The Suited Freeman

By Cal Danat

Set in London in the days leading up to the financial crisis, The Suited Freeman is the story of a share trader who gives up everything to set an idea in motion that had burned inside him for years. It's a dark and light serious comedy about money, work, loyalty to an idea and maybe more.

The Suited Freeman is the debut novel from Cal Danat, a writer of fiction. If you're looking for thinly-veiled accounts of a writer's social circle, this is probably not the book for you. However, if you're after contemporary fiction with an eye to the past, present and future then The Suited Freeman may well be worth your time. It's set in London against the backdrop of an impending financial crisis, but it's really about society, capitalism, friendship, humour in the face of despair and a whole lot of other things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Brick Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9784990885106

Cal Danat

Cal Danat is an author of novels and short stories. He writes fiction, not thinly veiled accounts of himself and his social circle.

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The Suited Freeman

By Cal Danat

Copyright 2018 Cal Danat

Published by Black Brick Publishing

ISBN: 9784990885106

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www.blackbrickpublishing.com

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CHAPTER ONE

Cruz, I need to speak with you now, stated Robert from the doorway of his office. I think someone has been dumping. Cruz walked past his boss, who scanned the open plan area to see if anyone was paying attention. The heads were all down, but not in industry. A tired din enveloped the floor, a steady energy, just enough to cover the overheads. I think one of the traders has been unloading positions, whispered Robert.

Really. That’s not good. Robert closed the door softly, shutting off the drama, his face strained, and motioned Cruz to sit down. Cruz looked up with a hammy grin. I’m really busy now, boss.

You can fuck off with that boss shit. Come on—let’s go and knock a rail off in the wash room.

Do I have to?

Yeah… unless you want to get fired. Robert sat down, slid his chair a few feet backwards and swivelled, all in one move. Settling square behind an oversized oak desk with a bottle green border, he looked beyond Cruz to a glass panel in the upper half of the office door to make sure neither a secretary nor any of the traders were loitering. Despite there being no sign of anyone, he maintained his gaze while feeling under the right-hand corner of the desk. Cruz sat upright, keeping his eyes on Robert’s and trying to induce a crack in the all-business look his friend’s face had assumed.

Gotcha, celebrated Robert, upon retrieving a small wrap of brown paper. Roger’s never changed his hiding places since he was eleven.

So, is that a new code or has there really been any dumping?

Both, replied Robert. Roger’s going to be in this afternoon. We’ll discuss it then, but it looks like some of the traders have been bailing and taking small losses on irritating investments as soon as they hit a big score on a celebrity stock. Robert narrowed his eyes. And that’s not on.

Cruz frowned and exhaled while shifting his mouth around his face. Come on, continued Robert. We’d better take this in the bathroom. Roger’s new secretary has a habit of knocking after she walks into a room.

She has a name, you know, asserted Cruz.

Oh give it a fucking rest, would you... like you know her name.

It’s Lara. And I’m done with that crap you insist on calling coke.

I believe neither of those assertions, replied Robert, sticking his chest out. Anyway, you can come and flush the toilet at the crucial moment… you know I’m bad at multi-tasking.

Cruz led the way down a narrow hallway towards a reception area, portraits of the former scions of Gold Garr Investments peering down from the walls. He tipped his head backwards and stared up at the turquoise ceiling while attempting to count the bulbs on each of the three chandeliers that partially illuminated the early nineteenth-century sculpted border panels running around the upper edges of the walls. On the way back from the bathroom, he resumed his examination of the ceiling, shooting out phrases for anyone who might be within earshot: New York; Sachs, the bastard; We’ll be fine. Robert ducked his head behind Cruz’s shoulders as one of the junior traders barrelled towards them, angling for a chance to strike up a conversation, his wide-open eyes giving him an awkwardly menacing appearance.

Come on. This is urgent, Cruz. Robert pushed open the door to his office and lunged for a chair, catching hold of the edge of an oak desk as he went. His bluff had gotten through, and the trader was left awkwardly lifting his hand before dropping it in defeat. Cruz breathed staccato while supressing a grin.

Do you think he noticed anything? asked Robert.

No. But if he says anything, just remind him of the upcoming performance reviews.

Robert stretched his legs out as he twirled his chair about. Speaking of which, are you ever going to wear a tie again?

I’ve got a doctor’s note, replied Cruz.

You’ve got a whole pad of them at home. I saw them the last time I was in your place.

Cruz laughed quietly, enjoying his friend’s undirected burst of energy, and began to slowly walk around the office, randomly fixing on patterns and designs. I thought I hid that pad.

You did… beside your smoke stash, appropriately enough. Cruz broke into a smile and shrugged. Really, continued Robert. All these pissheads in the office are going to start going tieless.

Don’t be ridiculous. They love their fucking ties. Most of them tend their collections like some octogenarian butterfly collector. If they cared as much about picking stocks, some of them might break even.

They’re all breaking even now.

No… their stop-go programs are breaking them even.

Maybe, conceded Robert. Anyway, Roger’s back this afternoon. The tie is one thing, but moving into that closet to do all your trades is going to freak him out.

Hmm… you and Roger are cool, observed Cruz. Tell him it’s something to do with Steuart; he’ll like that.

