Authors: Carey Green
When Dylan entered, Steve was reading an art magazine from the rack near Samantha’s desk.
“Hi, Steve.”
“Dylan, it’s always a pleasure.” Steve stood up to shake Dylan’s hand. His tie was already loosened as he sat down in the chair.
Steve was in his forties, laid-back in spectacles and pinstripes: a tax lawyer. They got along well. If Dylan hadn’t owed him so much money, they might have been friends.
“So,” Steve said, a sly smile coming over his face, “What’s new with you and Silverlight Gallery?”
“Not much. The economy sucks.”
“Tell me about it,” Steve said, spontaneously putting his feet up on the on the desk. “I’m knee deep in it at work.”
“In and out of work,” Dylan said.
“And the job search?”
“I’m getting close.”
“How long have you been out now?”
“Seven months. It’s not easy in this economy.”
“I bet. You still haven’t explained what happened at the other place.”
Dylan shrugged. Steve had been trying to pry an explanation out of him for months, but Dylan remained silent.
“It doesn’t matter now, Steve.”
“Yeah, I guess not. So,” Steve asked, “what do you want to do here?”
“We need more time.”
Steve laughed. “You make me feel like I am in the movie
Groundhog’s Day
. I went through this with the restaurant people: Dave and Gina, the beautiful socialite and the brilliant doctor. All their fancy rich friends were going to help make them a three-star restaurant. You know how much they took me for? Over two hundred grand.”
“Ouch. I had no idea it was that much.”
“I’m still adding it up. Then you two came along: The brilliant artist turned gallery owner, and the Wall Street whiz backing her. I thought it was going to be so different.”
“So did we,” Dylan said with a laugh. “But there’s more to life than money, my friend.”
“Spoken like an out-of-work banker.”
“Very true.”
Dylan got up from the desk and went to the corner of the room where a painting rested upon an easel. It was a blackand-white sketch of a woman done in stencil. The woman’s finely drawn hair was being blown by the wind. She seemed to be standing on an empty beach.
“Do you like this painting, Steve? Would you buy this piece of art?”
“I don’t know if I’d buy it, but I might like it if I saw it somewhere. Who painted it? One of your artists?”
“I did.”
“You paint?”
“No, I connected the dots. Of course I painted it.”
“I didn’t know you had an artistic side.”
“I keep trying to hide it. My parents were artists.”
“So you are going back to your artistic roots? I thought math was your thing.”
“Math, music and art: all variations on the same basic skills. But now I only dabble.”
“Maybe you can hang it out front with a million dollar price tag. Maybe some insanely rich blind art collector might come in. You never know.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“So do I,” Steve said, as he sighed. “So what’s the next step?”
“You know my situation: I’m good for the money, but I’m just not liquid. My investments are in the tank right now, so I can’t sell stock. And because I’m not working, I can’t re-finance the apartment. And not working in this city is a cash pit. So, as soon as I get this job, I can re-finance with the bank and get some liquidity into this place.”
“You’re going to take money from your apartment to help with this gallery? Dylan, you’re a bright guy. How did you wind up in a mess like this?”
“It looked good on paper. Cat and I did tons of research.”
“You call her Cat?”
“Forget I said that.”
“May I call her Cat?”
“You don’t work at the gallery.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I think she’s a great girl. But her sales skills are lacking. I watched her not sell a painting to someone who was interested in buying.”
Dylan remembered the situation. A drunk investment banker and his girlfriend had stumbled into the gallery from the bar next door. The girl had been a rail-thin blonde of dubious Eastern-European origin, and the young knight’s act of chivalry had been an attempt to buy her an expensive painting. Unbeknownst to him, the painting had been done by Rafael Armedia, a young Argentine painter Samantha had been nurturing for over a year. His paintings had been heating up in a few galleries in L.A., and Samantha was stockpiling the works to later make a killing. The killing had not happened, and the banker had offered Samantha a cool five thousand on the spot for a painting she was selling for 10K. Neither budged, and the banker and the girl had headed off to the club.
