Buck Out Page 2

  Malcolm glanced at the brunette in the business suit with her hair up, talking on her cell phone while sipping a clear martini.

  “How do you know she’s an investment banker?”

  “I’m an analyst, remember? In my line of work, you learn to analyze more than securities.”

  “Right.” Malcolm caught the bartender’s eye. “How are things at Barclays?”

  “Combative, as usual. Even more so lately.”

  “That’s because you’re a bearish contrarian.”

  “Job security, my friend. Job security.” Ryan finished the last three inches of beer in his glass. “They have to keep a few of us around so they don’t look too stupid during market corrections. Speaking of which—”

  The bartender interrupted them. “Hey, Malcolm. IPA?”

  “Yes! Do you still have the Dogfish Head 90-Minute on tap, Chet?”

  “Yep.”

  Ryan made a peace sign when Chet pointed at his empty glass.

  “Don’t start in on me with your market predictions,” Malcolm said slathering his palms with the hand sanitizer he always carried. “You know they only screw me up.”

  Ryan shook his head. “Here you have a professional analyst at your disposal, free of charge, and—”

  “I don’t care what direction the markets are headed, even if you prove to be right. I don’t hold overnight positions. Unless you can tell me where something will close tomorrow, that kind of information is useless to me. Not that I think anyone can predict anything.”

  Ryan assumed a defiant pose. “If you saw what I’ve been studying lately, you may change your mind. But all right. Shut me down, as usual. I won’t be so rude. Tell me the tale of the two.”

  Malcolm chuckled as the bartender delivered the beers. He knew Ryan lived vicariously through him, even if he still half-believed Malcolm was only a lucky gambler. The first thing Ryan wanted to hear about every Friday when they met here was Malcolm’s best and worst trade of the week. Malcolm took a swallow off the foamy beer top to help clear his throat.

  “Lowes made a ferocious run on Tuesday. I received a volume alert and managed to get in right as it broke its 2-week range, a nice tight one at that. Good thing I did, because it never looked back. My trailing stop was never hit. Ended up closing it after-hours for an eight-point winner.”

  “Hmm.” Ryan took a sip. “I’ve been watching that one on the weekly chart. Home Depot, too. No news, insider trading is light, and yet they’re both in strong demand. All right, give me the loser.”

  Malcolm groaned. “I got sucked into a stupid sector trade yesterday.”

  “Which sector?”

  “Agricultural.”

  “DBA?”

  “Yeah. Good guess. Been watching that one, too?”

  “No. Maybe I should. What happened?”

  “Range-trade. The bottom bounce looked extreme, so I had to give it a wide stop. When will I learn?”

  Ryan laughed. “If you’re going to play sectors, why don’t you do it with futures?”

  “Because I’ve blown out every futures account I’ve ever opened. Anyway, there’s no need to anymore. The ETF’s have it all covered. Most of those are optionable now, too.”

  Ryan’s expression turned serious. “Looked at TBT lately?”

  “I don’t like messing with bonds. Too much government interference.”

  “Well,” Ryan said, “I think the Fed is running out of ammunition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cash volume for Treasuries the last few weeks—in both the primary and secondary markets—is through the roof. There’s no historical equivalent.”

  “That’s what you were going to tell me about?”

  “Yes. I think you should watch this market, and all connected to it. I believe it’s finally turning, for real this time—and the bond cliff is pretty darn tall.”

  “Is that what you’ve been telling your boss?”

  Ryan pursed his lips. “Not in so many words.”

  “Uh-huh. And how did she react?” Malcolm raised his hand. “Chet! I’ll take a ten-piece wings, Jack Daniels style.”

  Chet gave him a thumbs up from the tap handle he was pouring before Ryan responded.

  “Worse than usual. Threats of termination if I don’t ‘stop having tunnel vision.’”

  “Screw her,” Malcolm said. “You can always come over and trade with me. I’ll set you up with a good system, side-by-side of my own, and teach you everything I know. With two of us watching for setups, we might find more of them.”

