Harry Bingham - The Money Makers

‘You’re still only here for the coffees.’

At five thirty that afternoon the market fell quiet. The frenzy which had raged across London for nine hours had moved on to New York. New York would pass the baton to Chicago and San Francisco. Then the West Coast would hand the baton on to Tokyo and just a little later to Hong Kong and Singapore. The Asians kept long and lonely watch as the sun rolled over the endless miles until once again European traders woke up to play the everlasting game.

Matthew helped his traders tidy up after the day, making sure each trade was properly documented with a complete and legible trading note. Thanks to his help, Matthew’s team finished its paperwork fifteen minutes after the close of the market. All around other traders were cursing and fidgeting as they grappled with the unwelcome slips of paper.

Luigi had to rush off to a dinner date, or so he said. The crude comments thrown at him by Anders and Cristina suggested that anything he wanted to do in the hour and a half before dinner time was likely to be done lying down, and not by himself. Matthew grabbed Luigi before he left.

‘I’d like to ask you a question. Why didn’t you stiff the Banca di Roma guy earlier on today? I could see he’d have let you if you’d wanted to.’

‘Matteo, Matteo,’ said Luigi, patting his cheek, ‘if he wanted to get out of his position quickly, he would have tried to spread his trades among as many banks as possible. We’d all have stiffed him, but he’d have felt better about it that way. As it was, he trusted me. I did maybe sixty percent of his trades today at a rate which was fair to me and fair to him. He is grateful to me because he was scared this morning and I didn’t shit on him when I could have done. The Banca di Roma does a lot of business, and right now they love me. Signor Matteo, you can make a lot of money by stiffing people, but you only make it once. Give your clients a good service and they come back.’

Luigi started to walk off to his ‘dinner date’, then turned and added with a wink, ‘And you never know. If you stiff even your best clients perhaps once a year, they are probably too stupid to notice.’

Ichabod Bell greeted Zack with a glass of sherry.

‘Decided to drop all that tripe about money, I take it. Damned if I can name a single ancient Greek millionaire, but I can think of a good few philosophers whose credit is still good today. Anyway, blast you, you’re nowhere near good enough to make the grade. You want to be an accountant, right? I forget. No, silly me. Too exciting. An actuary. Much better. Less stressful. Very reliable pension arrangements. How’s your rowing?’

‘I’ve studied nothing else for two weeks. Am I allowed to know why?’

Ichabod ignored him.

‘Gong’s already sounded. Let’s go in to dinner. Mind you taste the wine. Tonight’s a fund-raiser and the Dean’s serving only the best.’

Upstairs in the dining hall, panelled in six-hundred-year-old oak, Zack found his place in between a history lecturer he had liked when a student, and a Sir Robert Grossman, whose name rang a bell but nothing more. Once everyone was seated, the chaplain rose.

‘Surgete,’ he said in Latin, indicating with his hands that the company should rise for grace.

Everybody did so except for Ichabod, a fierce atheist. A long Latin grace followed. Zack took the opportunity, as did most others, to squint downwards at the menu card on his plate. Trout, beef, chocolate mousse, cheese. The ingredients would be good enough, but Zack knew that the college kitchens were of the traditional British school. The chef’s idea of a luxurious gravy was to stir a bit of wine in with the stock granules. Vegetables would be boiled into surrender, the beef roasted into submission. At least the wine would be first-rate.

The first two courses passed in agreeable banter with the history lecturer, who brought Zack up-to-date on college politics and scandal. As the plates were being cleared, Zack turned to the man on his left, Grossman, who had also turned.

‘Well, young man, are you enjoying the wine?’

Zack hated nothing more than a patronising old fool, but tonight he was on his best behaviour.

‘The wine’s great,’ he said. Then, a snippet from his two weeks’ research suddenly falling like a silver penny into his lap, he added: ‘Do I remember you used to row for the college eight?’

Grossman was instantly transfixed.

‘Yes, indeed! Captained it, actually. We had a damn good season and damn near went Head of the River. You’re a rower are you? Best sport in the world, I always say. Clever of you to remember my name. Still, I suppose I did have quite a reputation in my day.’

Rowing was the great love of Grossman’s life. At Oxford he’d been a bit too dumb to make it academically and a bit too ugly to have much luck romantically. In a bright and talented world, Grossman felt marooned. Then he discovered rowing. Rowing gave him friends and an activity at which he excelled. In his memory at least, his time at Oxford had been a succession of bright mornings and golden afternoons, racing triumphs and disasters, drinking feats, puking and songs.

Zack left his previous conversation partner dangling as Grossman rattled away like a racing commentator. He and Zack talked rowing right through to the end of dinner, comparing techniques, race statistics, competitors, anecdotes. Zack boasted a photographic memory, and his research bore up easily under the barrage. Pudding, cheese, wines and port passed in an increasingly alcoholic haze. Rowers, it seemed, were heavy drinkers.

When the time came to move downstairs for the cigars and more drinks, the Dean appeared silently at Grossman’s elbow. Time for a chat about leaking roofs and vacant fellowships. Grossman understood the hint, and, firing a few last sentences at Zack, walked off in the Dean’s wake. Zack grabbed Ichabod as they went downstairs.

‘OK. I’ve talked rowing for two hours without a break and I still don’t know why. Who is Grossman, anyway? And I warn you, I’m three quarters dead with boredom.’

Ichabod grinned. ‘I knew you’d love him.’

Back in the senior common room they helped themselves to cigars and more alcohol. Zack’s head was spinning. He was glugging down wines worth twenty pounds a glass, enjoying them but not tasting them.

‘Grossman is your future employer,’ said Ichabod. ‘Deputy Chief Executive at Coburg’s, the merchant bank. A fading light there, but still a big hitter. Worst rowing bore I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few. I’ll never understand how second-raters get to the top in business. It must be surprisingly easy.’

Zack looked at the gentle don in his corduroy jacket. Bell’s financial acumen stretched no further than remembering (most of the time) where he’d left his wallet. It was hard to picture him as an international mogul. The pair chatted a little longer. Then the Dean came into the common room with Grossman in tow. The Dean looked serious, while Grossman beamed in delight. The Dean had the happy gift of being able to take a very large cheque from people and leave them feeling like they’d won the lottery.

Ichabod left Zack and walked over to Grossman. Zack felt two pairs of eyes on him and he buried himself in conversation with his historian friend. Later, as dons and guests began to disperse into the warm summer night, Ichabod and Grossman, who was obviously the worse for drink, approached Zack.

‘You’re heading off to London, aren’t you, Zack? Perhaps Sir Robert could give you a lift?’

Grossman and Zack compared addresses and found they lived only three blocks from each other. The deal was swiftly done and Zack soon found himself sliding out of Oxford in the banker’s chauffeur-driven BMW. If possible, Grossman drunk was more boring than Grossman merely tipsy, and Zack had to endure another barrage of anecdotes, most of them missing a punch line and many of which he’d already heard at dinner. At one point, Zack managed, as it were, to put his oar in, mentioning that he was looking for a job in corporate finance, preferably with a good British bank.