Part 12 (1/2)

How would Ken react to her just showing up? After all, Kyoto was two years ago. He'd claimed to be a widower, but was that merely conference fast talk?

Best thing is just to play it straight, she told herself. Strictly business. Let the rest fall out in time.

As she stepped off the elevator, she was relieved to see that the offices were still open. Well, she thought, my first finding is that Ken Asano runs this place with an iron hand, just the way Yos.h.i.+da did.

Total dedication. Through floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s doors she could see the receptionist at the desk, now excitedly chatting on the phone. Tam waved, and the smiling woman immediately buzzed her through. Just like that. No different from the last time.

Doesn't look to be any MITI conspiracy here, she thought. What exactly had made Allan so worried?

She bowed and handed over her meis.h.i.+, her business card.

”_Asano-san, onegai s.h.i.+masu_.”

CHAPTER SIX

”Matt, why don't you just send your action over to the 'bean pit' for chrissake?” The phone line from Chicago crackled. ”That's where the c.r.a.pshooters are.”

”Jerry, I wouldn't know a soybean if I ate one.”

”h.e.l.l, half of those loonies over there buying and selling 'bean contracts wouldn't know one either. Come to think of it, I don't know anybody over on the Merc who's ever even seen a pork belly. Do they really exist?” He was yelling to make himself heard over the din of the floor of the Board of Trade. Futures on commodities were being bought and sold all around him. Just then he paused, followed by a louder yell. ”Right, I'll buy five, at the market. Yeah. I'm talkin' one and thirteen bid. What? You've got to be kidding. No way.” Pause. I could almost see the blue-jacketed floor traders frantically hand-signaling each other. Then he yelled again. ”Christ, Frank, I'm already long forty at sixteen. I'm getting murdered here. You guys are killing me. .

. . All right, all right, I'll pay fourteen for ten. Yeah . . . s.h.i.+t.

Hang on, Matt. I gotta write this down on a ticket. . . . Jesus, I should be selling Hondas like my brother-in-law down in Quincy. Sits on his b.u.t.t all day, screws his bookkeeper at lunch, and the man's making a bundle.” Pause. ”h.e.l.l, Matt, what'd I just say?”

”If I heard right, you just bought ten thirty-year Treasury contracts at one oh one and fourteen thirty-seconds. You just agreed to loan the U.S. government a million dollars, Jerry. Very patriotic. Except you're probably going to turn around and unload the contracts in the next five minutes to somebody else.”

”Oh, yeah. Right. I should be so lucky. Christ, where's my pencil? This place is driving me nuts. I think my mind's going. I've gotta shorten up some here before the close. Hang on.”

He yelled at a runner to take his buy slip, then came back to the phone. ”Matt, you're really shaking this place up, you know. Guys are starting to back away. And the people upstairs are beginning to wonder. You've gotta think about going off- exchange with some of this.

Hit the market-maker banks. We can't keep up with you here. I could try to get the Exchange to waive their position limits, but don't hold your breath.”

”No problem, Jerry. My client's got plenty of other accounts. We'll roll the next thousand contracts through a different one.”

”Christ, whoever you're working for must have coconuts the size of King Kong. You realize you guys're naked here? You're getting short billions.”

”I just handle the orders, Jerry.”

”Your numbers scare the p.i.s.s out of me just looking at them.” He sighed. ”Listen, Matt, take care. Get back to you tomorrow at the opening. Right now I've gotta find some greenhorn to take a few of these puppies off my hands or I'm gonna get blown out. Jesus, how'd I let myself get this long at sixteen? Forty f.u.c.king contracts. And I was sure . . . Hey, gotta run. Think I see some idiot over there signaling a seventeen bid. Kid must be from Mars.”

”Good luck.”

”Right. Maybe I'll try prayer.” He was gone.

I'd known Jerry Brighton since we crossed professional swords once in the late sixties, and I'd never seen the man actually sit down. He gave up law early, and these days he elbowed the mob in the Treasury bond futures pit with the grim determination of a horse addict shoving his way to the two-dollar window. If the bonds were sluggish, he'd roam the floor looking for action. Football, you name it. He'd make up bets.

Rumor has it, one slow day he even set up a wager pool taking odds on which floor trader would be the next to go broke, ”tap out” in Exchange parlance. I'd guess Jerry's own number was pretty low. A reliable source once told me Jerry'd averaged a million a year for the past five, even while taking a hit year before last for over two million when a certain famous ”inside trader” sandbagged him with a phony merger rumor. Maybe it was worth the ulcers. Thing is, I know for a fact he'd have done it for nothing. A born market maker, right down to his rubber-soled Reeboks.

So when Jerry Brighton started complaining that Matsuo

Noda's action was growing too rich for his blood, I knew we were in the big time. It took a lot to impress a pro like him.

The thing was getting scary, but it was still perfectly legal. Let me summarize roughly what had happened over the three weeks since I had decided to play along with Matsuo Noda. First were the physical arrangements. To accommodate my new calling, I'd enlarged my operating s.p.a.ce--the back room of the brownstone's parlor floor, looking out over the garden-- into a makes.h.i.+ft brokerage office complete with a multi- lined telephone and quote services from S-tron and Telerate. I'd also installed a direct tie-line to the T-bill pit of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, ditto the Note and Bond action at the Chicago Board of Trade.