70
Alan Crane took another Ritalin and continued scrolling through his positions for what seemed like the thousandth time. He pushed himself, knowing that in these last hours the difference in working every trade rather than giving up and closing out positions could amount to tens or even hundreds of thousands.
He checked his watch. Three in the morning.
Markov’s minders were working in shifts. The one with the beard was up now, watching him while the other two slept.
Fucking ridiculous, thought Crane, but who cares. Let Markov waste his money, and these bozos waste their time. At least they had enough sense to keep their mouths shut while he worked. Crane wondered what their exact orders were. Probably something simple, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere and keeps working.
As if I weren’t going to do that anyhow.
Crane sat back and rubbed his face, trying to focus on a one-minute-interval candlestick chart showing the creeping spread between the U.S. dollar and the euro.
He stared at the Bollinger Bands beginning to bulge in the direction he wanted. Crane found himself pleased that he was still able to maintain his discipline. At this stage, Crane believed ninety-nine percent of traders would be pulling the trigger too soon, too weary to eke out the last bips. But he had a big position to close out and right now the bips were going in his direction. He willed the next candlestick to turn green.
The minute interval felt like ten. The chart blinked. The candlestick moved up.
Got it. Crane calculated an eighty percent chance the trend in the next few minutes would continue up. He clicked his first sell order, grabbing the first tranche. Then he quickly pulled up his order ticket and typed in sell orders in ascending values, hoping the trend would last for a few minutes.
He was on a roll. He knew he’d grab each price. He felt it. He’d make a profit on this position. And not for you, Markov, you fucking Russian cunt. Putting these assholes on me. Having them snoring and shitting and sleeping in my house. Bringing their mess and their stink and their bullying. Fuck you, Markov.
Crane pushed back from his desk. He turned to Anastasia. He made a point of not asking permission or informing him of what he was doing, and went to the kitchen.
Ralph Anastasia sat in one of Crane’s custom George Smith chairs and watched him without comment. He had concluded early on that Crane wasn’t going to present any problems. It was just a matter of keeping an eye on him and killing time, not something that Anastasia found hard to do.
He could hunker down and wait for days doing essentially nothing. Ralph Anastasia had been shot at enough times to appreciate an opportunity to get paid for hiding out and laying low.
Harris and Williams were a bit more restless, but every once in a while Anastasia would send one of them out to walk the neighborhood and look for anybody lurking or watching Crane’s building.
As Crane walked barefoot to his kitchen, his Bluetooth earpiece buzzed. He continued walking, headed for the bathroom in the main area of the loft, and waited until he was out of sight before he tapped the on button.
“Hold on,” he said. When he had the bathroom door closed, he continued talking. “Yes?”
Olivia Sanchez spoke in a soft voice, obviously somewhere she didn’t want to be heard talking on her phone.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“It’s going. What about you?”
“They’ve got me stashed away up in East Harlem.”
“Why?”
Olivia lied, “Beck’s place is getting too crowded. There’s nowhere for me to sleep. One of Manny’s gang people is watching over me at this place. Luckily she prefers watching TV to watching me. Where are you at?”
“Closing out everything I can. Grabbing profits, minimizing losses. Same thing I’ve been doing for days. I’m planning to have everything closed out by ten, eleven o’clock this morning. I won’t make it much longer. There isn’t much left.”
“Good. When is Markov going to take over the account?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard shit from him. He must be busy with something else. Drugs, whores, or presumably killing Beck. You sure your guys are going to survive this?”
“Well, nobody is going to take them by surprise, that’s for sure.”
“If Beck doesn’t make it, you realize, we’re fucked.”
“No, we just go to plan B and take it ourselves.”
“And be on Markov’s kill list for the rest of our lives?”
“We’re not giving up now, no matter what happens.”
Crane said, “Agreed.” But he was thinking it through. Realizing now that he had to have a plan in case Beck and his men didn’t make it.
He asked Olivia, “Where are you going to be when the market opens?”
“Hopefully back at Beck’s.”
“Hopefully?”
“He said I would.”
“You’ve got to be there to see where they put the cash.”
“I will. I will. Just hang in. Eight more hours and it’s done. If you don’t hear anything from me by nine-thirty, you’ll know I’m back there.”
Crane calmed himself. “Fine. You keep them pointed in the right direction. I’m assuming Markov will show up to look over my shoulder and breathe his stink all over me sometime soon. When I start consolidating everything in his bank account I’ll do it fairly fast. I’ll make the amount of the last transfer about five million, so hit it when you see it going in.”
“Got it.”
Olivia cut the connection.
Crane splashed his face with cold water, washed his hands, and headed back to his computer.
Anastasia stared at Crane when he returned.
Crane stared back at him, almost daring him to say something. He didn’t.
Crane asked, “You hear from Markov?”
Anastasia shook his head.
“When is he going to show up?”