Back in New York, optimism was in increasingly short supply. What do
you do if you think you're being set up? One thing, you may have
occasion to muse long and hard about the consequences, personal and
otherwise. You also may choose to ponder the larger motives of the
individual behind it all.
So far, what had happened? Matsuo Noda had hired Matt Walton, corporate
attorney-at-law, to begin shorting the American Treasury market, then
proceeded to make himself a bona fide hero back home, in the process of
which he acquired access to the biggest chunk of savings in the world,
presumably the "financial arrangements" he once alluded to. Using that
money as margin, Noda was ready to shift his play into high gear. My
latest telexed instructions indicated he was poised to accelerate
dramatically, "borrowing" bonds and selling them for whatever the
market would pay. Of course if the price went down anytime soon, he
could then replace those borrowed instruments at some fraction of what
he'd sold them for. The man was gambling, for godsake. With the
"Emperor's" fund.
Or was he? Therein, as somebody once said, lies the rub. Short selling
has always been a reasonably good definition of gambling, except . . .
except you are gambling only if you are wagering money on an event
whose outcome is not precisely known. If you do know it, you are not
gambling. You are taking prudent steps that will allow you to benefit
from prior knowledge of said, etc.
Enough airy semantics. The big question: Why me? Now, I've been set up
a few times before in my life. Everybody has. I even wonder in darker
moments if the reason Joanna demanded a champagne lifestyle wasn't to
make sure I spent all my time supporting it, thereby rendering me
exactly what she eventually accused me of being--an absentee husband and
father. That is a no-win situation.
The undertaking at hand, however, could have a very obvious
beneficiary. Matsuo Noda. The only problem was that in order for Noda
to win, America had to lose. Massively. The old zero-sum game: for
every winner there has to be an equal and opposite sucker.
After that Friday evening with Henderson, I spent the next week mulling
over the complexities of the situation. The whole thing boiled down to
two very strong presumptions: one, I was indeed being set up, being
told one scenario while the truth lay in quite another direction; and
two, my employer had something very lethal to America's financial
health up his sleeve. Still, these were merely presumptions, nothing
more. The only thing I was sure about was that I had a very
unpredictable tiger by its posterior handle. Time to find out a little
more about my pussycat.
I hadn't actually seen Dai Nippon's midtown office, but I talked to the
manager almost every day on the phone, and he occasionally shipped
materials down to my place in the Village. I knew they'd taken over the
building, installed a new security staff, moved into the vacant floor,
and were doing something. However, I hadn't been invited up to see what
the something was. I concluded the time was at hand.
As I understood it, Dai Nippon's purpose in life was to oversee the use
of investment capital. Fair and good. As it happens, Japanese business
tends to be funded a little differently from our own. Instead of
selling off stock to the public, Japanese industry relies much more
heavily on bank financing. In fact, less than twenty percent of Japan's
industrial assets are publicly traded. Consequently the rules of the
game are changed. If your company is beholden to a financial
institution instead of a lot of nervous stockholders and fund managers,
you're in partners with somebody less interested in next quarter's
profits than in the larger matter of your still being around ten years
hence to pay off its paper. That lender naturally rides herd very
closely on your long-term planning.
As best I could tell, DNI was one of the herd-riders, a sort of hired
gun that monitored various companies' operations to make sure they were
managing their loans prudently. Again, since the prospectus emphasized
they were specialists in overseas investment, I assumed that maybe part
of the reason they were coming to the U.S. was to oversee the Japanese
companies doing business here with money borrowed from back home.
Nobody had actually told me this. In fact nobody had told me anything.
That was merely what I considered to be an educated guess. It was the
only thing I could think of that made the slightest sense.
The following Monday morning I told myself the guesswork was over. It
was high time I went up and saw for myself what they were doing. All I
needed was an excuse.
Then the phone rang. I was in the garden out back, skimming the Times
and working on a pot of fresh coffee while waiting for the Chicago
exchanges to open. Ben was cruising the fence line, sniffing for cats.
When I picked up the receiver, waiting at the other end was Mr.
