Manhattan Voyagers. Thomas Boone's Quealy
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“Hmm.”
“You’d be amazed at some of the scandalous conversations I’ve overheard in the Bull & Bear; it’d blow your mind.”
“I bet it would.”
He lowered his voice. “A midget with a bit of larceny in his heart might get the idea that there’s money to be made from these conversations.”
“Yeah, he might.”
“And if he was an enterprising kind of fellow … and also happened to purchase a sensitive, top-of-the-line, miniature digital recorder that could be secreted just about anywhere in this place without being noticed … he could end up with some very incriminating blackmail material.”
“I see.”
“Take for instance that time a couple of weeks ago when you and certain people reserved the private dining room in the vault to have a dinner meeting.”
“I remember.”
“The walls had ears, Carl, they heard everything that was said.”
“Hmm.”
“As I view it, I’m sitting in the catbird seat now.”
“It seems so; don’t it?”
Rudy gloated as though he was playing in a high-stakes poker game and had just been dealt a royal flush. “Then again, Carl, you’re an expert at recordings; aren’t you?”
His drink arrived and he took a healthy swig.
“And you’re also skilled at breaking into the offices of hedge funds and investment banks in the middle of the night, searching for confidential memos on impending deals.”
“What do you want, Rudy?”
“I want to jump on the gravy train, Carl, the same as you and the others at SKG.”
“Hmm.”
“I suggest that your people and my people set up a meeting.”
His glass stopped mid-way to his lips. “You got people?”
Rudy cackled again, turning a few heads in their direction. “No, but I’ve always wanted to say that line because actors always use it in the movies.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, Carl, it’s only me. I don’t share with nobody.”
He nodded. “That’s good to know.”
“When can we all get together for a discussion of our mutual interests?”
“Eh, I’ve got to make a call.”
“Of course, Carl, by all means talk to your employers.” Rudy slid off the barstool and landed on his tiny feet with a soft thud. “But make it snappy. The price goes up if you make me wait too long.” Then he walked away.
After a few minutes, Carl put a napkin over his glass and left the barroom. The bar’s TV monitors proclaimed :
THE FUTURE WILL BE BETTER TOMORROW!
In his haste to make a call, he didn’t see the message.
*
Boiler Room
Ethel staggered into the Bull & Bear carrying shopping bags crammed full with groceries. She rested them on the floor, rubbed the Bull’s hoof very hard with both hands for extra luck; picked them up again and moved towards the Coat-Check.
Hilda waved to her. “Your first drink is on the house, Ethel.”
“Thanks, I really need it today, my water is about to break.”
Ruthie rushed to help and carried a bag for her. “Are you pregnant?”
“No, of course I’m not pregnant, it was just an expression to describe how crappy I feel. It’s hot out and these bags are heavy.”
“Oh.”
She fanned herself with a newspaper. “How could I be pregnant for pity’s sake? I haven’t had sex with a man in … um … in …”
“Not since you and I went on a double-date with Larry and Marvin Hoffman,” Ruthie said. “That was three years ago already. My, how time flies.”
“Don’t remind me of those two meatheads.”
“Yes, well, all I can say, Ethel, is you and Larry were going at it hot and heavy in the backseat at the drive-in on Staten Island. The car windows got fogged up and I had trouble seeing the movie. I had to keep wiping them with a tissue.”
“Couples don’t go to drive-ins to watch the movie, Ruthie.”
“I do.”
“Were you peeking?”
“Not intentionally, Ethel, however I dropped my cashews and turned around to find them.”
“What did you see?”
“Larry’s pants were pulled down; I never saw a butt with so much hair on it.”
“What was I doing?”
“Your eyeballs were rolling around in your sockets like marbles. It was very sordid, Ethel, I must tell you. The car was shaking and Marvin had a lecherous look on his face beside me in the front seat.”
“Well, forget what you saw, Ruthie, that’s ancient history.”
“What’s with all the shopping bags?”
“I buy my groceries and supplies in bulk from wholesalers.”
“Why?”
“Because I get a discount and can save money.”
“That makes no sense, Ethel, in your situation.” She lifted out a 24-pack of soap from a bag. “This will last you four years; you don’t have any storage space in your tiny apartment.”
“Yes, you’re right, Ruthie, and this the last time I’m doing it.”
“Good.”
She whispered into her ear. “I expect to be coming into money soon, Ruthie, possibly quite a lot of money.”
“You won the lottery?”
She grimaced. “No, of course not, nobody in Manhattan ever hits the lottery. It’s always some white-trash people living in a trailer in the woods in Arkansas who win.”
“That’s true. So where’s the money coming from then?”
Ethel informed her about the Pump-and-Dump operation she uncovered at her firm and the SEC reward program for whistle-blowers. At the conclusion of her story, she hurried into the barroom to collect the free drink Hilda offered her, allowing Ruthie time to reflect on the matter.
Ethel returned within ten minutes holding a lollipop-pink tropical drink in a tall frosted glass with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it. “Any questions?”
“If I understand you correctly, Ethel, your firm buys up a large number of shares in small, worthless companies that trade for a few cents each on the Over-the-Counter market.”
“Correct; then they begin to spread false rumors on the Internet about the companies, claiming they’ve discovered a major gold deposit in Alaska or invented a miracle drug which will cure ovarian cancer.”
“Hmm.”
“The Internet is a terrific vehicle for spreading rumors.”
“So I’ve heard, Ethel.”
“They also buy the stolen e-mail addresses and phone numbers of mom-and-pop investors in volume from hackers in places like Russia, Romania or Nigeria. Tens of thousands of solicitation e-mails are sent out to