Megan Abbott - Wall Street Noir

To make money, you have to spend money. His own words came back to him, and he felt a sense of certainty, destiny even. There was two million dollars’ profit in his account, enough to buy another hundred gas contracts. David glanced at the television screen. The hurricane was still bearing down on Louisiana.

Successful traders all had a story about their Big Day — the moment on the Floor that had defined them, the day they made the trade that launched them into a new place. This was his Big Day — David was certain of it. At last Malia would respect him.

“A hundred Deece at twelve!” shouted the trader in front of him.

David bent down and spoke into the man’s ear. “Buy ’em.”

The trader frowned at him. “A hundred at twelve? You’re sure?” His tone made clear he knew David was a one-lotter.

Hearing the other man’s doubt, David felt something rise up inside him. He jerked his head in a nod. “Write it up.”

As the trader scribbled the details of the trade on a pit card, someone called, “Dash!”

David glanced around the ring and spotted Vigneri’s bulky frame on the other side. His friend cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, but David couldn’t hear him over the hubbub. Vigneri made a slashing motion across his throat, then gestured at the quote board.

David looked up. December gas had dropped a nickel. As he kept watching, the number changed again. Ten cents down. His stomach churned. The market was turning against him.

He calculated his loss — two hundred thousand. A temporary slide , he told himself, like a car skidding across an ice patch, then regaining traction before it hit anything. Small when compared to two million. But as he watched, the numbers dipped again, and the two hundred became two hundred and fifty.

David felt as if he were in a pool of rising water. He craned his neck to see the television. Breaking News read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. The red swirl was still there, but the dotted line showing its projected trajectory had shifted. According to the graphic, the storm would bypass Louisiana altogether. The hurricane is going to miss the Hub David’s heart banged against his ribs. He flicked his eyes back to the quote board just as the gas number began to nosedive in earnest.

Around him, shouts became bellows as the market fell. A few feet away a trader held his head in his hands and moaned, while another threw up. Transfixed, David watched the price grind down, taking his dreams with it.

The house was the first to go. “Eleven seventy-five.” Kiss the place in Connecticut goodbye. “Eleven forty.” There goes the red Porsche “Eleven twenty.” Au revoir, trip to Paris . “Eleven ten.” No more Cartier watch David winced at every down-ward tick, the plummeting number like a finger poking him in the chest.

“Eleven dollars!” yelled the trader beside him. All of David’s profit was gone. The realization jolted him from his stupor, and he raised his hands to join the cacophony.

“TWO HUNDRED AT TEN EIGHTY! TWO HUNDRED AT TEN EIGHTY!” he shouted.

There were no takers. Abandoning the hand signals, David screamed ever-decreasing offers. “Ten sixty!... Ten forty!...” It was like trying to find someone to catch a falling knife. No one answered.

By now the spread between buyers and sellers was so huge, it was practically unbridgeable. One by one, would-be sellers stopped shouting. Instead they stared wordlessly, watching the price of gas plunge too quickly for the quote board to keep up. The ground was littered with discarded pit cards. In the middle of the ring the clocker gaped at the traders, eyes large behind his goggles, bewildered at having nothing to do.

At last the number slowed, finally stabilizing at its pre-hurricane level of ten dollars per contract. David stared at the quote board, the neon colors blurring. Two million dollars gone, like water through his fingers. All that was left was—

Realization burned through him. It wasn’t only a watch or a car that was gone. He owed the clearing firm two million dollars for the two hundred contracts. I lost Malia’s seat. As if reading his thoughts, Earl Kinder materialized on the other side of the pit and headed toward him.

David tasted bile in his mouth. He whirled and began shoving his way out of the ring to the exit. He couldn’t face the clearing house rep. Not until he figured out how to save the seat.

He burst through the Exchange’s revolving doors and into the cold air. Reporters from the financial press hovered near the entrance, looking for first-person accounts of the carnage. They surged forward at the sight of David’s trading jacket. Dodging the photographers’ zoom lenses, he sprinted down the walkway that led to the ferry. Once he was north of the pier and onto the rocks, the journalists abandoned their pursuit.

Reaching the river’s edge, David propped his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths, waiting for his heart to slow. A pair of pelicans trundled along the shoreline, like two old men on their way to the corner bar. There was no one else around.

David sank to the ground, heedless of the damp rocks. Raindrops stung his skin and the air was sour with exhaust and brine. He could hear the hum of traffic behind him on the West Side Highway.

Tomorrow he would talk to Kinder, work something out. Even as he formed the idea, he knew it was ridiculous. The Floor was like Vegas — you had to pay to play.

Two million dollars He’d had his Big Day, and already he couldn’t really remember what it had felt like. One thing was certain: Getting what you wanted and losing it was worse than never having had it at all.

“Dash.” The soft voice startled him out of his reverie. A hand dropped onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

Kinder Wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, David pushed himself to his feet, a litany of if onlys running through his brain.

If only I hadn’t borrowed the money against the seat... If only I had sold out instead of buying more... If only I hadn’t believed red cars and trips to Paris would make things right between Malia and me again...

“Did you cover before you left?” Kinder asked.

David shook his head, then shivered as the wind knifed through his thin trader’s coat. The sky was low and opaque. “After I sell out your position, we’ll go upstairs to turn in your ID.” Kinder nodded at the square of plastic on David’s lapel. “I need you to give me that.”

“Mr. Kinder, please...” David covered the badge with his hand. “Spot me fifty,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You know I can’t do that. Give me the badge, Dash. The sooner you do, the sooner this will be behind you.”

David tightened his grip on the plastic pin. Kinder reached out as if to pry his hand loose. David twisted away, stepping into the water and shoving the rep with his shoulder. Kinder gasped as he lost his footing on the slick stones. He started to topple forward.

In that split second, David knew he could reach out and catch the falling man. But he didn’t move. Instead, he watched Kinder strike his head on a sharp rock and land face-down in the river.

The clearing house rep lay still, save for one hand undulating in the current as though it were waving. Blood leaked from his wound, clouding the water before it was swept downstream.

Ankle-deep in the icy water, David stared at the scene in disbelief. Then panic overtook him, propelling him out of the river and back onto the walkway, where he tried to collect himself.

He was alone. No gunboat, no security patrol, no pedestrians or loitering homeless. Even the pelicans were gone. Unable to think of what else to do, David began walking toward the Exchange. As the building loomed in front of him, he slowed his pace and looked toward the Hudson.