Free To Trade

Cash was behind Lloyd, and next to him, a short balding man of about thirty-five with thick glasses.

The sight of Cash made me feel sick. I was furious with myself for ever being deceived by all that good humour and amiability. But I would have to talk to him as usual, forget what he had done to De Jong, what he might have done to Debbie.

'Hi, Paul, how are you doing?' he boomed, holding out his hand.

I hesitated a second before shaking it. Then I pulled myself together and replied, 'Oh, I am fine. Your colleagues here have been very kind in showing me round.'

'Good, good,' said Cash. 'Now, you met Lloyd this morning, but I don't think you have met my old friend Dick Waigel.'

The short, balding man shook my hand vigorously, and gave me an unnatural smile reeking insincerity. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said, 'Any client of Cash's is a friend of mine.'

'Now, why don't we all sit down?' Lloyd said. 'What would you like to drink, Paul, iced tea?'

I had forgotten that lunches in Wall Street investment banks were teetotal. I had found it difficult to get used to the American habit of drinking cold tea at lunch, but I supposed they found the English warm beer just as confusing. I thought I ought to enter into the spirit of the thing. 'Iced tea would be very nice, thank you,' I said.

For a while the conversation followed the usual tedious paths of these occasions; discussions were had on the weather in England, which was the best airline these days, how the market was quiet and how difficult it was to make money.

I looked around the restaurant at the other diners. They were at odds with the breathtaking view around them. Either big and beefy, or short and wiry, they ate their food rapidly, spearing errant pieces of steak with forks and shoving them into mouths lowered as close as possible to the table. They didn't look at all comfortable in the hushed surroundings. Conversation was not the relaxed murmur of a normal restaurant, but rather a series of staccato whispers. I could see a number of other clients amongst the Bloomfield Weiss executives, the difference in levels of aggression between them and their hosts was obvious from twenty feet.

As I scanned the room, my eye caught the profile of one of the men at a small table in the corner opposite us. He had his back to me, but was turning to talk to the man on his left. I knew that profile. Joe Finlay.

One of the people at his table must have seen me stare, because Joe turned round and stared straight back at me. He twitched the corners of his mouth up in that same quick false smile that he had used on me at the boat, and turned back to his food.

What the hell was Joe doing here? It was bad enough having Cash to deal with in New York, the last person I needed to see was Joe.

I leant over to Cash. 'Isn't that Joe Finlay over there?'

'Yeah, that's him,' said Cash.

'What's he doing here?'

'Same as all of us. Spending a few days in New York and then going to the conference in Arizona.'

'But you didn't tell me he was coming,' I said.

Cash looked puzzled. Then he laughed. 'Hey, Paul, I can't tell you the names of everyone going to this damn conference. You got me and Cathy looking after you. What else do you want?'

Cash was right of course. But Joe's presence still unnerved me.

Waigel looked over towards Joe's table. 'That guy sure is a good trader. Or at least he has a hell of a reputation. Speaking of which, how's your boss Hamilton McKenzie? I haven't seen him for years.'

I tore my eyes away from Joe's taut frame and on to the pudgy, oily face of Dick Waigel. 'Very well indeed. He is doing a great job at De Jong. Our clients like him. The money is pouring in from investors impressed by his performance.'

'He always was a bright guy,' said Waigel. 'We were at Harvard Business School together. When he went off to join De Jong, I joined Bloomfield Weiss.'

'And what did you do here?' I asked.

Waigel took a deep breath, clearly pleased with the opportunity to talk about his favourite subject, and began. 'Well, I used to be a salesman covering accounts in the Southwest. I did well at it, but I didn't feel it was providing the right challenge for my talents. Selling is a rather narrow activity, you know.' At this the two salesmen sitting at the table stiffened. But Waigel went on.

'So I took a job in Corporate Finance, responsible for private placements. We find that sometimes a particular investor will want a bond issue tailored specifically to his needs. So I find a company to issue such bonds, and place them privately with him and perhaps one or two other investors. That's how I came to work with Cash here. Since he has such good relationships with his customers, we do a lot together, trying to structure transactions which fit their needs.'

This was Waigel's connection with Cash on Tremont Capital, which had been a private placement.

'I am not too familiar with private placements,' I said, 'but isn't it true that they give investors less protection? Normal bond issues in the United States have to be scrutinised by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Who does the due diligence on private placements?'

'Oh, we do. And I would say the investor is better protected with a Bloomfield Weiss private placement. We have very high standards, Paul, the highest on Wall Street. I can assure you that nothing irregular has happened in any of our transactions.' With this, Waigel looked me straight in the eye through his thick glasses, and gave me another one of his insincere smiles.

'I don't think we have ever bought a private placement from you since I have been at De Jong,' I said. 'Did we buy any before I arrived?'

Waigel opened his mouth, and closed it again. For a rare moment he seemed at a loss for words. Finally he said, 'No, I don't believe you did.'

Cash interrupted, 'Come on, Dick. Don't you remember that Tremont Capital deal. The triple-A bond with the huge yield. A sweet deal. I sold half of that to De Jong.'

'Oh yes, I remember,' said Waigel. 'Yes, that was a good deal. Have you looked at it, Paul?'

'I have seen the bond in our portfolio,' I said, 'but I am not familiar with the details. Can you tell me more about it?'

Waigel looked uncomfortable, but Cash bailed him out. He enthusiastically told me all about the deal, and how the Honshu Bank guarantee made the transaction creditworthy. 'One of the best deals I ever sold,' Cash finished off.

'Very interesting,' I said. I turned to Waigel. 'How do you go about putting a deal like that together?'

Waigel looked even more uncomfortable. 'One of the problems with corporate finance is that you owe a duty of confidence to everyone involved. We make it a rule never to discuss the details of a transaction, even after it is completed.'

'Baloney, Dick,' said Cash. 'There is nothing you like to talk about more than one of your own deals.'

Waigel didn't find this amusing. 'Cash, you can be as indiscreet as you like, but to me it is unprofessional. My predecessor may have been unprofessional, but I am sure I am not going to follow him in that.'

Lloyd interrupted, suddenly finding himself on a subject close to his heart. 'Aw, Greg Shoffman wasn't unprofessional, he was just a wimp. He had no guts. We had some great junk bond deals which he refused to do because he said they were unethical. Unethical! What did he think we were running, a charity?' Lloyd pulled himself up as he remembered my presence. 'Now, Paul, don't get me wrong, all the deals Bloomfield Weiss do are above board. But in today's markets you have got to be a tough competitor to survive, and this fellow Shoffman just wasn't tough enough.'

Shoffman! I had heard that name before. I riffled through my memory. That was it. The man from Honshu Bank had said a Mr Shoffman had called him a few months before Debbie.

'This Mr Shoffman was your predecessor?' I asked Waigel.

'Yes,' he replied. 'He was a nice enough guy. But as Lloyd says, he didn't have what it takes. You need the killer instinct to get things done, especially against the competition out there. That's something I have and he hadn't.'