Final Option

storage. What time are we talking about?”
    “Last February through April.”
    “Then they should still be in the building. Tim would be able to get them for you.”
     
    The division of Hexter Commodities that serviced local traders and cleared their transactions through the exchange was in a separate but adjoining set of offices. Here, with no retail customers to impress, the decor was sparse and functional. Instead of a stately reception desk and oak paneling, the clearing side of Hexter Commodities boasted a large conversation pit couch, a pinball machine, and an arcade video game. One wall was covered with small wooden pigeonholes for messages, each labeled with the name of a trader who cleared through Hexter. Next to it was a large corkboard on which was posted that day’s out-trades. A soft drink machine hummed quietly in one corner.
    By necessity, futures traders carry their offices in the pockets of their trading jackets. The thick ‘deck’ of their order cards bound in a lucky rubber band, a fist full of pencils, a battered calculator, and a bottle of antacid tablets was about all any trader needed or indeed had room for in the crowded arena of the trading pit. Money spent on anything more—a desk, a phone, a place to lock up a wallet—was just money wasted. A clearing firm that could handle transactions efficiently, wasn’t overly strict when it came to capital reserves, and could provide some of the amenities, like a shower and phone messages, would find itself with plenty of business.
    Different clearing firms had different personalities. Like corporate cultures they drew in their own kind. I’d heard stories about Hexter Commodities’ clearing operation that made me think that either Bart Hexter himself, or the reputation he had cultivated in his years on the trading floor, had some sort of trickle-down effect. Hexter Commodities was where the wild men cleared their trades, where aggressive scalpers streaked like shooting stars across the dark orbit of the markets. It was the place where they played liar’s poker and where the high-stakes card games materialized after the close. As I walked through the lounge I saw a group of clerks playing a game of spoof. Each reached into his pocket and pulled out his closed fist, in which was concealed either one, two, or three coins. The person who guessed correctly the number and value of the coins in his opponent’s hand was the winner.
    I found Loretta Resch in a modest office behind two rows of computer clerks. She rose and extended her hand in a flash of crimson manicure. She was an attractive woman in her forties. Her hair was a luxurious, if improbable, shade of dark red, cut with deceptive simplicity in a straight line at her chin. Perfect eyebrows arched in symmetry above eyes brought to an alarming shade of emerald by contact lenses. The jacket of her suit was bright yellow and draped across the back of her chair. She conducted business in a black silk blouse with a plunging neckline. I knew that her look was deliberately sexy. I wondered whether men found her so. I introduced myself and told her that I needed her help, explaining what Mrs. Titlebaum had just reported about the computer files being erased.
    “I know. Rita—she’s one of my data-entry clerks— was just in here telling me about it. She was very upset. I can’t understand it. We have a backup system that makes it almost impossible to erase anything by accident.” She turned to the computer terminal on her desk and set to work on the keyboard. “Let me see what I can come up with.” She talked as she worked. “I heard you were there the morning he died. I know it seems ghoulish to be so curious, but I can’t help it. Do they know who killed him?”
    “I don’t know. There hasn’t been anything in the papers. The police haven’t said anything. You must have some ideas.”
    “No, I don’t. That’s what’s got me so bugged. I’ve known Bart for ages, and yet I feel completely in the dark. I realize Bart wasn’t exactly a lovable guy all the time. Nobody could have the kind of temper he had and not make enemies—but someone who’d be mad enough to shoot him?”
    “He wasn’t involved with organized crime, was he?“
    “Bart? You’ve got to be kidding. I know there are guys on the floor who’re supposed to trade with mob money. But there are all sorts of rumors in the pits. Bart didn’t have anything to do with the Mafia. Why would he have to? He was very