Yasuhiro Tanaka, office manager for the New York operation. He chatted
a bit about the weather, how nice it was to be working in the U.S., the
usual. Finally he mentioned that he needed to meet with me to discuss,
among other matters, certain legal questions concerning one of the
other leases in their building. Would it be convenient if he came down
to my place and we went over the paperwork?
Not necessary, I replied. I just happened to be headed for midtown in
the next few minutes. I'd throw a copy of the leases into my briefcase
and drop by to see him. Then before he could protest, I mumbled
something about the doorbell and hung up. The phone rang again
immediately, but I didn't answer it. I was already putting on my
jacket.
I scribbled a few notes for Emma, taped them to her word processor, and
headed out the door. Minutes later I was in their Third Avenue lobby,
greeting the new security staff, several of whom, as a favor to Tanaka,
I'd interviewed for their jobs.
Then I took the elevator up to DNI's offices on the eleventh floor and
proceeded to have my argyle socks blown away.
First off, top security. The entryway just off the elevator bank had
been completely transformed. TV intercom, steel doors--it could have
been the vault at Chase. I told the camera's eye who I was and then
waited while a computer somewhere gave me a voice-ID check. How they
managed to have me in the system already I wasn't exactly sure . . .
maybe they'd taken it off the phone?
After I'd cleared that, the doors slid open and I entered the first
chamber of a two-room security check. An electronic voice ordered me to
put my briefcase into the X-ray machine while I proceeded through the
metal detector.
That cleared, the set of steel panels leading into the next room slid
open and I went in . . . to be confronted by two crew-cut guards who
could have been retired sumo wrestlers. As the doors clicked behind me,
I took one look at DNI's welcoming committee and realized they were
packing Uzis, those Israeli automatics that could probably cut down a
tree in about two seconds. No candy-ass .38's for Dai Nippon. Without
ceremony they commenced a body search. It was all very polite, but it
sure as hell wasn't perfunctory. I just stood there in astonishment
while this gorilla roughly twice my size felt me up.
That indignity completed, I was now in line for the real surprise. Yet
another set of steel doors opened, and there awaited the man I'd been
dealing with over the phone, Yasuhiro Tanaka. Medium build, late
forties, cropped hair, automatic smile--he was Noda's chief of
operations for New York. He didn't say much, just led me onto the
floor, heading for his office. But he was clearly the on-site daimyd:
lots of heavy bowing from the young, white-shirted Japanese staff as we
headed for the corner suite.
Which brings us to the real shocker. Dai Nippon's floor operation
looked like the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. Let me attempt
a brief description. In the far back was a massive NEC augmented
supercomputer--a half dozen off-white octagonal units about head high,
one the mainframe and the others storage modules arranged alongside in
a neat row. Pure power. The whole thing was encased in a glassed room
with (I assumed) critical temperature and humidity control. Then out on
the floor were lines and lines of workstations. Computer screens
everywhere, printers running, stacks of color hard copy--pie charts, bar
graphs, spreads--plus terminals carrying every financial service offered
by cable or satellite.
This was just the first, five-second glance. Incredible, I thought.
There must be a heck of a lot more Japanese investment in the U.S. than
anybody realizes.
But something had to be wrong here. Why should . . . ? Finally I slowed
down--Tanaka was hurrying me along, clearly
annoyed that I'd appeared uninvited. That's when I noticed the rest.
Across one wall was a line of projection TVs, on which computer data
was being scrolled. As we walked past, I noticed that each screen
seemed to be under the scrutiny of a team of analysts, who were
intently studying the numbers, comparing notes, running calculations on
their individual terminals.
What's this all about?
I stopped before one screen and studied it a second. Beneath it a small
sign said simply "Electronics." The one next to it read
"Biotechnology." Then I glanced at a couple of others. Each one covered
a different industrial sector. Gee, I thought, you're really out of
touch, Walton. Who would have guessed Japan has so much investment in
manufacturing here. I didn't remember much going on besides a few joint
ventures. Sure, they've got a few auto assembly plants, that steel
plant they'd bought out on the coast, some TV-tube production, chips,
VCRs. But mostly it represented entries into sectors where they're
trying to get the jump on protectionism, start a token manufacturing
operation here before they get shut out.
