saved Stenman Partners on Muller’s short position, the firm’s profit tallied over three hundred million.
On Friday of that week, Howard Muller summoned Peter into his Civil War museum.
“You have made a big mistake, Neil,” Muller began.
“I’m sorry, but I tried to talk to you first—”
Muller stood. “Your job was to make a convincing argument to me, not Stenman. You never usurp my authority. That is insubordination.”
Peter wondered if Muller actually believed such tripe.
“You will regret this,” Muller continued. “Thinking you’re so damn brilliant, above it all. Watching your back won’t do a damn bit of good, either, you miserable nothing.”
“Listen, Howard, I didn’t mean—”
“Go to hell, Neil.”
Peter almost smiled. This was a game he had never played before, but one in which he suddenly felt comfortable. He had four-of-a-kind, and no matter how much bluff and bluster Fat-Head chose to display, four-of-a- friggin’-kind was a three-hundred million-dollar winner.
“Get out,” Muller continued.
Peter obliged without further comment.
On the following Tuesday, Stenman phoned Peter. “At nine tonight,” she said, “you will assist me. Do not be late.”
The rest of the day, Peter’s head swam in roiled waters. He tried to figure out the implications. First, he hoped he had nothing more to fear from the Dawson incident. More importantly, everyone knew Stenman handpicked only a few traders to work directly with her. He hoped tonight was a first step towards bigger things. If so, the timing was perfect. In less than two months, bonuses would be paid. How much would be in his check? A few hundred thousand? A half million? A million?
“Hey, dude,” Stuart whispered in the middle of Peter’s financial whatif’s. “You and I have a small problem that’s got to be taken care of, today.”
“Huh? Whatta you mean?” Peter asked, the spell broken. He looked at his quote machine and tried to figure out if any of his positions were under water.
“We’re both short Uhlander Pharmaceutical.”
“So?” Peter’s attention shot to his selective ticker. UHLN scrolled across his screen, trading up thirty cents on the day—no big deal. “Stock’s a dog, going lower—Chapter 11 bankruptcy was how you phrased it last week when we initiated our short. Remember that discussion, Stuey?”
“Yeah. I was wrong.”
“You had a guy on the inside who said they were out of cash, and unable to raise any more in the market. I checked last quarter’s 10Q, called the company—your guy was right.” Peter looked at his position: short four hundred thousand shares at sixteen bucks; stock currently at fourteen and change; long two thousand put contracts representing another two hundred thousand shares. All a bet that the stock would trade much lower.
Stuart continued in a whisper. “Give me a friggin’ break, dude. Things change. At least I stay on top of my positions—and yours, I might add— unlike mammoth skull over there.” He pointed a forefinger in Muller’s direction. “I’m told a pharmaceutical out of Switzerland is going to make a takeover bid at twenty-six. They don’t care if there’s no cash—they want the patents. Bid’s coming end of next week.”
“Shit,” was all Peter could manage. If true, he stood to lose over four million on the position, plus another four million on soon-to-be worthless puts.
“We gotta move,” Stuart said.
“You sure about your information, Stu?”
“Come on, Petey. I don’t bullshit my friends. Yeah, I’m sure. I got you into this one . . . but all’s well that ends well. We’ll cover and get long. End up making money.”
“I don’t know. Where’d you get the information?”
“Where you think? The Swiss buyer’s banker is a contact. Came right out of the bowels of Stratton Brothers’ Corporate Finance Department.”
“Christ, Almighty. We can’t sit around and do nothing.”
“We’ll split purchases and cover the short. Here,” Stuart said, handing Peter a buy-ticket. “I’ll get started after you fill in your ticket.”
Peter wrote the stock symbol, then coded the ticket with his trading account.
“After we’ve flattened the short, we’ll get long some calls through the offshore accounts—end up making some money on this thing. We’ll stay long some puts in case someone asks later—though that ain’t gonna happen. But
“How long to cover?”
“Two days, maybe a little longer. Still plenty of time to get set up.”
“And the bid’s not coming until the end of next week?” Peter asked.
“Scheduled for the weekend after next.”
“This sucks. One day we’re certain they’re going under, the next we’re scrambling to keep from getting ripped a new asshole.”
Stuart grinned. “You sure learned to talk the talk. Whodda thought that when you carried your Opie-from- Mayberry ass into this hell-hole six months ago?”
“Cut the bull,” Peter said, wishing to concentrate on the excitement promised tonight, working with Stenman. “Let’s cover and recover. We’re not here to lose money.”
“Ain’t that the truth, brother?” Stuart said. “The ever-loving truth.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PETER ARRIVED HOME SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER THAN USUAL. Henry greeted him at the door. “Hey, dude,” Peter began. “Sorry, Henry. I’m starting to sound like Stuart. How you doing, old man?”
Peter looked around his new place. Cool temperatures marked the month of November, but once the morning fog burnt off around eleven a.m., the days brightened and the evenings remained clear. Through the sliding glass door facing south and west, he had a dual view of the finish line at the Del Mar Thoroughbred Club and the white waters of Dog Beach. Living more than a dream come true, Peter sometimes felt the need to pinch himself.
“Can you imagine living on the East Coast, Henry?” he asked. “Temperature’s near zero. I’m complaining about fifty degrees, and they’re at zippity-do-dah.”
Peter walked by the gas fireplace and inhaled the odor of wet lacquer. His interior decorator—borrowed from Stuart—had decided to apply a maple finish to his pine mantle. It didn’t look any better than before, Peter thought, only darker and smellier. Through the kitchen door, he traipsed to his refrigerator, opened, and grabbed a beer and a pack of processed meat. Henry stared in at the shelves, his green eyes locking on a half-gallon of milk.
“Yeah, you too,” Peter said, balancing the milk, an imported beer, and a package of chicken slices.
Setting everything on the new kitchen table, Peter slipped off his sports jacket and laid it over a reclining chair that faced his fifty-inch high definition television. He opened the curtains to a window showcasing the mountains. In the mornings, in the east, he had the explosion of sunrise through one vantage point. In the evenings, he could watch the sun, sinking below the horizon, in a furious blaze to the west. One hundred and eighty-degree views of paradise. Peter had always assured himself, in the unlikely event he ever came into the chips, he would never change his lifestyle.
Now that he had money, he understood the psychological underpinnings of that rationalization: it was something people with nothing said to control their envy. Having a view to end all views and owning new, wonderful toys wasn’t necessarily an evil thing. Kate Ayers was a perfect example. She had an expensive Jaguar, grew up in a mansion with everything laid in her lap, and yet she was as good and pure a person as existed on this earth. Suddenly, thinking about purity, the image of Peter’s mother filtered through as a dose of reality. Drew had often said that Hannah was the purest person he had ever known. Peter agreed. And he suspected she wouldn’t
