while you’re at it. OK?”
“Is that like enhanced commission?” asked Jim.
“You can call it that if you like. I’ll call it a cat-insurance premium.”
Banks and other companies needed protection from the financial risks associated with hurricanes and earthquakes so they bought derivatives contracts that could be traded like a physical commodity, such as copper or wheat. Following Jim’s trades, perhaps mirroring them, was like buying an insurance policy for a hurricane they knew was coming.
“We’ve done catastrophes, Al. This is just a few sweaty days racking up jumbo profits.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Wolfsberg. “You’re dealt.”
“Before I go, I want a hundred-times leverage on indices. Currently I’ve only got fifty.”
“OK, Jim, we’re all done.”
He smiled as he hung up. He could almost smell the fun he was going to have.
Jim felt a touch on his shoulder. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep. Did he have any positions?
“Hold on,” he muttered, and squinted at the form on the screen listing his positions.
He let out a sigh of relief. He had nothing open.
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, I thought you’d perhaps forgotten it was four in the morning and might appreciate a reminder.” Stafford’s eyes flickered over the screens.
“Thanks,” said Jim. “That’s good of you.” In the light of the monitor his butler looked like an owl, peering at Jim with a calculating but faintly confused expression. “Don’t let my crazy stuff get you out of bed again.”
“Very good, sir.”
7
Baz was a stylish geezer, thought Higgins, as he rose in the lift past the giant fish tanks of the Burj al-Arab Hotel. Not only was he prepared to meet him halfway, in Dubai, he did it in style.
Higgins lived in the Philippines with his wife and five kids. He did what he did because he had to, for them. He had never thought much of women, except his mum. “Mum,” was his first tattoo on his forearm. She was unique, saintly, but all the others had been whores to be used on his way around the world. Until one day, on leave in Hong Kong, he had been walking through a park among the Filipina au pairs, sitting on their blankets on their given day off to meet and gossip, when a little lady had looked up at him and knocked him off his perch.
He had sat down next to her and she had laughed at him – what a beautiful laugh it was. To anyone else she might have seemed plain – he’d probably glimpsed a million girls like her and never registered their faces – but for Higgins she was like a puff of cyanide that went up his nose and topped his bitter, carbonised spirit. That day, his old self had died and he was reborn, hopelessly in love with a little Filipina who loved him back.
There’s a fucking frogman cleaning the tank, he thought,watching a black creature with big mask eyes rubbing algae off the immense glass wall.
Britain was too cold and depressing for his little Rose so they had gone back to Manila, where he’d bought her a bleeding palace. But love didn’t mean money fell from the trees, so it was back to work in his nasty
“There’s some serious action on the way and I want to hit it hard.”
“Looks like you’re pulling a Martingale, Jim.”
“I am.”
“If you keep doubling up on your winnings and then going all in, you’ll get fucked pretty quick.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, huh?” clucked Wolfsberg.
“I want two hundred times leverage.”
Wolfsberg laughed. “Not on my balance sheet.”
“Come on,” said Jim. “What harm can it do?”
“Plenty.” The banker laughed again. Wolfsberg knew there were several reasons why he was the most successful banker in Europe, and at least three of them were Jim. “OK, Jim, you can keep your hundred-times leverage and Martingale your face off, but your old friends on the floor are going to coat-tail you while you’re at it. OK?”
“Is that like enhanced commission?” asked Jim.
“You can call it that if you like. I’ll call it a cat-insurance premium.”
Banks and other companies needed protection from the financial risks associated with hurricanes and earthquakes so they bought derivatives contracts that could be traded like a physical commodity, such as copper or wheat. Following Jim’s trades, perhaps mirroring them, was like buying an insurance policy for a hurricane they knew was coming.
“We’ve done catastrophes, Al. This is just a few sweaty days racking up jumbo profits.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” said Wolfsberg. “You’re dealt.”
“Before I go, I want a hundred-times leverage on indices. Currently I’ve only got fifty.”
“OK, Jim, we’re all done.”
He smiled as he hung up. He could almost smell the fun he was going to have.
Jim felt a touch on his shoulder. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep. Did he have any positions?
“Hold on,” he muttered, and squinted at the form on the screen listing his positions.
He let out a sigh of relief. He had nothing open.
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, I thought you’d perhaps forgotten it was four in the morning and might appreciate a reminder.” Stafford’s eyes flickered over the screens.
“Thanks,” said Jim. “That’s good of you.” In the light of the monitor his butler looked like an owl, peering at Jim with a calculating but faintly confused expression. “Don’t let my crazy stuff get you out of bed again.”
“Very good, sir.”
7
Baz was a stylish geezer, thought Higgins, as he rose in the lift past the giant fish tanks of the Burj al-Arab Hotel. Not only was he prepared to meet him halfway, in Dubai, he did it in style.
Higgins lived in the Philippines with his wife and five kids. He did what he did because he had to, for them. He had never thought much of women, except his mum. “Mum,” was his first tattoo on his forearm. She was unique, saintly, but all the others had been whores to be used on his way around the world. Until one day, on leave in Hong Kong, he had been walking through a park among the Filipina au pairs, sitting on their blankets on their given day off to meet and gossip, when a little lady had looked up at him and knocked him off his perch.
He had sat down next to her and she had laughed at him – what a beautiful laugh it was. To anyone else she might have seemed plain – he’d probably glimpsed a million girls like her and never registered their faces – but for Higgins she was like a puff of cyanide that went up his nose and topped his bitter, carbonised spirit. That day, his old self had died and he was reborn, hopelessly in love with a little Filipina who loved him back.
There’s a fucking frogman cleaning the tank, he thought,watching a black creature with big mask eyes rubbing algae off the immense glass wall.
Britain was too cold and depressing for his little Rose so they had gone back to Manila, where he’d bought her a bleeding palace. But love didn’t mean money fell from the trees, so it was back to work in his nasty
Similar Books
