“And you think you’ll have the same kind of performance with real money.”
“Absolutely. Maybe even better,” I answer confidently. Suddenly I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life and I can tell the scotch is starting to affect me. I’ve always been guilty of gaining confidence by the glass. “I earned almost eight times my money on Unicom, and that was in one day.” Vincent has no idea that I’d tried to win IPO lotteries for six months before finally hitting with Unicom. No idea that it might be six more months before I win another one. That I might never win another one. And he wouldn’t get it even if I did take the next hour to explain it all. Sometimes you have to keep things simple for Vincent. “I have you to thank, by the way.”
“For what?”
“You’re the one who got me to seriously consider day trading as a career. I wouldn’t have quit without you pushing me.”
His posture stiffens. “Hey, I don’t want to be blamed if things don’t turn out okay at Bedford.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him, placing one hand on his shoulder, a little surprised that he remembered the name of the firm right away. His attention to details isn’t usually that good. “It’s the best thing that could happen to me. If I had to go back to my old job now, given everything that’s happened, it would be terrible. Too many memories there. This is good for me right now, even if it doesn’t work out in the long run.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then. Hey, I might even know some people who would invest with you,” he says, lowering his voice. “Maybe you could charge them a fee for managing their money.”
The idea of managing money for other people never occurred to me before, but as I start to think about his suggestion, it seems like a natural. The more money you control, the better your access to transactions. The better your access, the better your odds of success. Suddenly you’re one of those preferred clients the brokerage houses cater to, and people pay big fees if you deliver good returns. “Who are these people?” I ask.
“Friends.”
Since dropping out of professional football nine years ago after a career-ending knee injury, Vincent’s working life has been a mystery to me. At different times he’s claimed to run a sports agency, own an event marketing firm, and provide bodyguard services to celebrities. However, he’s never had a physical office that I know of, and he’s never been specific about the athletes he represented, concerts he promoted, or celebrities he protected. But he’s always had a wad of big bills in his sterling silver money clip, always paid for everything when we’ve gotten together, and always driven a late model sports car.
His pals call him “Vinnie the ticket guy” for his ability to find tickets to any important event in the world—from Wimbledon to the Democratic National Convention—within twenty-four hours. From what he’s told me he charges outrageous prices, but his clientele is wealthy enough not to care.
“Can you be a little more specific about who these people are?”
The brunette Vincent has been checking out has now spied him, and he’s enjoying the attention. “Don’t worry, you’ll meet them,” he says absentmindedly.
I notice that the brunette’s companion, a petite blonde with blue eyes, is smiling at me. My gaze stays on her a moment longer than it should, and suddenly I get the guilts. Like I did this morning when I checked out Anna sitting behind Bedford’s reception desk.
“She’s cute, Augustus.”
“Who is?” I ask, looking away and taking another long guzzle of scotch.
“The blonde over there. I saw her smile at you. You saw it too.”
“I did not,” I say defiantly.
“There’s no reason to feel guilty,” he says, patting me on the back.
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he says. “I can tell. Look, I’m just trying to help get you back into the swing of
“Absolutely. Maybe even better,” I answer confidently. Suddenly I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life and I can tell the scotch is starting to affect me. I’ve always been guilty of gaining confidence by the glass. “I earned almost eight times my money on Unicom, and that was in one day.” Vincent has no idea that I’d tried to win IPO lotteries for six months before finally hitting with Unicom. No idea that it might be six more months before I win another one. That I might never win another one. And he wouldn’t get it even if I did take the next hour to explain it all. Sometimes you have to keep things simple for Vincent. “I have you to thank, by the way.”
“For what?”
“You’re the one who got me to seriously consider day trading as a career. I wouldn’t have quit without you pushing me.”
His posture stiffens. “Hey, I don’t want to be blamed if things don’t turn out okay at Bedford.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him, placing one hand on his shoulder, a little surprised that he remembered the name of the firm right away. His attention to details isn’t usually that good. “It’s the best thing that could happen to me. If I had to go back to my old job now, given everything that’s happened, it would be terrible. Too many memories there. This is good for me right now, even if it doesn’t work out in the long run.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then. Hey, I might even know some people who would invest with you,” he says, lowering his voice. “Maybe you could charge them a fee for managing their money.”
The idea of managing money for other people never occurred to me before, but as I start to think about his suggestion, it seems like a natural. The more money you control, the better your access to transactions. The better your access, the better your odds of success. Suddenly you’re one of those preferred clients the brokerage houses cater to, and people pay big fees if you deliver good returns. “Who are these people?” I ask.
“Friends.”
Since dropping out of professional football nine years ago after a career-ending knee injury, Vincent’s working life has been a mystery to me. At different times he’s claimed to run a sports agency, own an event marketing firm, and provide bodyguard services to celebrities. However, he’s never had a physical office that I know of, and he’s never been specific about the athletes he represented, concerts he promoted, or celebrities he protected. But he’s always had a wad of big bills in his sterling silver money clip, always paid for everything when we’ve gotten together, and always driven a late model sports car.
His pals call him “Vinnie the ticket guy” for his ability to find tickets to any important event in the world—from Wimbledon to the Democratic National Convention—within twenty-four hours. From what he’s told me he charges outrageous prices, but his clientele is wealthy enough not to care.
“Can you be a little more specific about who these people are?”
The brunette Vincent has been checking out has now spied him, and he’s enjoying the attention. “Don’t worry, you’ll meet them,” he says absentmindedly.
I notice that the brunette’s companion, a petite blonde with blue eyes, is smiling at me. My gaze stays on her a moment longer than it should, and suddenly I get the guilts. Like I did this morning when I checked out Anna sitting behind Bedford’s reception desk.
“She’s cute, Augustus.”
“Who is?” I ask, looking away and taking another long guzzle of scotch.
“The blonde over there. I saw her smile at you. You saw it too.”
“I did not,” I say defiantly.
“There’s no reason to feel guilty,” he says, patting me on the back.
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he says. “I can tell. Look, I’m just trying to help get you back into the swing of
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