“The guy was trying to lowball her. She couldn’t let it go for that price.”
“You’re almost out of business. YOU sell the freakin’ painting!”
“It was below market.”
“When you have no money, there is no market!”
“I know, I know.” Despite what he was saying to Steve, Dylan himself had been angry about the painting, mainly by the fact that she didn’t sell it. “Besides, the prospect of selling it wasn’t enough to solve our problems.”
“No, it wasn’t. So are YOUtapping that?”
“Who?”
“Cat.”
“Steve, stop with the Cat stuff. And the answer is a big “NO,” as in, ‘Not at all’.”
“Come on?”
“We had a thing, once upon a time, but probably Samantha needs some excitement in her life. Money’s tight now; the only excitement she’d be getting out of me would be cryptic crosswords puzzles and crock pots. Besides, I think she’s dating some artist now.”
“I see the way she looks at you. Maybe you shouldn’t sell yourself short.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
They were silent for a moment. Steve threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll give you one more month. But after that, I’ve got to do something. The lease agreement says that.”
“After six months, we are subject to eviction with two weeks notice. That’s Page 32, Paragraph two, the third line of your lease.”
“Did you just look that up?”
“Never mind that. We’ll get it done. Trust me.”
Steve stood up and left the office. Dylan took a seat behind Samantha’s desk and picked up the art magazine that Steve had been reading. He was reading the magazine when Samantha walked into the office.
“How did it go?”
“It was like telling a joke at a funeral: not the happiest of occasions. I got us another month.”
“That’s it?”
“What did you expect? A ten-year furlough? He wants his rent.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Look, I have a plan. I’m freeing up some cash, so we can make it through for a while. And if I get this job, well, things will be a lot easier.”
“Dylan, you’ve been more than I ever expected you to be. Thank you.”
“Yeah, but Samantha, we have to sell some art.”
“We will, Dylan, trust me.”
“I do. But it’s gotta start soon.”
“It will. We’re going to make it. Things will be better soon.”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, with a laugh. “They better, or else we’ll all be living in a government camp eating corn and raising chickens.”
“I don’t like corn.”
“You get the idea,” Dylan said.
The hedge fund operated by the Corbin brothers had moved into their new headquarters just three months after 9/11. The move had already been in the planning stages; the company had grown tenfold in the previous year and the tragedy of the towers only hastened that move. Their latest digs, two floors and a penthouse, were strategically located in a newer tower just off of East 57th Street and East River Drive. Though the view was not nearly as spectacular as their previous one, a majestic sixtieth-floor palace, the corner office of Ray Corbin towered high above the river with sweeping views of Manhattan and Queens. More importantly, the building itself was surrounded by taller buildings, which seemed obscure in comparison to the towers. Safety was a primary concern. It had taken them nearly a year to rebuild what terrorists had destroyed in a morning.
Ray Corbin got up from his desk and strolled towards his full-height window overlooking the East River. He then turned and stretched his thin, six foot two frame towards the ground. Due to the magic of arthroscopy, he could still touch his toes. Though he was only forty-seven, a decade of marathon running and lesser triathlons had reduced the cartilage in his knees to a mound of bacon drizzle. Rail-thin with a wiry physique, his slightly gray hair and tan-lined face indicated a life of leisure and lack of protection from the sun. His custom suits exuded power through and through.
Ray turned and gazed back down on the East River before him. The summer heat had left a haze in the sky, and he watched as a helicopter landed off in the distance. In the summer, he frequently commuted to the Hamptons by copter, and contemplated the danger of flying in this haze. It was only then that he realized his brother Josh had entered the room.
If one had seen them from a distance, one would not have even thought the Corbin Brothers to be friends, much less brothers. Ray’s runner physique made his younger brother Josh’s full frontal obesity comic. He was a very heavy boy. Late night programming sessions on the newest trading models had reduced his diet to a steady stream of pizza, diet cokes and Krispy Kremes with chocolate filling. Many guessed his tonnage to be around three and change, but most estimated it to be quickly reaching four. Like many men of his size, the weight did not look bad on Josh, though you might pray if you saw him on an airplane. Ray often encouraged Josh to exercise, as a client-based business demanded attractive staff. It was a double-edged sword, however: Ray would have tolerated the circus fat man, if he could produce mathematics and strategy on the level of Josh.
