The Samurai Strategy

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Back in New York, optimism was in increasingly short supply. What doyou do if you think you're being set up? One thing, you may haveoccasion to muse long and hard about the consequences, personal andotherwise. You also may choose to ponder the larger motives of theindividual behind it all.

  So far, what had happened? Matsuo Noda had hired Matt Walton, corporateattorney-at-law, to begin shorting the American Treasury market, thenproceeded to make himself a bona fide hero back home, in the process ofwhich he acquired access to the biggest chunk of savings in the world,presumably the "financial arrangements" he once alluded to. Using thatmoney as margin, Noda was ready to shift his play into high gear. Mylatest telexed instructions indicated he was poised to acceleratedramatically, "borrowing" bonds and selling them for whatever themarket would pay. Of course if the price went down anytime soon, hecould then replace those borrowed instruments at some fraction of whathe'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 sellinghas always been a reasonably good definition of gambling, except . . .except you are gambling only if you are wagering money on an eventwhose outcome is not precisely known. If you do know it, you are notgambling. You are taking prudent steps that will allow you to benefitfrom prior knowledge of said, etc.

  Enough airy semantics. The big question: Why me? Now, I've been set upa few times before in my life. Everybody has. I even wonder in darkermoments if the reason Joanna demanded a champagne lifestyle wasn't tomake sure I spent all my time supporting it, thereby rendering meexactly what she eventually accused me of being--an absentee husband andfather. That is a no-win situation.

  The undertaking at hand, however, could have a very obviousbeneficiary. Matsuo Noda. The only problem was that in order for Nodato win, America had to lose. Massively. The old zero-sum game: forevery winner there has to be an equal and opposite sucker.

  After that Friday evening with Henderson, I spent the next week mullingover the complexities of the situation. The whole thing boiled down totwo very strong presumptions: one, I was indeed being set up, beingtold one scenario while the truth lay in quite another direction; andtwo, my employer had something very lethal to America's financialhealth up his sleeve. Still, these were merely presumptions, nothingmore. The only thing I was sure about was that I had a veryunpredictable tiger by its posterior handle. Time to find out a littlemore about my pussycat.

  I hadn't actually seen Dai Nippon's midtown office, but I talked to themanager almost every day on the phone, and he occasionally shippedmaterials down to my place in the Village. I knew they'd taken over thebuilding, installed a new security staff, moved into the vacant floor,and were doing something. However, I hadn't been invited up to see whatthe something was. I concluded the time was at hand.

  As I understood it, Dai Nippon's purpose in life was to oversee the useof investment capital. Fair and good. As it happens, Japanese businesstends to be funded a little differently from our own. Instead ofselling off stock to the public, Japanese industry relies much moreheavily on bank financing. In fact, less than twenty percent of Japan'sindustrial assets are publicly traded. Consequently the rules of thegame are changed. If your company is beholden to a financialinstitution instead of a lot of nervous stockholders and fund managers,you're in partners with somebody less interested in next quarter'sprofits than in the larger matter of your still being around ten yearshence to pay off its paper. That lender naturally rides herd veryclosely on your long-term planning.

  As best I could tell, DNI was one of the herd-riders, a sort of hiredgun that monitored various companies' operations to make sure they weremanaging their loans prudently. Again, since the prospectus emphasizedthey were specialists in overseas investment, I assumed that maybe partof the reason they were coming to the U.S. was to oversee the Japanesecompanies 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 theonly thing I could think of that made the slightest sense.

  The following Monday morning I told myself the guesswork was over. Itwas high time I went up and saw for myself what they were doing. All Ineeded was an excuse.

  Then the phone rang. I was in the garden out back, skimming the Timesand working on a pot of fresh coffee while waiting for the Chicagoexchanges 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 chatteda bit about the weather, how nice it was to be working in the U.S., theusual. Finally he mentioned that he needed to meet with me to discuss,among other matters, certain legal questions concerning one of theother leases in their building. Would it be convenient if he came downto my place and we went over the paperwork?

