Final Option

wad of bills from his back pocket, spreading the money on the bar, “fifty-five dollars shooting hoops. Not a bad day’s work.”
    “The Bart Hexter murder/suicide pool? That seems pretty cold.”
    “It was the sickos in the Eurodollar pit that started it,” replied Greg defensively. “Fifty dollars a pop on whether Hexter was shot or shot himself and another fifty on the exact time, within five minutes, that the medical examiner’s verdict hit the news.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “No way. There are some seriously twisted individuals in the futures game. You should know that.”
    “So I guess it’s safe to assume that all heads are not bowed in grief over Hexter’s death?”
    “Some guys loved him. More guys hated him. What the fuck, a bet’s a bet. Did I ever tell you that Bart Hexter gave me my first job at the Board?”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “Yeah, I got my start as runner for Hexter Commodities. Black Bart himself interviewed me, though I swear I never saw him again in all the time that I worked for him. There was an opening in the deutsche-mark pit. I didn’t know shit about futures except that my buddy told me I’d get off work at two in the afternoon—plenty of time to get to the beach and pick up girls. Anyway, I’m trying to impress him so I say, ‘Deutschemarks, that’s good, because it just so happens that I speak a little German.’ ‘That’s very interesting,’ says Hexter, ‘But what I need is someone who can count to ten and get to work on time.’ ”
    We both laughed.
    “So what else can you tell me about Hexter?” I asked. “It’s obvious whenever something like this happens to a guy who’s as big in the markets as he was, a lot of people get nervous that he was doing things he shouldn’t have. Have you heard anything?”
    “Well, you know what it’s like in the pits. There are always rumors. Hell, I heard a story once about a guy who was trading orange juice futures. One morning he’s thirsty so he sends a runner to get him a can of orange juice out of the vending machine in the break room. The runner goes, but when the juice comes out it’s frozen solid like there was something wrong with the machine. He goes back out onto the trading floor and tells the trader that he didn’t get him the orange juice because it’s all frozen. Well, someone else in the pits overheard him, but thought he said, 'the oranges are all frozen.’ Inside of fifteen minutes the price of orange juice is up the limit.”
    “So what are the rumors about Hexter?” I asked. “Just a couple of ugly things floating around about him. Nothing special. Mostly it’s jealousy talking. Day in, day out, the man made money. He hated to lose. You’d hear it said that he’d do anything to come out on top of a trade, anything, up to and including busting trades. But that rap’s been on him for a long time. Did 1 ever tell you that I dated his daughter once?“
    “Krissy?”
    “Noooooo,” replied Greg, with a devilish grin. “I had a date with Mad Margot.”
    “How did this come about?” I inquired.
    “Blind date. Her dad fixed me up. I’ll tell you one thing, Hexter was a hustler. I didn’t know it then, but by the time he got around to me, he’d already conned half the guys at the Board into taking her out to dinner.“
    “So how long did you guys date?”
    “Just once,” replied Greg, motioning for a refill. “It was more than enough.”
    “Why, what happened? Was it awful?”
    “No. Not awful,” answered Greg, thoughtfully, “just bizarre. One day I get into the elevator with Bart Hexter. Now bear in mind, even though I clear my trades through Hexter Commodities, I have not exchanged a word with the man since he gave me that runner’s job. So here we are in the elevator and suddenly he starts asking me about myself, said he’d heard I’d been doing real well in T-bonds—which I was, no thanks to his trader, who never passed any trades my way—and he wants to know what my wife thinks about it. I’m not married, I tell him. Really, he says. Am I seeing anybody special? No. Well, did I like basketball? Sure, I say, wondering where all this is going. Suddenly, he goes all coy on me, hemming and hawing. I’m getting impatient. It’s just a couple of minutes away from the T-bond opening. Finally, he asks me if I’d do him a favor. Depends, I answer, thinking that having Bart Hexter owe you a favor is not a bad thing. He tells me that his daughter is a big