"If you have any questions, I'm sure we can discuss them later." Tanaka
had taken my arm and was urging me politely toward his office. The
whines and hums of laser printers and the beep of computers made
conversation all but impossible.
"Well, I was merely interested . . ." Then I stopped.
Know that test psychologists have, the one where you look at a couple
of silhouettes and describe what you see? If you think you're supposed
to look at the white part in the middle, then you see one thing--I think
it's a vase. But if you concentrate on the black instead, you see
something else entirely, maybe the profiles of two human faces opposite
each other. Thus what you see is largely a product of your prior
assumptions concerning what you're supposed to be looking for. Or maybe
it measures whether you view the world as a positive or a negative
image, something like that. I don't recall exactly. I do remember
receiving a B- in Psych 101, which was generous.
The point is, what I first thought I saw was actually the inverse of
what was really there. I'd told myself what it was, rather than
believing my eyes.
Dai Nippon was running analyses, bet your ass, but the industries under
their silicon microscope weren't Japanese.
They'd computerized the financial report of every American company
traded publicly and were now in the process of taking those outfits
apart.
And I can assure you it was cold-eyed in the extreme, strictly hard
numbers: quarterly earnings, long-term debt, inventory, stock
outstanding, CEO bonuses. As any professional analyst would do, they'd
cut right through a company's glossed-over excuses, phrases such as
strategic retrenchment, aimed at the dividend-nervous retirees in Cedar
Rapids. They were putting together the real story.
Same with the financial markets. Screens were scrolling up- to-the-
second quotes on everything from three-month T-bills to thirty-year
Treasury bonds. Computers were running arbitrage spreads on every
issue. They knew exactly where they stood with all their futures
contracts. I realized my little telephone boiler room had merely been
the tip of some awesome iceberg.
"Mr. Walton, it is a pleasure to meet you in person." Tanaka was
ushering me into the corner office after our pass through the floor.
Unlike most executive suites in New York, its windows were sealed with
heavy drapes. Again, total security. "Let me order tea." He waved at
somebody out on the floor.
I nodded, still chewing over the setup and trying to understand what in
good Christ was underway.
"I'm sure you are a busy man, so perhaps we should proceed directly to
my concerns. As you may have guessed, we are almost ready to move into
a new phase of our operation."
"Oh." I guess it must have sounded dumb, but I honestly couldn't manage
a full sentence. Finally I recovered slightly. "I'm a little surprised
by the scope of all this. What's the purpose?"
"Our president, Noda-sama, should be arriving in a few days. I'm sure
he will be happy to address your questions in detail." Tanaka paused
for the green tea, delivered by a silent girl--the young, smiling,
uniformed Japanese "office lady"-- who scarcely looked up as she settled
the tray on the desk. After she was gone, he continued. "This, of
course, is only the financial nerve center for our operation. Our
technical staff will begin arriving soon."
Technical staff? Then who were those grim-faced minions out there
punching computers?
"You're bringing in more people?"
"Correct. Which is why I needed to see you. I understand that the lease
on the floor above us is due for renewal at the end of this month. We
would like to acquire that space. We will need to convert it as quickly
as possible."
"What about the current tenants?"
"There is a rider in their lease, Mr. Walton, that permits the owner of
the building to reclaim the space for his own use at the time of a
renewal. We fully intend to make use of it. Consequently as our
American attorney you are hereby authorized to inform them that their
lease will not be automatically extended, that they will be expected to
vacate. In accordance with the legal and binding terms of their lease.
Advise them also that there can be no grace period. We will require the
floor immediately."
I looked at him. So much for the current tenants. "What will these new
offices be used for?"
Tanaka sipped his tea. "That section will have another managing
director. Our range of operations here brings other responsibilities."
"What section, what range of operations?"
"I am regrettably not at liberty to discuss the specific extent of
DNI's interests."
"Well, let me break some news to you. I like to know who I'm working
for. So you'd better start discussing specifics and fast."