  Not necessary, I replied. I just happened to be headed for midtown inthe next few minutes. I'd throw a copy of the leases into my briefcaseand drop by to see him. Then before he could protest, I mumbledsomething about the doorbell and hung up. The phone rang againimmediately, but I didn't answer it. I was already putting on myjacket.

  I scribbled a few notes for Emma, taped them to her word processor, andheaded 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 andproceeded to have my argyle socks blown away.

  First off, top security. The entryway just off the elevator bank hadbeen completely transformed. TV intercom, steel doors--it could havebeen the vault at Chase. I told the camera's eye who I was and thenwaited while a computer somewhere gave me a voice-ID check. How theymanaged 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 firstchamber of a two-room security check. An electronic voice ordered me toput my briefcase into the X-ray machine while I proceeded through themetal detector.

  That cleared, the set of steel panels leading into the next room slidopen and I went in . . . to be confronted by two crew-cut guards whocould have been retired sumo wrestlers. As the doors clicked behind me,I took one look at DNI's welcoming committee and realized they werepacking Uzis, those Israeli automatics that could probably cut down atree in about two seconds. No candy-ass .38's for Dai Nippon. Withoutceremony they commenced a body search. It was all very polite, but itsure as hell wasn't perfunctory. I just stood there in astonishmentwhile this gorilla roughly twice my size felt me up.

  That indignity completed, I was now in line for the real surprise. Yetanother set of steel doors opened, and there awaited the man I'd beendealing with over the phone, Yasuhiro Tanaka. Medium build, lateforties, cropped hair, automatic smile--he was Noda's chief ofoperations for New York. He didn't say much, just led me onto thefloor, heading for his office. But he was clearly the on-site daimyd:lots of heavy bowing from the young, white-shirted Japanese staff as weheaded for the corner suite.

  Which brings us to the real shocker. Dai Nippon's floor operationlooked like the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. Let me attempta brief description. In the far back was a massive NEC augmentedsupercomputer--a half dozen off-white octagonal units about head high,one the mainframe and the others storage modules arranged alongside ina neat row. Pure power. The whole thing was encased in a glassed roomwith (I assumed) critical temperature and humidity control. Then out onthe floor were lines and lines of workstations. Computer screenseverywhere, printers running, stacks of color hard copy--pie charts, bargraphs, spreads--plus terminals carrying every financial service offeredby 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. thananybody realizes.

  But something had
to be wrong here. Why should . . . ? Finally I sloweddown--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 datawas being scrolled. As we walked past, I noticed that each screenseemed to be under the scrutiny of a team of analysts, who wereintently studying the numbers, comparing notes, running calculations ontheir individual terminals.

  What's this all about?

  I stopped before one screen and studied it a second. Beneath it a smallsign said simply "Electronics." The one next to it read"Biotechnology." Then I glanced at a couple of others. Each one covereda different industrial sector. Gee, I thought, you're really out oftouch, Walton. Who would have guessed Japan has so much investment inmanufacturing here. I didn't remember much going on besides a few jointventures. Sure, they've got a few auto assembly plants, that steelplant they'd bought out on the coast, some TV-tube production, chips,VCRs. But mostly it represented entries into sectors where they'retrying to get the jump on protectionism, start a token manufacturingoperation here before they get shut out.

  "If you have any questions, I'm sure we can discuss them later." Tanakahad taken my arm and was urging me politely toward his office. Thewhines and hums of laser printers and the beep of computers madeconversation all but impossible.

  "Well, I was merely interested . . ." Then I stopped.

  Know that test psychologists have, the one where you look at a coupleof silhouettes and describe what you see? If you think you're supposedto look at the white part in the middle, then you see one thing--I thinkit's a vase. But if you concentrate on the black instead, you seesomething else entirely, maybe the profiles of two human faces oppositeeach other. Thus what you see is largely a product of your priorassumptions concerning what you're supposed to be looking for. Or maybeit measures whether you view the world as a positive or a negativeimage, something like that. I don't recall exactly. I do rememberreceiving a B- in Psych 101, which was generous.

  The point is, what I first thought I saw was actually the inverse ofwhat was really there. I'd told myself what it was, rather thanbelieving my eyes.

