hail a cab. Joe paused to light a cigarette. He saw me looking at him and reluctantly offered me one. I shook my head. We both stood in silence, uncomfortable for my part, for the minute it took Cash to catch us a taxi.
'The Biarritz,' Cash shouted to the driver.
'What's that?' I asked Cash as we climbed into the cab.
'It's a champagne bar,' he said. 'You'll like it. There will be a bunch of traders from Bloomfield Weiss there. It will be a good chance for you to meet them.'
'Never meet the traders' was one of Hamilton's dicta. Let the salesmen deal with them. The less they knew you, the less they could take advantage of you. But I was glad for the opportunity of finding something out about Joe.
As we came to some traffic-lights, the taxi-driver turned round, looked at Joe, and said, 'Can't you read?'
There were no smoking signs all over the cab. Joe took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke, never moving his gaze from the driver. The driver was a big fat man. He was angry.
'What's wrong with you, mister? I said, can't you read?'
Nothing.
'Joe, how about putting out the cigarette, huh?' said Cash quietly.
No reaction.
The lights turned to green, and the driver turned forward to drive off. 'If you don't put that fag out, you can get out of my cab.'
Joe very slowly took the cigarette out of his mouth. I could feel Cash relax slightly. Joe held the cigarette in front of him, smiled a thin mirthless smile, and leant forward to stub the cigarette out on the back of the beefy cabby's neck.
'Fuck!' the driver screamed as he swerved over to the side of the road.
Joe swiftly opened the cab door and dropped to the pavement. Almost in one motion he stopped another cab and jumped in. Cash and I followed in a hurry, our previous driver swearing at the top of his lungs and rocking up and down as he gripped his neck.
'What's he excited about?' asked our new cabby.
'Maniac,' said Joe, smiling gently to himself.
The journey to the Biarritz continued in silence. When we entered the bar it was full and smoky. The floor was black and white squares, the fittings chrome, the furnishings art deco. Cash propelled us through to a table surrounded by half a dozen eurobond traders. You could tell they were eurobond traders. They came in different sizes-big and small, old and young. But they were all jumpy. Eyes darting around, laughter snatched for a few seconds and then dropped. Many were going prematurely grey. Young men's faces with old men's wrinkles.
There were already three empty bottles of Bollinger on the table. The unwinding process had begun. Cash introduced me to everyone. I attracted one or two suspicious glances. Traders are just as wary of their 'customers' as their customers are of them. But everyone was having a good time and they weren't going to let me spoil it. Cash's backslapping welcome was returned. Joe was greeted with a nod.
Luckily I was not let loose in the middle of this pack alone. Cash sat me at one end of the table, and sat himself firmly next to me. I was grateful for the protection. As the traders screamed across the table at each other I leant over to Cash.
'Do you often drink with these guys?'
'Once in a while,' he said. 'It's just as important to keep the traders sweet as the customers.'
I sipped my champagne. 'What was that in the cab?' I asked.
'That was typical Joe,' said Cash, taking a large gulp from his glass. 'He is weird. Seriously weird. It's best to keep out of his way when he gets like that.'
'So I can imagine,' I said. 'He's not like that at work, is he?'
'I don't think he has ever actually injured anyone at work yet,' said Cash. 'Apart from himself, that is.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I remember once he was long twenty million ten-year euros. He was under water, but the treasury market was ticking up. He had spent an hour or so staring at the Telerate screen waiting for the market to reach his ownership level so he could get out flat. Then his screen froze. There was some problem with the terminal connection. I was watching him. He didn't shout or scream or anything. There was no reaction at all on his face. He stood up and slammed his fist into the screen. He cut his wrist quite badly. He just picked up the phone, sold his position at a loss, and walked out. Blood was pouring from his hand but he didn't seem to care.
'The story is he used to be in the army. The SAS, so they say,' Cash continued. 'Then one day he shot an unarmed sixteen-year-old boy in Northern Ireland. There wasn't enough evidence to show conclusively that he knew the boy was unarmed. But he left the army soon afterwards.'
'How did he end up working for Bloomfield Weiss?'
'Oh, he was hired by an ex-US marine, who thought he recognised a kindred spirit. He's been with us four or five years now.'
'Is he any good?' I asked.
'Oh yeah, he's good. Very good. The best on the Street. No one likes him but they have to put up with him. He has a very sharp brain and a good nose for value. But I try and keep him away from customers.'
'Apart from me?' I said.
'Yes, sorry about that.' Cash swallowed some of his beer. He leaned forward. 'So, you said you wanted to talk to me urgently. What do you want to talk about?'
I told Cash about my discussion with Bowen, the Bloomfield Weiss compliance officer.
Cash listened carefully. When I had finished, he whistled through his teeth. 'You'd better be careful. That Bowen is an officious bastard. He won't let things drop easily.'
'What do you know about all this, Cash?' I asked.
'Well, nothing,' he said, as innocently as a schoolboy caught with a packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.
'Oh come on, you must know something,' I persisted. 'Who were you buying all those bonds for? It wasn't DGB was it? It must have been someone else.'
'Now, Paul. You know I can't tell you that.'
'Bullshit. Of course you can tell me. This is serious. Do you know who bought those Gypsum shares before the takeover was announced?'
'Gee, Paul, I'd really like to help you,' said Cash, still the sweet innocent. 'But you know how it is. I don't know anything about the share price going up. I don't even know who we were buying the bonds for. Another salesman was talking to the other side of the trade.'
I gave up. Cash was a professional liar. He lied day in, day out, and he was paid a lot of money for it. He was not going to give in, I could see that. I had no idea whether he was just hiding the identity of the buyer of the Gypsum bonds or whether he was doing more than that.
We sat in silence, watching the group around us. People were more relaxed now. The discussion had moved away from bonds and on to women and office gossip.
Joe unsteadily got to his feet, and came over to sit by Cash and me. Although I wanted to talk to him, his presence next to me made me nervous. He was unpredictable and dangerous.
'So, are you enjoying yourself?' he asked, his dead eyes locked on my face. He was clearly drunk. His delivery wasn't slurred, but overly slow and deliberate.
'Oh, it's nice to see my adversaries in the flesh,' I said lamely.
Joe never removed his eyes from my face as he took a long slow swig from his champagne glass. Oh Christ, I thought, he has recognised me.
Cash did his best to break the tension. 'Paul used to be an Olympic runner, you know,' he said. 'You remember Paul Murray? The eight hundred metres? He won a bronze medal a few years ago.'
'Oh yes?' said Joe, still staring at me. 'I thought I recognised the face. I am a keen runner myself. Do you still keep fit?'
'Not really,' I said. 'I still run a bit, but for relaxation rather than fitness.'
'We should race sometime,' said Joe flatly.
I wasn't sure how to respond to this. Joe's eyes hadn't moved from my face since he sat down. It was making me very uncomfortable. I suppose he must have blinked, but I hadn't noticed it if he had.