Tanaka seemed to be having trouble meeting my eye. The skull beneath
his short-cropped hair glistened under the harsh neon lighting.
"Mr. Walton, you are now part of the DNI team. That position includes
obligations I am sure you would not wish to take lightly."
"Hold on." The hell with politeness. "I'm not part of your 'team' or
anybody's. I came on board with the explicit understanding that--"
"Mr. Walton, kindly sit down." He pointed without ceremony to a chair.
I just looked at it, then back at him.
"As you are a scholar of Japan," he continued, "I'm sure you are aware
that an employee's loyalty to his company is considered to be a gauge
of his character. A company is a family, and one considers its
interests in that spirit."
"Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm not Japanese. '_Nihon-jin'_
as you'd probably put it. I'm a _gaijin_. We usually work for number
one."
"At the moment, Mr. Walton, you work for Dai Nippon. There is an
assigned role for you, one that Noda-san expects you to fulfill."
"Maybe I just handed in my resignation."
"I do not really think you would wish to do that." Deadpan. The
confidence with which he made that statement told me this guy could
make a killing at poker. Unless he had a few cards in the hole I didn't
know about. "It would hardly be in your best interest. We expect your
contribution to be crucial."
"What contribution?"
"That will become plain in due time, Mr. Walton." He was measuring his
words as he continued, maybe easing up a bit. "For now, let me merely
say we know you to be a man with substantial curiosity. Consequently we
believe that what lies ahead will be of considerable interest to you."
What was this samurai up to?
"Maybe it's time everybody put their cards on the table. And why don't
we begin with you." I thumbed at the floor outside. "What the hell's
going on out there?"
"At the moment nothing in this office need concern you. But perhaps I
can tell you this. Now that you are serving as our corporate attorney,
you are in a position to help us pursue other avenues."
I looked him over. Tanaka was beating about the bush. Why? Maybe it was
merely the Japanese style, but he also seemed to know exactly what not
to say.
"I'm still waiting to hear what's next."
"Very well. As long as you're here . . ." He sipped calmly from his
cup. "It is common knowledge that Japanese savers have become the
world's largest lenders, with overseas investment that now exceeds, by
the way, the greatest rate of lending by OPEC even at its peak. The
Japanese people will have over a trillion dollars in overseas assets
within the next few years."
"I'm familiar with the numbers." I also knew that with several trillion
dollars in spare change sloshing around back home, they were sending
abroad a mere dribble of what they had.
"Were you also aware that over four fifths of our overseas investment
is currently in dollar-denominated instruments?"
"No surprise. The dollar's still the name of the game, worldwide."
"True enough, but we at Dai Nippon are concerned that so many of our
institutions have such heavy exposure in a single currency.
Accordingly, in addition to our program with interest- rate futures, we
also feel it would be prudent to provide some protection for this
currency risk. In the same manner, I might add, that American investors
often do."
"You mean some downside protection? On the dollar?"
"That is correct. A devaluation or a sudden drop in exchange rates
would jeopardize much Japanese capital. Therefore we feel it would be
prudent to enter the currency-futures markets to cover at least some of
the dollar exposure of our investors."
Jesus! I suddenly needed a Valium. In addition to Treasuries, now Dai
Nippon was about to short the dollar, pre-sell it in advance of . . .
of what?
Had Noda been lying to me right down the line? Setting up a cockamamie
cover with interest futures while all along he was setting up an
international currency swindle?
Or were we about to get down to the real action? He'd scheduled his
curtain raiser, whatever it was, then realized he might accidentally
pull the plug on the U.S. greenback? So he'd decided to arrange a
little currency insurance for everybody back at the ranch, just in
case.
Don't ask me why, but I was drawn to this pending nightmare like a moth
to flame. This was a ringside seat at . . .
All right, who am I trying to kid? That was the moment when I finally,
finally grasped what our meeting was all about. It was to formally
announce the tidal wave that would soon engulf America. And now Matsuo
Noda--or maybe I should say Noah--was, in his oblique Japanese way,
handing me a pair of tickets good for one round-trip passage on his
ark. The only thing missing was the schedule.
