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Authors: Christopher Reich
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the mayor. Astor waited long enough to see his father’s eyes narrow, his jaw set, then added, “I explained that it was your birthday, of course.”
Edward Astor waited until the room quieted. “Very amusing, Robert, as always. I’m sure we’ll all be equally amused when you are expelled for leaving campus without permission.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m going now. I just wanted to bring you this.” Astor made his way between the tables and handed his father his present. It was slim and the size of a sheet of paper.
Edward Astor dropped it on the table.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
“The only present I want from you is a decent report card,” said his father. “Hopefully without an F.”
Astor came closer so that they were face-to-face and could speak without the entire room overhearing them. “It’s a paper I wrote for school. It’s about the stock market. You see, I think that something’s going to happen—”
“Do you? I’m glad. Something always happens in the market.”
“I mean, I think there’s a bubble. Prices are too high, given earnings.”
“And what would you know about any of this?”
“I’ve been doing some trading. Not real, just on paper…you know, at school.”
“Trading or gambling? There is a difference.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
“You can’t bullshit the market, Robert.”
“I’ve been doing well. Trading. Like you taught me.”
“A rising tide lifts all boats.”
“I don’t think it’s going to continue. In fact, I think something bad is going to happen. Like a crash. And soon.”
Edward Astor turned from him and spread his arms to the guests. “My son the fortune-teller. Not content to play hooky from school and embarrass me in front of my dearest friends, he’s now giving me advice on the market.”
“Dad, just let me finish…”
“You just did.”
Astor stared into his father’s eyes, wondering how he could have come from this man, how he could share any part of him. Without another word, he made his way from the room and continued downstairs to the cloakroom. He looked at his watch and saw that the time was coming up on ten. He knew the doorman at the Limelight. He forgot all about the 11:04 and school tomorrow and the consequences that his absence would unleash.
“Young man, wait a moment.”
Astor turned. It was the head of the famous investment bank. “Yes, sir?”
“What was your hand?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you were playing poker this afternoon and you beat your proctor, what were you holding?”
Astor put on his overcoat. “Me? Nothing. I was bluffing.”
11
T he sound of a truck grinding to a halt nearby returned Astor to the present. Fifty yards away, a large van with NYPD markings stopped at the entry to Exchange Place, the pedestrians-only square fronting the Exchange. A dozen men clad in black assault gear—helmets, vests, boots
—
jumped from the van, machine guns cradled to their chests. He recognized them as members of the NYPD’s elite Hercules detachment. The Stock Exchange building was one of the city’s prime “hard targets.” Nothing better represented all that was good and bad about America’s brand of capitalism. Living in Manhattan made everyone at least a little bit of an expert in counterterrorism.
Astor presented himself to the uniformed guard at the 2 Broad checkpoint. A blond, ruddy-cheeked man dressed in a blue suit stood a few steps away. Hearing Astor’s name, he came forward. “Sloan Thomasson,” he said, extending a hand. “My condolences. I handled security for your father. Come with me.”
Thomasson led the way into the building. Astor cleared the metal detector, and the two continued to a bank of elevators. “Have you visited before?” asked Thomasson.
“Only the floor.”
“Your father’s office is in 11 Wall. The Exchange complex comprises eight buildings that take up the entire block. It’s a real labyrinth.”
The elevator arrived and Thomasson pressed
Edward Astor waited until the room quieted. “Very amusing, Robert, as always. I’m sure we’ll all be equally amused when you are expelled for leaving campus without permission.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m going now. I just wanted to bring you this.” Astor made his way between the tables and handed his father his present. It was slim and the size of a sheet of paper.
Edward Astor dropped it on the table.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
“The only present I want from you is a decent report card,” said his father. “Hopefully without an F.”
Astor came closer so that they were face-to-face and could speak without the entire room overhearing them. “It’s a paper I wrote for school. It’s about the stock market. You see, I think that something’s going to happen—”
“Do you? I’m glad. Something always happens in the market.”
“I mean, I think there’s a bubble. Prices are too high, given earnings.”
“And what would you know about any of this?”
“I’ve been doing some trading. Not real, just on paper…you know, at school.”
“Trading or gambling? There is a difference.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
“You can’t bullshit the market, Robert.”
“I’ve been doing well. Trading. Like you taught me.”
“A rising tide lifts all boats.”
“I don’t think it’s going to continue. In fact, I think something bad is going to happen. Like a crash. And soon.”
Edward Astor turned from him and spread his arms to the guests. “My son the fortune-teller. Not content to play hooky from school and embarrass me in front of my dearest friends, he’s now giving me advice on the market.”
“Dad, just let me finish…”
“You just did.”
Astor stared into his father’s eyes, wondering how he could have come from this man, how he could share any part of him. Without another word, he made his way from the room and continued downstairs to the cloakroom. He looked at his watch and saw that the time was coming up on ten. He knew the doorman at the Limelight. He forgot all about the 11:04 and school tomorrow and the consequences that his absence would unleash.
“Young man, wait a moment.”
Astor turned. It was the head of the famous investment bank. “Yes, sir?”
“What was your hand?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you were playing poker this afternoon and you beat your proctor, what were you holding?”
Astor put on his overcoat. “Me? Nothing. I was bluffing.”
11
T he sound of a truck grinding to a halt nearby returned Astor to the present. Fifty yards away, a large van with NYPD markings stopped at the entry to Exchange Place, the pedestrians-only square fronting the Exchange. A dozen men clad in black assault gear—helmets, vests, boots
—
jumped from the van, machine guns cradled to their chests. He recognized them as members of the NYPD’s elite Hercules detachment. The Stock Exchange building was one of the city’s prime “hard targets.” Nothing better represented all that was good and bad about America’s brand of capitalism. Living in Manhattan made everyone at least a little bit of an expert in counterterrorism.
Astor presented himself to the uniformed guard at the 2 Broad checkpoint. A blond, ruddy-cheeked man dressed in a blue suit stood a few steps away. Hearing Astor’s name, he came forward. “Sloan Thomasson,” he said, extending a hand. “My condolences. I handled security for your father. Come with me.”
Thomasson led the way into the building. Astor cleared the metal detector, and the two continued to a bank of elevators. “Have you visited before?” asked Thomasson.
“Only the floor.”
“Your father’s office is in 11 Wall. The Exchange complex comprises eight buildings that take up the entire block. It’s a real labyrinth.”
The elevator arrived and Thomasson pressed
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