  Dai Nippon was running analyses, bet your ass, but the industries undertheir silicon microscope weren't Japanese.

  They'd computerized the financial report of every American companytraded publicly and were now in the process of taking those outfitsapart.

  And I can assure you it was cold-eyed in the extreme, strictly hardnumbers: quarterly earnings, long-term debt, inventory, stockoutstanding, CEO bonuses. As any professional analyst would do, they'dcut right through a company's glossed-over excuses, phrases such asstrategic retrenchment, aimed at the dividend-nervous retirees in CedarRapids. 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-yearTreasury bonds. Computers were running arbitrage spreads on everyissue. They knew exactly where they stood with all their futurescontracts. I realized my little telephone boiler room had merely beenthe tip of some awesome iceberg.

  "Mr. Walton, it is a pleasure to meet you in person." Tanaka wasushering me into the corner office after our pass through the floor.Unlike most executive suites in New York, its windows were sealed withheavy drapes. Again, total security. "Let me order tea." He waved atsomebody out on the floor.

  I nodded, still chewing over the setup and trying to understand what ingood Christ was underway.

  "I'm sure you are a busy man, so perhaps we should proceed directly tomy concerns. As you may have guessed, we are almost ready to move intoa new phase of our operation."

  "Oh." I guess it must have sounded dumb, but I honestly couldn't managea full sentence. Finally I recovered slightly. "I'm a little surprisedby the scope of all this. What's the purpose?"

  "Our president, Noda-sama, should be arriving in a few days. I'm surehe will be happy to address your questions in detail." Tanaka pausedfor the green tea, delivered by a silent girl--the young, smiling,uniformed Japanese "office lady"-- who scarcely looked up as she settledthe tray on the desk. After she was gone, he continued. "This, ofcourse, is only the financial nerve center for our operation. Ourtechnical staff will begin arriving soon."

  Technical staff? Then who were those grim-faced minions out therepunching computers?

  "You're bringing in more people?"

  "Correct. Which is why I needed to see you. I understand that the leaseon the floor above us is due for renewal at the end of this month. Wewould like to acquire that space. We will need to convert it as quicklyas possible."

  "What about the current tenants?"

  "There is a rider in their lease, Mr. Walton, that permits the owner ofthe building to reclaim the space for his own use at the time of arenewal. We fully intend to make use of it. Consequently as ourAmerican attorney you are hereby authorized to inform them that theirlease will not be automatically extended, that they will be expected tovacate. In accordance with the legal and binding terms of their lease.Advise them also that there can be no grace period. We will require thefloor immediately."

  I looked at him. So much for the current tenants. "What will these newoffices be used for?"

  Tanaka sipped his tea. "That section will have another managingdirector. 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 ofDNI's interests."

  "Well, let me break some news to you. I like to know who I'm workingfor. So you'd better start discussing specifics and fast."

  Tanaka seemed to be having trouble meeting my eye. The skull beneathhis short-cropped hair glistened under the harsh neon lighting.

  "Mr. Walton, you are now part of the DNI team. That position includesobligations I am sure you would not wish to take lightly."

  "Hold on." The hell with politeness. "I'm not part of your 'team' oranybody'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 awarethat an employee's loyalty to his company is considered to be a gaugeof his character. A company is a family, and one considers itsinterests 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 numberone."

  "At the moment, Mr. Walton, you work for Dai Nippon. There is anassigned 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. Theconfidence with which he made that statement told me this guy couldmake a killing at poker. Unless he had a few cards in the hole I didn'tknow about. "It would hardly be in your best interest. We expect yourcontribution to be crucial."

  "What contribution?"

  "That will become plain in due time, Mr. Walton." He was measuring hiswords as he continued, maybe easing up a bit. "For now, let me merelysay we know you to be a man with substantial curiosity. Consequently webelieve 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'twe begin with you." I thumbed at the floor outside. "What the hell'sgoing on out there?"

  "At the moment nothing in this office need concern you. But perhaps Ican 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 wasmerely the Japanese style, but he also seemed to know exactly what notto say.

  "I'm still waiting to hear what's next."