By then I didn't care whether I was on board or not; I figured I'd just
as soon try swimming on my own. But I had one very good reason to play
along.
"Okay, what's the game? Want to sell some dollars for delivery down the
road?"
"We assume you are familiar with the markets."
"I stay in touch. How would you like to go? If you want
currency futures, there're the exchanges. Or you can buy forwards,
which are more or less the same thing, from any number of banks around
town. Futures only go out for a year, maximum, but I can probably get
you forwards out to three. Come to think of it, Citibank will quote you
ten-year forwards."
"We would be looking at shorter terms."
"No problem. Currency futures are quoted for March, June, September,
and December. That's on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange's IMM. But if
three months are too far out, then you can get options on spot currency
contracts down at the Philadelphia exchange, which allows early
exercise. Or if you want, I think you can get off-exchange bank quotes
as short as one month. Citibank has a big FOREX desk. And Bankers
Trust, and First Boston, or even Banque Indosuez. Of course, if you
really want to get serious, there's the currency trading floor at
Barclays Bank in London. . . ."
"We expect to be active in all markets, worldwide. That seems best."
Tanaka continued, "However, we are only interested in December futures
and one-month contracts in the forwards. After that, we may choose to .
. . make other arrangements."
Hang on, America.
"Right. And what are we talking here in terms of amount?"
He handed me a sheet of paper.
It was like he was ordering up sandwiches from the deli. Corned beef on
rye, lean, with extra mustard and a slice of pickle. How many? Let me
check. Oh, say a few hundred billion.
"This is going to take a few days." I passed it back, calmly as I could
manage. "Why don't you send a schedule down to my place late this
afternoon. My secretary will be there. I'll get started in the
morning." I rose. "In the meantime, you'll understand if I take today
off and catch up a little on other work."
"Of course." Tanaka bowed, head still glistening.
"Be in touch tomorrow." I nodded farewell.
"Until then, Mr. Walton." Another bow as I turned to leave.
I walked back through the floor, again trying to digest the spectacle.
This was undoubtedly the most comprehensive operation I'd ever
witnessed. What in hell did all this analysis of industrial sectors
have to do with currency hedging?
Not a lot of time to reflect on the question, however, since I was
summarily being ushered toward the steel security doors by one of
Tanaka's flunkies, a young tough who seemed to speak no English, but
who could strong-arm very eloquently.
In moments I was outside, facing the bank of elevators. That was when I
remembered the upstairs tenant, a big public relations outfit. Better
take a couple of minutes and give them the word.
Rausch, McKinley, and Stein were in the middle of proving conclusively
that our mayor knew nothing about contract kickbacks, that he was in
fact the closest equivalent New York had to driven snow. His Honor, in
the meantime, was hastily returning the campaign contributions of all
the real estate executives who, flanked by their lawyers, were now
being featured on the front page of the Daily News.
Since RM&S had their hands full and also had expected an automatic
renewal of their lease, there weren't too many politic smiles when I
broke the news. Fact is, it was a very unpleasant scene. Finally I
called for their lease and showed them the rider. They'd signed the
damn thing, not me.
"Sorry, fellows, all I can do is maybe drag this out a little for you,
mislay the paperwork or something. Have one of your attorneys give me a
call, off the record. But I'd also advise you to start looking for
space."
Then I headed downtown, a man with a mission.
Dai Nippon had to be getting ready to kick hell out of something or
somebody. Trouble was, I had no idea who or what. But I'd had plenty of
hints it wasn't going to do great things for the dollar. I briefly
toyed with alerting Jack O'Donnell and telling him to leak some
anonymous storm signals. But what storm? He wouldn't put his senate
reputation on the line to peddle guesswork, and all I had to offer was--
what?--circumstantial premonitions.
Where to begin? Henderson was in London and unreachable, meaning there
was no chance of getting him and his less reputable Washington
connections to start shouting "fire" from the rooftops. That left the
press. Right. What I needed was the media. Think. Somebody who, if the
whole thing proved to be smoke and mirrors, could shrug it off; but, a
comer who would be intrigued by the possible broadcasting coup of the
century. It had to be somebody with ready-made exposure, yet a
personality with little to lose and a lot to gain. That brought to mind
the perfect candidate, a former, well, acquaintance.
