years ago. Stocks were still going up and he had a good line, how he used covered calls and hedged leverage and I don’t know what else. What do I know about stocks, anyway? It sounded good. And then, after a while, you get used to those checks coming every month. You get those statements every quarter and you see the principal edging up. Not by a lot, but still, you feel good about it. Then the market started falling apart and you look at the statement and you think, this guy’s really a genius—he’s still making me money. You get comfortable and you’ll believe anything.”
“What do the lawyers say?”
“Oh, we’re fucked. No doubt. Our account said we had a million two. Of course, that was just a piece of paper. But over the years we got paid out more than that. The Feds count back ten years. Whatever you put in minus whatever you took out. We’ll get nothing. Zip. I don’t think they’ll come after us, though. I hear some people are being told they’re going to have to pony up.”
“There was a piece in the
Journal
a week or two ago about that.”
“Yeah? I don’t read the papers anymore.” He laughed. “I never read the
Journal
. None of that shit. I look at
Newsday
once in a while. The wife gets it.”
“You manage to stay well informed.”
Mickey laughed. “My sources didn’t tell me what you’re supposed to be doing for the family. But I can guess. The middle kid, whose name escapes me right now, he’s trying to hold the firm together. How am I doing?”
“Who’s your source? Binks?”
“That junkie prick. I plan on being around to piss on his grave.”
“Junkie?” I said. This was news.
“Last I heard. He went from coke to crank to heroin. China White. He thinks he’s a fucking connoisseur.”
The too-laid-back attitude of Virgil’s older brother now made sense—he was stoned.
“A guy I met in prison said it one time. ‘Notice how you never meet an old junkie?’ I think you’ll get your chance.”
“Yeah, I knew you went away for a while,” he said, almost apologetically. “You take one for the team?”
There had been a conspiracy. I just wasn’t part of it. I had been both the patsy and the crook. “If I’d known the words, I would have sung them an aria or two. I had nothing to give. I did two of the five and now I report to my parole officer once a month for the next couple of years. I’m on my third in eight months. They pass me around. I’m like a tofu salad at Luger’s. Nobody knows what to do with me.”
“They better learn. It seems the Feds are finally going after people. I haven’t seen them this tough since the early nineties. Another few years and there’ll be lots of white-collar guys sitting where you are.”
“Mid-level execs. The big guys will just have their firms pay a fine.”
“It’s the American way,” he said.
“The great wheel grinds slowly,” I said in my best Confucian impersonation.
“When it grinds at all,” he said. “So, what do you want from me? Tell me a story.”
“Well, I can’t say what I’m working on. I’m taking the man’s money; I probably owe him that at least. But I need to find out where to start. There’s more than a thousand individual investors, almost three hundred institutions—central banks, hedge funds, pension funds, charities. Who had the inside on Von Becker? I need to understand his whole operation. I need to know it cold.”
“Besides Binks?”
“I thought he was just a trader—and happy that way.”
“He should’ve been indicted. Only he never signed a thing. No paper trail. But I’m sure he knew.”
“Well, I doubt he will talk to me. He’ll know it’s going right back to Virgil.”
“Virgil! That’s his name. I must be getting old. They’re all named for the Earps, you know. James, Virgil, Wyatt, and Morgan. The old man had a thing about the Earps. The O.K. Corral. All that crap. Guy had memorabilia all over his office.”
“The great lawmen of the Old West on
“What do the lawyers say?”
“Oh, we’re fucked. No doubt. Our account said we had a million two. Of course, that was just a piece of paper. But over the years we got paid out more than that. The Feds count back ten years. Whatever you put in minus whatever you took out. We’ll get nothing. Zip. I don’t think they’ll come after us, though. I hear some people are being told they’re going to have to pony up.”
“There was a piece in the
Journal
a week or two ago about that.”
“Yeah? I don’t read the papers anymore.” He laughed. “I never read the
Journal
. None of that shit. I look at
Newsday
once in a while. The wife gets it.”
“You manage to stay well informed.”
Mickey laughed. “My sources didn’t tell me what you’re supposed to be doing for the family. But I can guess. The middle kid, whose name escapes me right now, he’s trying to hold the firm together. How am I doing?”
“Who’s your source? Binks?”
“That junkie prick. I plan on being around to piss on his grave.”
“Junkie?” I said. This was news.
“Last I heard. He went from coke to crank to heroin. China White. He thinks he’s a fucking connoisseur.”
The too-laid-back attitude of Virgil’s older brother now made sense—he was stoned.
“A guy I met in prison said it one time. ‘Notice how you never meet an old junkie?’ I think you’ll get your chance.”
“Yeah, I knew you went away for a while,” he said, almost apologetically. “You take one for the team?”
There had been a conspiracy. I just wasn’t part of it. I had been both the patsy and the crook. “If I’d known the words, I would have sung them an aria or two. I had nothing to give. I did two of the five and now I report to my parole officer once a month for the next couple of years. I’m on my third in eight months. They pass me around. I’m like a tofu salad at Luger’s. Nobody knows what to do with me.”
“They better learn. It seems the Feds are finally going after people. I haven’t seen them this tough since the early nineties. Another few years and there’ll be lots of white-collar guys sitting where you are.”
“Mid-level execs. The big guys will just have their firms pay a fine.”
“It’s the American way,” he said.
“The great wheel grinds slowly,” I said in my best Confucian impersonation.
“When it grinds at all,” he said. “So, what do you want from me? Tell me a story.”
“Well, I can’t say what I’m working on. I’m taking the man’s money; I probably owe him that at least. But I need to find out where to start. There’s more than a thousand individual investors, almost three hundred institutions—central banks, hedge funds, pension funds, charities. Who had the inside on Von Becker? I need to understand his whole operation. I need to know it cold.”
“Besides Binks?”
“I thought he was just a trader—and happy that way.”
“He should’ve been indicted. Only he never signed a thing. No paper trail. But I’m sure he knew.”
“Well, I doubt he will talk to me. He’ll know it’s going right back to Virgil.”
“Virgil! That’s his name. I must be getting old. They’re all named for the Earps, you know. James, Virgil, Wyatt, and Morgan. The old man had a thing about the Earps. The O.K. Corral. All that crap. Guy had memorabilia all over his office.”
“The great lawmen of the Old West on
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