  “You’ve never offered me that before.”

  “I’m confident now.” Malcolm picked up his glass. “As long as you leave all opinions on market direction outside my door.”

  “Now how can an analyst do that? But Malcolm—thanks.” Ryan’s eyes softened with sincerity. “That means a lot to me. Not everyone has a friend who’ll try to rescue them when the charts turn south. I’ll remember this.”

  “So you’ll take me up on it?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I don’t have the temperament for it. Nor the roll.”

  Malcolm patted Ryan on the shoulder and took a long drink of gloriously-hoppy IPA. “Lawyers.”

  “Yep.”

  “Thank God I don’t need one,” Malcolm said wiping his lips.

  “Yet, you mean.”

  “Never, if all goes according to plan. Hannah’s too busy to file a bunch of non-essential paperwork. By the time she gets around to it, I hope to reach the magic number.”

  “You’ll have to quit trading.”

  “I know that!” Malcolm snapped.

  Ryan offered no recoil and only drank his beer.

  The wings arrived. Malcolm seized the top one and ripped a bite off with his front teeth—then had to spit it back on the steaming plate. They were still much too hot.

  Ryan took the opportunity to start preaching. It was just what Malcolm didn’t want to hear right now.

  “Malcolm, you’re veering high and left again. You have enough already, if you really want her back. Don’t get me wrong. I congratulate you on succeeding at an endeavor 95% of people fail at. But there’s risk involved in what you do, especially when cycles change. Your dream of making a big score increases that risk monumentally. You could cut out right now and save your bankroll. With your track record, there’re a dozen firms in this city that will hire you. Then you can play with their money, not yours. If you’re right about Hannah, becoming a respectable Wall Street robot should be all the bait you need to bring her back home. But if you continue on the way you’re going, you risk losing it all—or at the very least you risk a substantial setback.”

  “I’m willing to do something like that.” Malcolm poked the spit-out piece of chicken back in his mouth. “Soon, maybe. Not quite yet. I just need to build it up a little more.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Ryan said.

  Malcolm glared back.

  “I don’t think you’ll ever ‘quite’ have enough. Remember what J.P. Morgan told the reporter who asked him how much was enough.”

  “I’m not like that,” Malcolm said. “Believe me. I know what it will take. When I reach it, I’ll be done.”

  “Your goal is a moving target, Malcolm. Like a carrot dangled on a stick. You’ll never get there. And you don’t need a quarter-million dollars to day trade stocks. That’s ridiculous. You say you don’t like commodities, but in reality your entire wad is tied up in a single commodity: the U.S. Dollar. Is that wise?”

  Malcolm pointed a drumstick bone at him. “You know I consider ‘investing’ to be a four-letter word.”

  “So you’ve told me, over and over. But buying some gold, and maybe a little real estate, would be a much more prudent way to keep your reserve assets. Cash isn’t as safe as it seems.”

  “Real estate.” Malcolm picked up another wing and laughed. “Not in this town, obviously. You mean some plot out in hicksville, like you have?”

  “Better than nothing.”


  “Not for a day trader, Ryan. We need to stay liquid. And I want all my reserves available, in case I spot that one truly golden opportunity.” Malcolm’s voice trailed and his eyes unfocused. He allowed himself to almost slip into a daydream. “That one opportunity that will…”

  “Get Hannah back? Let you quit trading? Are you certain that’s even what you want?”

  Malcolm only smiled.

  Ryan drained his beer and set the glass down. “I gotta go. Enjoy your wings.”

  “Oh.” Malcolm was taken aback by Ryan’s uncharacteristically early exit. “All right. See you next Friday.”

  “No,” Ryan said. “In two weeks. I’ll be out of town next weekend.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Hicksville.”

  Chapter Two

  Joseph Slate knew he was in trouble. His first impulse was to try to evade the undercover police vehicle. His next stint would be five years, minimum. Then he remembered he was driving a bobtail truck. Outrunning them wasn’t an option.