“Are you sure he’s the right man for the task?” Ray asked. “I feel a little funny.”
“How do you define funny?” Josh asked.
“I don’t know. It’s been so long since we hired a new trader. I guess I’m just gun shy.”
“We all are,” Josh countered. “But we’ve interviewed this guy four times. We can’t just keep bringing him back at our whimsy. We have to make a decision.”
“You’re right, we do. Okay,” Ray said hesitantly, “Bring him in.” Josh left the office as quickly as he entered.
Dylan sat in the waiting room to review his notes on Ray Corbin’s firm. He had taken copious notes on the firm’s history, performance, and on the life and times of Ray Corbin. To many, Ray Corbin was somewhat of an enigma in the financial community; a man possessing an unquestionable intellect, but whose performance at times had seemed somewhat checkered. Dylan had interviewed with the firm four times now, and was growing impatient with the length of the process. In better times, he might have already punted, but the job market was shaky to say the least. He wanted to get back to trading as soon as he possibly could. Waiting for the perfect job was no longer an option.
Josh approached him just as he was reviewing the last page of his notes. Josh gestured with his hand, and Dylan followed him into Ray’s office.
“Hello, Dylan,” Ray said, as he offered Dylan hid hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Corbin,” Dylan said, as he and Josh both sat down in one of the chairs across from Ray. “It’s nice to be invited back.”
“Please, call me Ray.”
“Okay, Ray.”
Ray sat down behind his desk. Josh and Dylan sat in front of him.
“Josh, would you mind leaving the two of us alone.”
“Uh, sure,” Josh said, as he looked up. Ray could tell that he had surprised Josh with his request. Josh was even slower than usual to get up, as he lifted his heavy frame from the posh leather chair. Slowly, he turned without looking at Ray. He closed the door behind him as he left the room. Dylan smiled as he waited for the interrogation to begin.
“You’ve already spent quite a bit of time with Josh, Dylan. I thought it might be best if the two of us got to know each other one on one.”
“Of course.”
“Well, your resume speaks for itself. Harvard undergrad, Harvard MBA. Some pretty good schools. I’m a Harvard man myself.”
“Class of ’73.”
“You’ve done your research on us.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I want the job.”
“D’you know what we do?”
“You trade everything from NASDAQ stocks to pork bellies.”
“How do we do it?”
“People have some ideas, but no one knows for sure. You seem to trade off of proprietary models that look for fluctuations in non-correlated markets.”
“Who told you that?”
“I do my research.”
Ray laughed. “Your research is good, but it’s not that good. We look for patterns, patterns that are infinitely regressed, back-tested and run through neural networks. My brother and a physicist we employ examine the results of these models and attempt to come up with a clear mathematical basis for trades that we execute in global markets around the world.”
“Yes, you wrote about this in Exotics: A Quantitative Approach. You said, ‘Technology will soon be at the forefront of the trading world, as disparate systems will dictate the future of financial markets.’ I think that was the second paragraph on page thirteen.”
“Did you just read that?”
“No, I read that sometime ago.”
“But it’s out of print. I can’t even find a copy.”
“I have a good memory.” Ray pondered this for a moment.
“When I wrote that, we didn’t have the computing power we have today. It was all theoretical. We now use proprietary software that manages the trade modeling, execution, and tracking.”
“Is that what Josh does?”
“Yes, Josh programs the black boxes that make these trades happen.”
“Very cool.”
“It all is. It’s taken me ten years to build all of this.”
“How large is the fund now? Two billion in assets?”
“I don’t like to throw numbers around casually,” Ray countered, “but we’re doing well.”
“Sounds good.”
“So tell me, Dylan. Why should I hire you?”
“Well, my resume and education speak for themselves. In terms of my track record, my trading desk was the most profitable in the firm. I like to think I was a big part of that.”