T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“The dollar would collapse,” Colin said, still not seeing.

“Not just the dollar. Investors would pull out from every dollar position they held. Stocks, bonds, futures. Every market in the U.S. would drop into oblivion. There would be a full-scale destruction of the American economy.”

The whisper came again, this time clear enough to turn him around.

He watched as night shadows congealed into a dark, swiftly moving shape. A black automobile shushed forward, a glimmer of oncoming death.

Colin shouted, flung his arm around Alex, and leaped forward. Together they fell behind the fender of a parked Mercedes.

As they struck the asphalt, the automobile hit the opposite fender and broke the bumper loose in a shower of sparks and shrieking metal. Despite the noise, Colin heard yet again the silent whispers, the voices from all the untried paths, the ones telling him it was not over yet.

He wrapped his arms around the sprawled senior trader and rolled, pulling them both as close to the Mercedes’ undercarriage as they could go. The attacker’s motor raced, the bumper tore free and clanged onto the pavement. There were two brilliant flashes and quick bangs. Then a whanging sound by Colin’s ear. Then the car raced away.

Gingerly the pair of them raised up, searched the empty reaches, saw only the splash of streetlights and empty asphalt. Alex gaped about him, and demanded, “Were they after me or you?”

“Use your cellphone,” Colin said. Feeling lightheaded. More. Almost light of heart as well. “Call the police.”

Alex bent over and fumbled with numb fingers at the latches of his briefcase. He hesitated long enough to search the darkness once more and ask, “What should I say, we were attacked by a phantom locomotive?”

“Mention the gunshots,” Colin replied. “That should get them here in a hurry.”

Monday

The night was humid and close. Heat lightning flickered occasionally, faint skyborne reflections of the neon clamor. Kissimmee was alive with a crowd that either could not afford or had no interest in the Disney world order. Eric sat in a rental car, far to one corner of the bar’s parking lot. Just being there caused the gradually healing welt on his forehead to throb.

Once more the bevy of cars were parked in the handicapped zone, five of them this time, including a showstopping Lamborghini Diablo and a Mercedes 500 SEL custom convertible. Eric had come prepared for a long wait. There was no telling when the traders would emerge, probably not for hours. They had been forced to forgo the Forex convention. Like his own colleagues, they were probably determined to party with violent abandon. Eric understood them with an insider’s bitter wisdom. These traders would get off on the bar’s edgy danger, especially as they had bought themselves a measure of safety. They impressed the girls with their hundred dollar tips and tasted the peril like just another drug. They were a macho crowd. Almost all traders were. The floor’s tension was an impossible opiate. They required somewhere loud and close to the edge to forget, even for a few hours.

Traffic along the eight-lane Highway 50 had thinned out and the clock’s dial had lost all meaning by the time the traders finally straggled out. Eric watched them play the doorman like a muscle-bound joker. He saw the tension in the bouncer’s shoulders, observed the clenched way he pulled his face into a smile when they handed him a two hundred dollar tip. The dregs of Eric’s thermos were bitter with memories of his own similar stupidities.

He followed them along the strip. They were flying now, revving engines at the stoplights, shouting and calling back and forth between cars. Two ladies they had picked up at the joint displayed the stoic boredom of women who had seen all there was to infantile behavior. One of the cars peeled off and headed back toward Orlando. Eric decided to follow the others.

They pulled into a Denny’s and made a clamorous entry. At least most of them did. One head remained visible in the back of the open-top Mercedes.

Eric waited until he could see the traders causing mayhem in the restaurant before cautiously approaching the car. The top remained down. The guy in the back was a total stranger and snoring gently. Heart in his mouth, Eric slipped his hand into the guy’s jacket. Nothing on the first side. He held his breath and reached over, peeling back the other lapel. The wallet slipped out easily. He raced back to his car.

The problem with long computer entry codes was that they were almost impossible to remember. Especially now that they were changed every quarter. Hayek’s system also denied code holders the privilege to personalize access. Some versions used fourteen-digit strings but were capable of being rewritten within six hours of every quarterly change. But Hayek’s security program was not so flexible, which meant most people kept a written reminder close at hand.

Eric found the slip of paper sandwiched between two credit cards. He copied down the string of letters and numbers, then replaced the paper back into the wallet. He rose from his car and checked the parking lot. His blood congealed and his heart entered overdrive when he realized the guy’s head was no longer visible.

Eric sprinted back to the Mercedes. The car was empty. Crouching low, he moved closer to the glass front wall, and searched the inside of the restaurant. He wasn’t absolutely certain, but he didn’t think the guy was among the traders carousing at the tables.

Eric spent frantic minutes searching the lot. Nothing. He crawled back to the Mercedes just to be certain the guy had not somehow reappeared. Empty.

Keeping at least one car between him and the windows, he slipped around to the entrance. The gray-haired woman on cash-register duty started to greet him, when from inside the restaurant there came a crash of dishes, and a great shout of laughter. Grimly she slipped her key from the register and hurried back. “Wait right here, please.”

Eric hustled toward the washroom and pushed through the door. The guy from the convertible eyed him blearily and slurred, “Don’t feel so hot either?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re all bent over.” The guy rolled his forehead against the ceramic tile. “Where’d the music go?”

“Here, try washing your face. That always works for me.” Eric eased the guy toward the sink, slipping the wallet back in the process. He turned on the cold water and stepped back.

“Can’t focus ’thout the music.” The guy splashed his face, then raised his head and stared into the mirror. “Do I know you?”

“Not a chance.”

“You look like somebody.” He gave a bleary grin. “Sure. You’re all banged up.”

“Slipped in the bathtub.”

“Nah, it’s something else.” Doused himself a second time. “Give me a second.”

“Sorry, wrong guy.” Then the outer door squeaked. Eric took another step backward, entered a cubicle, and shut the door. Heard the new voice say, “Tony, hey, what are you doing in here?”

“There’s somebody in there, I know him.”

“Forget it, man, he’s not one of us.” The voice was familiar. Not shouting, but Eric knew it instantly as the guy who had sicced the bouncer on him. The trader Colin had attacked. Brant somebody. Eric crouched lower and heard, “Look at you, man, you’re a mess.”

“But I was talking with somebody.”

“Forget him, I tell you.” There was the sound of towels being pulled out of the container. “Here, dry yourself off. Okay, good, now let’s go join the party.”

“Is the music gonna start again?”

The guy barked a hard laugh. “Sure man, sure. I’ll have one of the little darlings sing you a song. You’ll like that.” The door closed.