  "Very well. As long as you're here . . ." He sipped calmly from hiscup. "It is common kno
wledge that Japanese savers have become theworld's largest lenders, with overseas investment that now exceeds, bythe way, the greatest rate of lending by OPEC even at its peak. TheJapanese people will have over a trillion dollars in overseas assetswithin the next few years."

  "I'm familiar with the numbers." I also knew that with several trilliondollars in spare change sloshing around back home, they were sendingabroad a mere dribble of what they had.

  "Were you also aware that over four fifths of our overseas investmentis 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 ourinstitutions have such heavy exposure in a single currency.Accordingly, in addition to our program with interest- rate futures, wealso feel it would be prudent to provide some protection for thiscurrency risk. In the same manner, I might add, that American investorsoften do."

  "You mean some downside protection? On the dollar?"

  "That is correct. A devaluation or a sudden drop in exchange rateswould jeopardize much Japanese capital. Therefore we feel it would beprudent to enter the currency-futures markets to cover at least some ofthe dollar exposure of our investors."

  Jesus! I suddenly needed a Valium. In addition to Treasuries, now DaiNippon 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 cockamamiecover with interest futures while all along he was setting up aninternational currency swindle?

  Or were we about to get down to the real action? He'd scheduled hiscurtain raiser, whatever it was, then realized he might accidentallypull the plug on the U.S. greenback? So he'd decided to arrange alittle currency insurance for everybody back at the ranch, just incase.

  Don't ask me why, but I was drawn to this pending nightmare like a mothto 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 formallyannounce the tidal wave that would soon engulf America. And now MatsuoNoda--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 hisark. The only thing missing was the schedule.

  By then I didn't care whether I was on board or not; I figured I'd justas soon try swimming on my own. But I had one very good reason to playalong.

  "Okay, what's the game? Want to sell some dollars for delivery down theroad?"

  "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 aroundtown. Futures only go out for a year, maximum, but I can probably getyou forwards out to three. Come to think of it, Citibank will quote youten-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 ifthree months are too far out, then you can get options on spot currencycontracts down at the Philadelphia exchange, which allows earlyexercise. Or if you want, I think you can get off-exchange bank quotesas short as one month. Citibank has a big FOREX desk. And BankersTrust, and First Boston, or even Banque Indosuez. Of course, if youreally want to get serious, there's the currency trading floor atBarclays Bank in London. . . ."

  "We expect to be active in all markets, worldwide. That seems best."Tanaka continued, "However, we are only interested in December futuresand 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 onrye, lean, with extra mustard and a slice of pickle. How many? Let mecheck. Oh, say a few hundred billion.

  "This is going to take a few days." I passed it back, calmly as I couldmanage. "Why don't you send a schedule down to my place late thisafternoon. My secretary will be there. I'll get started in themorning." I rose. "In the meantime, you'll understand if I take todayoff 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 everwitnessed. What in hell did all this analysis of industrial sectorshave to do with currency hedging?

  Not a lot of time to reflect on the question, however, since I wassummarily being ushered toward the steel security doors by one ofTanaka's flunkies, a young tough who seemed to speak no English, butwho could strong-arm very eloquently.

  In moments I was outside, facing the bank of elevators. That was when Iremembered the upstairs tenant, a big public relations outfit. Bettertake a couple of minutes and give them the word.

  Rausch, McKinley, and Stein were in the middle of proving conclusivelythat our mayor knew nothing about contract kickbacks, that he was infact the closest equivalent New York had to driven snow. His Honor, inthe meantime, was hastily returning the campaign contributions of allthe real estate executives who, flanked by their lawyers, were nowbeing featured on the front page of the Daily News.

  Since RM&S had their hands full and also had expected an automaticrenewal of their lease, there weren't too many politic smiles when Ibroke the news. Fact is, it was a very unpleasant scene. Finally Icalled for their lease and showed them the rider. They'd signed thedamn 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 acall, off the record. But I'd also advise you to start looking forspace."

  Then I headed downtown, a man with a mission.

