Walter Williams - The Rift

“Megan Clifton.” Her low, cool Southern voice sent a little tremor up Charlie’s spine.

“It’s on, love,” Charlie said.

The low, cool voice dissolved at once into high-pitched excitement. “Oh, yeah! Whoa, Charlie, you’re a genius!.”

“Better get ready for a long, busy day,” Charlie said. “But for later, I suggest that we call the caterers now and have them deliver dinner for two to my place. There’s some Bollinger in the fridge, and I can warm up the spa.”

“I will make the call as you suggest, sir.” Megan’s cool professional voice was back.

The elevator moved uneasily back and forth as it adjusted itself to the ground floor, overshooting a little bit each time. The doors opened and revealed that the elevator was at least a half-inch too high.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Charlie said, and snapped the phone shut as he stepped into the lobby.

He didn’t work in the same building as the bank. His own office, and that of TPS, was in a different building, a modern steel-and-glass office building two blocks away. Tennessee Planters Securities- originally Bendrell Traders- was a separate firm which the bank just happened to control, having picked it up for the cost of its office furniture after Bendrell went smash in the wake of Black Friday in 1987. The bank also just happened to provide TPS with most of its operating capital, including that which TPS used for proprietary trading and for meeting its margins.

The separation between the bank and TPS was more than just physical. There was a difference in culture as well, between the cautious, conservative bankers in their mahogany offices, and the traders with their glass-walled cubicles and blinking computer monitors. The bankers were wedded to prudence, to circumspect accumulation of capital, to safety. The traders were after the money, and knew that big profits occasionally required big risks. The bankers dealt with long-term loans, with gilt-edged stocks, with thirty- or twenty-year mortgages. The traders’ deals sometimes were constructed so as to last for mere hours. Successful bankers drove Lincoln Towne Cars and belonged to the country club. Successful traders drove Ferraris and spent every night at the disco.

Successful traders also made a lot more money than successful bankers.

Charlie Johns had done his best to bridge the gap between the two cultures. He knew that traders could offend their conservative bosses with their flash and their style- not to mention their profits- and so he took care to present a facade that was more in harmony with Tennessee Planters amp; Trust than with TPS. He bought his suits from the same tailor that Dearborne used, though his natural style ran more toward Armani. His Mercedes E320 was a calculated degree less ostentatious than Dearborne’s S500. Ferraris and Lamborghinis were too flash, even if he didn’t drive them to work. He joined Dearborne’s country club, and he lost regularly to Dearborne at golf. He had lunch with Dearborne once a week, and consulted Dearborne on trades that he had the authority to make on his own, just to make Dearborne feel his opinion mattered.

And he made Dearborne money. Which was probably better than anything at cementing their relationship.

And, if Carpe Diem and Charlie’s own instincts were anything to go by, he was about to make Tennessee Planters enough money to gold-plate their office building.

By the time Charlie swept into the TPS offices, he had called his three largest clients and convinced them it was time to commit to some major action.

He grinned as he boomed through the big glass doors and gave a jaunty wave to the salesmen and traders sitting behind their desks. Once he was at his desk, he shorted nearly forty million dollars of S amp;P contracts. As a hedge, he shorted ten million dollars’ worth of Eurodollar puts, just as he’d promised Dearborne he would.

It was a great way to make a living.

“Hey,” the kid said. “Heard you got arrested.” He slid into the seat opposite Jason at the cafeteria, plopped down his plastic tray with his plastic-looking sloppy joe.

“Not arrested,” Jason said. “Not exactly.” He was trying to remember the kid’s name. All he could think of, for some reason, was “Muppet,” which did not seem likely. Could it be Buffett? Moffett? He had curly dark hair and a compact, strong body, and wore a striped shirt, boots, and jeans.

The cafeteria juke box, which had been playing something by Nirvana, switched to Garth Brooks. One of the little cultural contrasts that came with the neighborhood.

“What did you do to get Eubanks after you?” Muppet asked. His two friends, one of whom was the son of the Epps who ran the feed store, plunked their sloppy joes down on either side of him.

“Took a ride down the water tower on my skates. Down the rail, I mean.”

“Cool,” said Muppet. “I’d like to do that.”

Young Epps grinned at him. “If you did that, Muppet, you’d break your neck.”

His name actually was Muppet, Jason thought. How about that?

“You would have died,” Jason confirmed. “I’ve been skating for years, and it was a rough ride.”

The others looked at him with a degree of admiration. Jason realized that they thought he had ridden the whole tower, all the way from the top.

He thought about telling them the truth, then immediately dismissed the idea. After all, he would have ridden the entire rail if he had the chance.

“What did Eubanks do to you?” asked Epps.

“Yelled at me some. Took me home so my mother would yell at me, too.”

“That bastard,” said Muppet. “He’s so wack.”

“Wack,” Epps agreed. “He spends his day following teenagers around hoping to catch us at something. If he followed grownups around that way, he’d get his ass kicked off the force.”

Jason looked at the dark-haired kid sitting across from him. “Is your name really Muppet?” he asked.

Muppet gave an embarrassed grin. “That’s what everyone’s been calling me all my life,” he said. “But my name’s really Moffett. Robin Moffett.”