Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

There were glossy brochures on the coffee tables and I picked one up and read. After four pages of photos, diagrams, and acronym-laden babble about the latest trading technology, the most current market data, cutting-edge risk management, Nasdaq Level II quotes, extensive training, and low, low, low fees, I knew what I needed to about Trading Pit LLC. It was a day-trading firm- a motel of sorts- that for low, low, low fees, let an individual, a day trader, rent one of its cubes and the use of its trading systems, to earn or burn his money in a clean, well-lighted place. In theory, the firm’s systems were better than what one could typically access at home, the fees were lower than trading through a discount broker, at least for high-volume players, the executions were faster, and the environment was more disciplined and professional. Maybe, but I saw more than one screen that displayed the home page of a popular on-line poker site.

The most useful part of the literature was the back page, and the bios and photos of the firm’s management. There, at the top of the heap, was Bluto, the founder, chairman, and CEO of Trading Pit LLC: Mitchell Fenn.

According to the brochure, Fenn was a longtime veteran of the securities industry- a former SVP at a big broker-dealer, and director of that firm’s trading operations- and he’d left there two years ago to found Trading Pit, piecing it together from the scraps of several other day-trading outfits that hadn’t survived the last market downturn. His picture showed a broad, tanned face beneath a head of dark, curly hair. His teeth were large and bright, and his wide smile was hungry. I dropped the brochure on the table and stepped into the maze of cubicles.

I found Fenn at the northwest corner of the floor, in a large, chrome and leather den with views of Ground Zero. He was lounging behind a chrome and glass desk, and talking to a red-haired guy in a shirt and tie, who sat across from him, smiling and nodding. I saw a dusting of gray in Fenn’s shiny black curls, and a web of lines around his dark eyes, and closer up, he looked ten years older than he did in his photo- around fifty, maybe. He’d lost the overcoat and jacket, and his blue shirtsleeves were rolled over thick forearms. I stood in the door and he recognized me right away. He was still for a moment, and then the wide, greedy smile appeared.

“Fuck if Tommy wasn’t right about you,” he said. His voice was deep Brooklyn, and hearing it was a little shock. Some part of me had been expecting synthesized speech. “Fuck if he didn’t say I should keep away today. But I didn’t listen- I wanted to have a look.” He turned to the redhead. “Take a lesson from that, Chris: don’t argue with your lawyer.”

Chris looked from Fenn to me, and his doughy face was puzzled. He put his big hands on his knees, as if he was about to get up.

“He a friend of yours, Mitch?” he asked. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, and full of adolescent tough. He ran a hand over his spiky hair, and his stupid blue eyes narrowed.

Fenn smiled wider. “We haven’t been introduced, but we’ve seen each other before- haven’t we?”

“I think I’ve seen a little more of you,” I said.

The big smile didn’t falter, but it turned colder, and a shade meaner. “Yeah? Hope you didn’t get some kind of inferiority complex from it.” His laugh was a throaty bark.

“It was something closer to indigestion.”

The grin held, but even Chris couldn’t miss the radiating anger. He had no idea what was going on, but he stood up anyway. “You want to watch your mouth, buddy,” he said. He was maybe an inch taller than I, and heavier by twenty sloppy pounds.

I looked more closely at his face- the freckles, snub nose, thin lips, and chipped front tooth- and I recognized him from the brochure: Christopher Fitz-something, the head sales guy. Which explained his eagerness to impress his boss. I shook my head.

“You don’t want an audience for this, Mitch,” I said.

Fenn barked out another laugh. “An audience for what? You doing tricks or something?”

Chris took a step toward me and poked a finger in my direction and then at the door. “You, out- now.” His face was red, and his fists were clenched. Fenn’s dark eyes were shining with expectation.

“You’re going to get him hurt,” I said to Fenn. Behind Chris’s back, he shrugged. Chris took another step.

“There’s only one guy gonna get hurt, asshole,” he said. Then he put his hands up, to shove me in the chest. I stepped aside and he fell past me, and I hurried him along with a push between the shoulders. I stuck out my foot as he went by, and he stumbled into the hallway, down on one knee and flapping like an ungainly red bird. I shut the door and turned the lock and looked at Fenn. He laughed out loud.

“Tommy said you were a piece of work,” he said, and his wide frame shook. Behind me, Chris cursed and worked the doorknob. Then he started pounding.

“You okay, Mitch?” he shouted. “You want security for that asshole, or the cops?”

“No,” Fenn called. “No cops. Everything’s fine, Chris- I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

“You sure? I can-”

“Tomorrow, Chris,” he repeated, and Chris got the message and went away. Fenn picked up a red rubber ball from his desk and started squeezing it. He shook his head.

“Or was I wrong, and you’re going to try and push me around, too? ’Cause I’m telling you, it won’t be so easy with me.”

“As appealing an idea as that is, I came to talk.”

Fenn leaned back in his chair and smiled. If there was relief there, it was hard to tell. “You want to talk, talk to Tommy.”

I walked to the desk and slung my coat on one guest seat and sat in the other. “I heard what he had to say. I didn’t find it convincing.”

“That sounds like something between you and Tommy.”

I sighed heavily. “You’re going to make me go through the motions?”

Fenn squeezed the rubber ball, and watched his knuckles go white. “Which motions are those?” he asked.

“The ones I make while I’m calling the cops.”

“Calling them about what?”

“About you and the Williamsburg Mermaid, for starters.”

Fenn was quiet for a while, and studied his fingers on the red ball. “Is that supposed to make me go weak in the knees?” he asked eventually.

“Worry more about the effect it has on the cops, and especially when they see Cassandra’s video.”

He smirked. “You know, I’ve never watched the final product. I hope she made me look good.”

A little rushing noise started in my ears. “Yeah, you look great choking her, Mitch- almost as good as when you’re slapping her around, or burning her breasts with candle wax.”

Fenn let go of the ball. It took a small bounce on his desk and came to rest against his phone. He pointed at me, and finally the grin went away. “Fuck you, March- that bitch was a freak, but she was a grownup freak. She knew what she was getting into, and she liked it, so don’t lecture me.”

I felt my hands grip the armrests of the chair, and I felt something shift in my face. Fenn pushed his chair back from his desk by half a foot.

“What- she was a friend of yours or something?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Don’t call her ‘bitch’ anymore,” I said softly.

“Whatever,” he said. “My point is, she was no schoolgirl, and the cops will figure that out. And, anyway, I can account for my time.”

“Sure, and while they’re figuring, and you’re accounting, who knows what other agencies will start asking questions- about your business, maybe, and Tommy’s, about your clients…”

Fenn’s eyes narrowed. “What agencies?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “The IRS, maybe, or the SECthere are all sorts of initials out there, and all just a phone call away.”