When I got home, I went straight to the office upstairs, looked up a
number I hadn't used in a long time, and dialed it. It felt very
familiar.
"Channel Eight. 'The freshest news in New York.' May we help you?"
I always loved the way they peddled information as though it were
Wonder Bread.
"Donna Austen please."
"One moment please." There was a click, then another voice. "Channel
Eight news desk."
"Donna Austen please."
"Who's calling please."
"Matthew Walton. Tell her it's business, not personal." Enough
please's.
"Thank you, Mr. Walcan."
"Walton."
"Thank you." On came the Muzak.
Would she do it? She used to complain how fed up she was interviewing
witnesses to car crashes. Her career needed a transfusion of hard news
so the station management would start taking her seriously. Well, here
was her shot. And since she was roughly tenth in line for the "anchor"
spot, she had no reputation of noticeable proportions to jeopardize by
leaking an anonymous rumor the U.S. was about to be shelled by an
offshore battery of financial guns.
"Ms. Austen said to tell you she's in a meeting and can't be
disturbed."
Why is it some women can't just let bygones be bygones? Give me a
break, Donna. I was ready for anything, except her little bedroom
games. "How about advising Ms. Austen I'm sorry I called at such an
important time, but I have some information that might just save her
and everybody else from total ruin."
"I'm very sorry, but--"
"Just tell her, goddamit."
"One moment." No please this time.
Another very long pause. Finally I heard Donna's broadcast-neutral
diphthongs, those lower-register reverberations she'd worked so long to
perfect.
"Matt, you've got your nerve. This damned well better be quick."
"Sorry I yelled at the messenger. I'm sorry about a lot of things, but
that's not the reason I called. Donna, how'd you like an exclusive? The
world as we know it is about to end. Inside a month."
"Matt, have you been drinking?"
"No, but that's not a bad idea."
"Well, what is it you want?"
"A small favor."
"You have got to be kidding."
"Not for me. It's the country I'm concerned about. That includes you.
How about doing the U.S. a favor and leak a heavy rumor from the world
of high finance. The American dollar, dear to us all, may be about to
go the way of Confederate mustard plasters. I'll even dictate the
statement for you."
"Matt, why don't you give this earth-shaking scoop to one of your big-
shot connections down at The Wall Street Journal, assuming it's such
hot news?"
Good question. The answer, sadly, was that nobody inside the system
would want to even hear this kind of talk, let alone spread it.
Everybody in the financial community was already whistling in the dark,
terrified those Latin American debt dominos might start to tumble,
taking a few of our flagship banks along with them. And now this? No
way.
"Donna, I need somebody willing to go out on a limb."
"You shit." She gave a snort. "I let you mortify me once. And believe
me that's the last--"
"Will you _listen_, for chrissake. I know it sounds crazy, but this is
dead serious. I've taken on a foreign investment firm as a client. I
can't tell you the name, but I'm absolutely sure the guy running it is
about to screw this country somehow. He's been shorting the bond
market, and now he's going to start dumping dollars. Billions and
billions. I want to blow the whistle. Get something on the air that'll
cause a few bankers and traders to look up from their computer
terminals and--"
"Matthew, darling, how about your doing me a favor?"
"Name it."
"Simple. Don't ever call me here again. And while you're at it, tell
that asshole friend of yours, Bill Henderson, I think he's the biggest--
"
"Look, I'm genuinely contrite about the scene he caused at your place.
If--"
"Good." Click, then the hum of a New York Tel dial tone.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was seeing things. In any case, that
aborted Monday's attempted guerrilla war against Matsuo Noda. Now to
man my barricades.
Which moment coincided with the sound of Emma Epstein's key in the
front-door lock. The time, obviously, was exactly one-thirty P.M.
Exactly. I waited till she'd settled in before taking the fatal step.
"Emma, how about bringing me that file in your left-hand desk drawer.