  Where’d these guys come from? Why were they on him? If they searched the boxes in the back, Joseph was done for. Then there was the unlicensed handgun in the glove box. Loaded, of course. Not that big of a deal in the greater scheme of things—or at least it wouldn’t be for someone not on parole.

  No need to lose your cool yet. Maybe this was just a traffic violation stop, or a brake light out, or even a strap flapping outside the rear gate.

  Not friggin’ likely. And even if it was, cops could somehow always sniff out parolees, which gave them carte blanche to search the vehicle to their heart’s content. If that happened, Joseph’s only hope was them making some kind of procedural mistake his lawyer could use. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t talking. No stoolie deals. Five years was better than being dead.

  Joseph pulled over on the shoulder of Interstate 68.

  The two narcs in the cruiser stopped directly behind him. They took an agonizingly long time to get out and make their approach. That could be a good sign. They wouldn’t come up with anything running the plates.

  Finally, a tall sandy-haired plainclothes policeman exited the driver’s seat and came alongside Joseph’s window. He wasn’t holding a weapon. That was another good sign. Joseph rolled the window down.

  “Sorry to stop you,” the narc said. “We’re looking for a stolen goods smuggler in a truck that fits this description. We’ll need to have a look at your load. Not out here, though. Can you please take the first exit and pull over off the highway? Next to the field there. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “I hope not,” Joseph said. “I’m on a schedule.”

  “We appreciate that, sir. Hopefully, we’ll have you back on the road quickly.”

  Quickly. That’s a laugh. Cops never did anything quickly. This is what they lived for. Have a look at the load—what the hell did that mean? If they opened the small boxes, Joseph was screwed. His only chance was if they were actually telling the truth, and looking for larger merchandise. It was possible.

  Joseph did as instructed. The tan sedan followed him off the highway and on to the side road. Joseph parked next to an untended field, something of a rarity here in the apple-tree region of Cumberland Valley.

  The police parked in front of him. That was a bad sign.

  Both narcs got out of the car this time. The other cop was shorter and darker than his partner. Neither of them had weapons visible. Neither looked particularly concerned. Joseph realized they probably both had service pistols in concealed holsters under their jackets—but that gun in his glove box was starting to call his name. Joseph was used to a different type of police encounter; the type where you kept your hands in view and moved slowly as they shouted tense instructions behind fully extended arms. These guys must not know. Their story must be true. No one else was around. How quick could they possibly draw weapons from shoulder holsters when caught off guard?

  Joseph reached for the glove box with his right arm, keeping it below the dash, while straining to remain erect and in place with his visible torso.

  His arm came up a foot short. He stretched further, and finally had to lean, ever-so-slightly. His fingertips brushed the handle.

  The two narcs were now directly in front of his hood and turning to come around the side of his cab. Joseph waited until they were both looking out to the road before making a final lunge. He grabbed ahold of the glove box handle with all four fingers. His head came forward in the process.

  He let go when he saw the blue helicopter above through the windshield. It had three large letters painted in white on its side: F B I. No getting away from that.

  “Can I see your invoice?” The tall narc said through the window.

  Startled, Joseph instinctively reached to the glove box again before the sight of the clipboard on the passenger seat snapped him back to reality.

  “Here,” he said with resignation, handing it out the window.

  “Thanks,” the cop said. “Ackman Tool and Die in Columbus?”

  “Yes, officer.” All they had to do was call the phone number on the invoice to find out it was fake.

  “Your customer is in Baltimore?”

  “Correct.”

  The narc handed the clipboard back. Whew. But he wasn’t done with the questions.

  “How long have you been working for them?”

  “Little over a year.”

  “All right. Like I told you on the highway, we’ll just need to have a look at your load. Is the rear latch locked?”

  “Yes.” Joseph handed him the key.

  “Thank you.”