  Dai Nippon had to be getting ready to kick hell out of something orsomebody. Trouble was, I had no idea who or what. But I'd had plenty ofhints it wasn't going to do great things for the dollar. I brieflytoyed with alerting Jack O'Donnell and telling him to leak someanonymous storm signals. But what storm? He wouldn't put his senatereputation 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 therewas no chance of getting him and his less reputable Washingtonconnections to start shouting "fire" from the rooftops. That left thepress. Right. What I needed was the media. Think. Somebody who, if thewhole thing proved to be smoke and mirrors, could shrug it off; but, acomer who would be intrigued by the possible broadcasting coup of thecentury. It had to be somebody with ready-made exposure, yet apersonality with little to lose and a lot to gain. That brought to mindthe perfect candidate, a former, well, acquaintance.

  When I got home, I went straight to the office upstairs, looked up anumber I hadn't used in a long time, and dialed it. It felt veryfamiliar.

  "Channel Eight. 'The freshest news in New York.' May we help you?"

  I always loved the way they peddled information as though it wereWonder Bread.

  "Donna Austen please."

  "One moment please." There was a click, then another voice. "ChannelEight news desk."

  "Donna Austen please."

  "Who's calling please."

  "Matthew Walton. Tell her it's business, not personal." Enoughplease'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 interviewingwitnesses to car crashes. Her career needed a transfusion of hard newsso the station management would start taking her seriously. Well, herewas her shot. And since she was roughly tenth in line for the "anch
or"spot, she had no reputation of noticeable proportions to jeopardize byleaking an anonymous rumor the U.S. was about to be shelled by anoffshore battery of financial guns.

  "Ms. Austen said to tell you she's in a meeting and can't bedisturbed."

  Why is it some women can't just let bygones be bygones? Give me abreak, Donna. I was ready for anything, except her little bedroomgames. "How about advising Ms. Austen I'm sorry I called at such animportant time, but I have some information that might just save herand 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-neutraldiphthongs, those lower-register reverberations she'd worked so long toperfect.

  "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, butthat's not the reason I called. Donna, how'd you like an exclusive? Theworld 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 worldof high finance. The American dollar, dear to us all, may be about togo the way of Confederate mustard plasters. I'll even dictate thestatement 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 suchhot news?"

  Good question. The answer, sadly, was that nobody inside the systemwould 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? Noway.

  "Donna, I need somebody willing to go out on a limb."

  "You shit." She gave a snort. "I let you mortify me once. And believeme that's the last--"

  "Will you _listen_, for chrissake. I know it sounds crazy, but this isdead serious. I've taken on a foreign investment firm as a client. Ican't tell you the name, but I'm absolutely sure the guy running it isabout to screw this country somehow. He's been shorting the bondmarket, and now he's going to start dumping dollars. Billions andbillions. I want to blow the whistle. Get something on the air that'llcause a few bankers and traders to look up from their computerterminals 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, tellthat 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, thataborted Monday's attempted guerrilla war against Matsuo Noda. Now toman my barricades.

  Which moment coincided with the sound of Emma Epstein's key in thefront-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 agowhen I switched all her money out of stocks and into money-marketfunds." That move had been my one small attempt to ride Noda's horse inthe direction I suspected it was headed.

  "I remember." She glanced at me disdainfully. "I also remember youpredicted interest rates were about to go up."

  Which, she was tactful enough not to add, they hadn't. She also didn'tmention she had greeted my market prognosis with open skepticism. Asusual.

  "Well, for what it's worth, I still think rates are headed up soon. AndEmma . . ."

  "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 themanagement of my daughter's little nest egg. It's galling to admitEmma's market instincts did at times seem superior to mine. JohnMaynard Keynes once said there's nothing so disastrous as a rationalinvestment policy in an irrational world. Maybe he was right: could beI was shackled by too much logical introspection. Never a problem forEmma. All I know is, if her daughter-in-law in Jersey phoned in (on myline) that she'd just baked a terrific cherry pie using "New Improved!"Crisco, Emma marched out and loaded up on Procter & Gamble. And thedamn thing automatically went up ten points.

  "Here it is." She placed it on my desk with a decidedly disapprovingsniff.