The one marked 'Trust Account.'"
"The blue one?"
"Right. Amy's. You know it. You updated the thing about a month ago
when I switched all her money out of stocks and into money-market
funds." That move had been my one small attempt to ride Noda's horse in
the direction I suspected it was headed.
"I remember." She glanced at me disdainfully. "I also remember you
predicted interest rates were about to go up."
Which, she was tactful enough not to add, they hadn't. She also didn't
mention she had greeted my market prognosis with open skepticism. As
usual.
"Well, for what it's worth, I still think rates are headed up soon. And
Emma . . ."
"What?" She was grimly digging through the files.
"Ever think about some gold stocks for your retirement investments?
There're some mining issues I hear look good. Golden Sceptre, Golaith,
Vanderbilt . . ."
"That's Amy's portfolio you wanted, correct?" She didn't miss a beat.
"Right?"
She doted on Amy and always got very testy whenever I dabbled in the
management of my daughter's little nest egg. It's galling to admit
Emma's market instincts did at times seem superior to mine. John
Maynard Keynes once said there's nothing so disastrous as a rational
investment policy in an irrational world. Maybe he was right: could be
I was shackled by too much logical introspection. Never a problem for
Emma. All I know is, if her daughter-in-law in Jersey phoned in (on my
line) that she'd just baked a terrific cherry pie using "New Improved!"
Crisco, Emma marched out and loaded up on Procter & Gamble. And the
damn thing automatically went up ten points.
"Here it is." She placed it on my desk with a decidedly disapproving
sniff.
"Thanks."
Dear Lord, I thought, stand by us sinners now and at the hour of our
death. I went over it quickly with a hand calculator. About ninety-four
thousand. Which I figured would pay for roughly a year and a half of
college the way those already inflated costs were skyrocketing. But by
the time Noda got finished with the dollar, it probably wouldn't cover
a weekend seminar.
Maybe I couldn't save the U.S., but I was damned well going to get my
daughter through school. With fear and trembling I started calling
banks. Naturally I spread the action around town, BS'ing a lot of
currency traders and bank FOREX (foreign exchange) departments in the
process. I'd buy some pounds sterling, then . . . by the way, long as
we're on the phone, Mort, I think I might need a few million yen in,
oh, say about a month. Why don't we just save time and write some
contracts now? Besides, bird in the hand, you know. Then I'd take those
pounds I'd just acquired and use them to buy several million deutsche-
mark forwards from the next dealer I knew.
How much did I go out, total? Remember, currency forwards run around a
penny on the dollar, so I effectively "sold" something like ten million
greenbacks, deliverable in one month, when I figured they'd be worth .
. . it was hard even to imagine. Most likely zilch. Since I was flying
blind. Amy's college fund bought everything. You name it, I went long.
She ended up owning futures on Swiss francs, German marks, yen, lira,
pounds sterling, Canadian dollars, even French francs. I was actually
tempted, briefly, by the peso (well, she loved her trip to Mexico last
summer), a sentimental gesture I sternly resisted.
By the time I'd finished it was four forty-five, meaning my new, ninth-
grade owner of a United Nations basket of foreign currencies had just
arrived home from her West Side private school. She always charged in
at four-thirty. I called Joanna and asked to speak to my daughter. Jo's
response to the sound of my voice was only slightly less fulsome than
Donna Austen's. Finally Amy appeared at my ear.
"Dad, how come you're calling on the downstairs phone? You're supposed
to always use the one in my room. Mom hates it when--"
"Sweetie, that line is in constant and uninterrupted engagement between
the hours of four thirty-one and eight- fifteen. It's never possible to
reach you there at this time."
"Okay, so what's up?"
"Nothing much. How about if you and I caught up on things a bit? What
do you say to dinner tonight? Just the two of us? We might even
consider a real grown-up meal for a change, no alfalfa sprouts."
"Where?" She was immediately on guard. What if she ended up confronted
with a red-tinged steak, sliced off one of the living mammals of the
earth?
"Anywhere. Someplace you've always wanted to go. My treat."
"Wow! Anywhere?"
"Your pick."