Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

'Oh no, I am sure there's no problem there,' I said, and as soon as I had said it, cursed myself. Piper had challenged me to question his probity and I had backed down from that challenge.

Piper leaned back in his chair and smiled.

'You do make a number of more passive investments, don't you?' I asked. 'Aren't you what they call an arb?' I was referring to the risk arbitrageurs of Wall Street who at the first sniff of a takeover would pile into a target company's stock in the hope of making a killing.

Not surprisingly, Piper didn't like that word either. 'I have a large portfolio, which I manage aggressively,' he said. 'Where I see strategic value that the market has not seen, then I will take a sizeable position in the stock, yes.'

'Has that strategy worked?'

'I have made one or two mistakes, but mostly it has worked admirably,' said Piper.

'Have you had any recent successes?' I asked.

Piper smiled apologetically. 'I'm afraid I don't discuss individual investments. It's not a good idea, it gives people too much of an insight into how I operate. A poker player never shows his hand after he has folded.'

I wasn't getting anywhere. Piper could play the honest wealthy American gentleman all night. Who knows, maybe he was really an honest wealthy American gentleman. There was just one last thing I wanted to try.

'Well, thank you for your time, Mr Piper. You have been very helpful,' I lied. 'One final question before I go. Have you ever had anything to do with Deborah Chater?'

Piper looked genuinely puzzled. 'No, I don't think so.'

'Or Denny Clark?' I looked hard at Piper who noticed my stare and bridled. He didn't like being interrogated. 'No, nor Denny Clark, whoever they might be. Now, I think we have finished here.'

We both stood up and I made my way to the door of the bar.

Before I could get there, Cash's squat form bustled through. The aura of calm serenity was shattered as his hoarse voice cried, 'Paul! There you are! Irwin! How are ya? You guys all done?'

I didn't say anything. I just stood there. Someone had come into the bar behind Cash.

I recognised him.

This time I had a chance to take a good look at him. He was six feet tall, lean with a narrow face. Deep lines ran down from the bridge of his nose to the corners of his mouth. Despite his spare frame, his shoulders were square, and his suit seemed to hang uselessly round his athletic body. He looked fit. And strong. And his eyes, a washed-out light blue, looked at nothing. No discernible expression. No curiosity. The whites were yellow near the pupils, and were crossed by one or two thinly pencilled veins.

I had seen those eyes before.

'Irwin, you know Joe,' Cash continued. 'Joe Finlay, Paul Murray. You two guys don't know each other, do you? Joe trades our US corporate book.'

I didn't say anything, but shook Joe's reluctantly offered hand. Joe didn't say anything either. He looked at me, but with no hint of recognition. No hint of anything.

'How did you two get along?' asked Cash. 'Happier, Paul?'

I shook myself to respond. 'Yes, thank you. It was very useful. Thank you very much for your time, Mr Piper.'

Piper's earlier irritation had not survived the onslaught of Cash's good-humour. 'Not at all. I hope you will understand that the Tahiti represents a truly outstanding investment opportunity.'

'No kidding,' said Cash. 'And Paul here doesn't miss too many of those. Come on, let's go. The night is young.'

We left Piper in the lobby of the hotel. When we were out on the street Cash ran into the middle of the road to 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.