  "Thanks."

  Dear Lord, I thought, stand by us sinners now and at the hour of ourdeath. I went over it quickly with a hand calculator. About ninety-fourthousand. Which I figured would pay for roughly a year and a half ofcollege the way those already inflated costs were skyrocketing. But bythe time Noda got finished with the dollar, it probably wouldn't covera weekend seminar.

  Maybe I couldn't save the U.S., but I was damned well going to get mydaughter through school. With fear and trembling I started callingbanks. Naturally I spread the action around town, BS'ing a lot ofcurrency traders and bank FOREX (foreign exchange) departments in theprocess. I'd buy some pounds sterling, then . . . by the way, long aswe'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 somecontracts now? Besides, bird in the hand, you know. Then I'd take thosepounds 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 apenny on the dollar, so I effectively "sold" something like ten milliongreenbacks, deliverable in one month, when I figured they'd be worth .. . it was hard even to imagine. Most likely zilch. Since I was flyingblind. 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 actuallytempted, briefly, by the peso (well, she loved her trip to Mexico lastsummer), 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 justarrived home from her West Side private school. She always charged inat four-thirty. I called Joanna and asked to speak to my daughter. Jo'sresponse to the sound of my voice was only slightly less fulsome thanDonna Austen's. Finally Amy appeared at my ear.

  "Dad, how come you're calling on the downstairs phone? You're supposedto always use the one in my room. Mom hates it when--"

  "Sweetie, that line is in constant and uninterrupted engagement betweenthe hours of four thirty-one and eight- fifteen. It's never possible toreach you there at this time."

  "Okay, so what's up?"

  "Nothing much. How about if you and I caught up on things a bit? Whatdo you say to dinner tonight? Just the two of us? We might evenconsider a real grown-up meal for a change, no alfalfa sprouts."

  "Where?" She was immediately on guard. What if she ended up confrontedwith a red-tinged steak, sliced off one of the living mammals of theearth?

  "Anywhere. Someplace you've always wanted to go. My treat."

  "Wow! Anywhere?"

  "Your pick."

  Long pause, then, "How about Windows on the World?"

  "Sounds good." I guessed one of her school friends had just been.Meaning prestige was on the line. I was right.

  "Sharon's dad took her there last
weekend for her birthday and itsounded really neat. She said you can see everything. It's probably alot nicer than Top of the Six's."

  Where, in case you hadn't guessed, I'd taken her on _her _birthday.

  "Food's standard, but I think we can piece together a spread that'llmeet your guidelines. Will your mother let you go?" Joanna had totalweekday custody, and she played it for all it was worth.

  "She's got a big date tonight. That creepy real estate guy I told youabout. The one with the new silver Saab he thinks is so hot."

  "Don't tell me about it. And don't call your mother's friends creeps.I'm sure they're all very nice."

  "Want to bet? This guy is total weirdness. But she'll let me go. Nosweat. What time?"

  When I was a youth, I don't remember young ladies using phrases such as"no sweat." Probably an imperfection of memory, one of many.

  "Pick you up at seven-thirty sharp. Call me if there's a problem."

  "Okay."

  "And Amy . . ."

  "Yeah."

  "Uh, think about wearing an actual dress. Not one of those experimentalEast Village--"

  "Daaad. I'm gonna look so straight. You'll see."

  "Never doubted it for an instant."

  That night I'd intended to explain that her college fund was currentlybeing hedged via a comparatively unorthodox investment scenario.However, she was too busy marveling over the lights of Manhattan ahundred stories down to give me much time to talk.

  What I really wanted to tell her but somehow didn't was that I'd hadthis spiritualist vision we'd been reincarnated as a couple of thosecrazy sheiks at Monte Carlo--when I'm the guy who never ventures pastthe quarter slots next to the door. It was as though I'd pillaged thehundred grand carefully hoarded for her future and spread it over agiant roulette play, stacking chips on every number on the board. Whoknew where Dai Nippon's wheel would stop, but when it did, one of themhad to pay off a hundred to one. Noda couldn't touch us. Right?

  No sweat.