  There went his keys. Joseph’s situation was deteriorating. Worse, the FBI helicopter now landed in the field. Two agents came out of it and shortly arrived on the scene. One carried a shotgun. Joseph listened to the rattling of the rear gate roll up. There was nothing left to do but keep quiet and go to jail.

  Ten minutes later, something strange happened. The narc handed him his keys back and thanked him.

  “You can get turned around at the intersection a quarter-mile ahead,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  Joseph didn’t believe it. This must be a trap. But what could he do? He started the truck, put it in gear, and drove to the crossroad. There he made a three-point turnaround. He fully expected to be stopped again upon his return, and violently taken into custody. But the narc only waved as Joseph drove by, scantly glancing away from his chat with the FBI agents.

  Did this really just happen?

  * * *

  “Think he suspected anything?” Agent Nelson asked Officer Culpepper.

  Culpepper shrugged. “He seemed genuinely surprised to be leaving. So yes, perhaps he’s a little suspicious. But also relieved as hell, no doubt. I’ll bet he’s so glad to escape he decides not to even tell his boss about the incident.”

  Nelson watched the truck vanish on the eastern horizon of Interstate 68 before holding the $50 bill Officer Culpepper gave him up to the sun. The ghost of Abraham Lincoln faintly smiled back at him through the cloth fibers deep within the paper.

  “Yep, these are the ones flooding the Big Apple. The Service sure has their shorts in a bunch over this gang. Baltimore. I don’t think so. Four boxes, you say?”

  “Six,” Culpepper replied. “At least.”

  “That’s a large load. It’s the break they’ve been waiting for. They’ll be falling all over themselves in New York that our lead panned out. Shame we have to turn the case over to them. But we won’t let them have all the fun. Check your signal.”

  Culpepper lifted a small electronic device resembling a smartphone and turned it on. A map showed on the screen, along with a small blinking red light.

  “We got it,” he said. “Nice and strong.”

  “You attached the device securely?”

  “It’s on the rear frame. Didn’t want to risk it being found in the cargo hold.”

  “We’ll just have to hope it holds, then. We owe you Cumberland boys one.” Ne
lson held out his hand.

  “No problem.” Culpepper surrendered the GPS tracker. “Out of curiosity, which Secret Service field office will you be referring this to? Pittsburgh or Charleston?”

  “Correct,” Agent Nelson said. “The counterfeiters are likely operating somewhere between those two cities, from what we’ve gathered. So we’ll give it to both. But we’ll also be letting New York know, being as they’re the targeted introduction point, and the ones going crazy over these guys.”

  * * *

  Ryan glanced at the clock. If he left his cubicle now, he’d be right on time. So, he opened a chart on the USD/Yuan and waited a few minutes.

  He usually wasn’t this much of a rebel. But Dianne had been riding him too much lately. Why run headlong into probable trouble? Better to come meandering in a little late. It was Ryan’s only practical form of protest.

  Hmm. Sharp turn on the daily chart. Interesting pattern. Volume was impossible to measure in the forex market, with the world’s largest banks pushing trillions of dollars back and forth hourly, much of it designed to trick day traders like Malcolm into opening sucker positions. At least Malcolm listened when Ryan first warned him to avoid currencies.

  But the pattern on Ryan’s screen suggested a deeply-rooted trend change, out of U.S. Dollars into Asian currencies. If it was as real as it looked, it served as further confirmation of what Ryan suspected was happening in the international debt market. Something more than a routine observation born of his natural contrarianism. Something seriously scary.

  Ryan ended up studying the chart longer than he intended, which made him later than what was wise for the meeting with his boss. He decided to print the chart and take it with him. Maybe that would make him look busy.

  “I see how highly you regard my requests,” Dianne said glancing at the clock in her much-too-bright office.

  “Sorry,” Ryan said. “I really am. Got caught up with an alarming new currency trend, developing as we speak. Take a look at this.” He slid the paper under her freckled nose.