Well. Robert stalled and winced momentarily. His old man is dropping by tomorrow for a ‘big meeting,’ as he likes to call them.

Cruz laughed and then caught himself studying Robert. He didn’t like perusing an old friend but sometimes couldn’t help himself. He still wasn’t sure what the ratio was, but it was changing; it certainly wasn’t golden anymore, or as golden as when they were coming of age. But Robert still wore the best shirts. It’s funny how some things are never completely lost, Cruz thought. Eton brown with a black and brown tie to match, and it didn’t look old school at all. The glaze was starting to recede from Robert’s eyes, but he was still jawing at an ungodly rate.

I can’t believe I let you talk me into hiring you, said Robert.

You didn’t, you begged me… out of a misplaced sense of charity, maybe. And I suggest you check the scoreboard before you start going off with that nonsense.

Robert brushed some speckles from his tie, running the numbers through his head. I don’t think old Roman is going to like the scoreboard so much.

Well then I suppose I had better trade out a CDO today.

Are they moving?

Not yet, really, but you all want me to get out now, don’t you.

Robert stood up to lift his arms over his head and just as quickly sat down again with a pained howl. Everyone except me. I still believe, he insisted.

That’s the personality powder speaking. Cruz stopped walking and pressed down hard with both hands on the back of a black office seat as if he were about to break into a work-out. I’d better be off. I’ve got a closet to decorate, he stated.

Like some Buddha bar, no doubt. It couldn’t be more inappropriate in a place like this, blurted Robert in a forced tenor. You know that’s what Roman is going to say, don’t you? You’re messing with an old man’s heritage… disgraceful.

I think it’s perfectly appropriate… one quality illusion being replaced by another.

Well, if it’s an illusion… Robert’s voice trailed off as Cruz exited the room and waved to the senior trader, Pete. Surrounded by a team of five, Pete looked away and back toward Cruz again, straightening his back while emitting a busy acknowledgement. Cruz took a left, away from the reception area and headed towards a cul de sac of three offices—Roman’s, Roger’s and the executive meeting room—turning away less than ten feet before he reached them. There, in an alcove, lay the door to the closet: barely five feet high, patchy charcoal grey in colour with its outline obfuscated by a dull golden light leaking in from the ambient light. Cruz’s lips pursed slightly as he lowered his head and once again felt the grue.

Tracking his eyes around the interior, Cruz tried to calculate its parameters. It wasn’t quite a perfect square, but it wasn’t far off. About nine feet by eight, he reckoned. The ceiling seemed low compared to that of the hallway, but it was still at least twelve feet high. What purpose had this room originally served: a larder perhaps, maybe a storeroom… but for what? Cruz tried to extrapolate from the old-style mercantilist splendour of Roman’s office and the historical bent of the adjoining rooms how this nest would have played out. First floor in a late eighteenth-century dwelling. Probably some sort of reception area, meaning this must have housed provisions—it was beginning to make sense. Now, the only furnishings were two sets of wrought iron shelves, not antique but not modern either; each frame contained three layers of shelves. Cruz faced off to the structures and noticed that if he stood up straight and held his hands in a position to type, one of the units was a decent fit; this would have to stay. The other one would have to go, along with the empty cardboard boxes, scraps of stationary and remnants of tools that populated the lower shelves.

Pressing his nose close to the bare wall opposite the closet door, Cruz examined for traces of paint. He wanted to see if there were any clues as to the room’s glory days. Dusty beams of light wouldn’t yield any information. The corners of the closet were almost invisible, but there was something protruding from low in the left-hand corner. He ran his hands gently down the roughened surface until he reached the mysterious form. It was a tap; small, creaky when turned, almost whiny… no water. It seemed a strange place to situate a faucet. Cruz could neither envisage the room in its past nor collate all the clues in a logical manner. But he was convinced. He wanted everything out, with the exception of the one nicely-sized shelving unit and the tap regardless of whether or not it could be connected to the mains. He supposed a light would be a good idea, but he wasn’t sold on it. The janitor was going to have to be spoken to, and Cruz didn’t like that idea at all, though he liked the janitor more than just about anyone else he’d encountered in the building.

How was he going to present this plan to Roger? He wasn’t, he decided. Robert was going to have to do that. And no chair in his new office… why would anyone care? Nobody was going to be coming in. But no light? People can never come to terms with no light. There was room adjacent to the door to fit a window, maybe three feet squared; ample light could get through there. He knew it had to be that way but didn’t know how he was going to convince others. It was time to cash out one of his squirrelled away trades.

Closing the door on his way out, Cruz noted that a new lock would have to be fitted and headed for the open plan area. As he walked past the window of Roger’s office, he spotted Robert locked into a computer screen, pupils fixated: twenty per cent chance it was a trade, twenty per cent a sports page and sixty per cent zoned out, he estimated. The next office was Robert’s, where Cruz had been trading out of since Roger went on vacation; its entrance was around a corner, opposite the main trading desk. Cruz figured he would be glued to his seat, locked into a stream of ratcheting trades for the next four hours, and he was okay with that. He scanned the open plan: Pete and his team of five all seemed genuinely engrossed in their screens, too coincidental to be genuinely busy.

Anything happening, asked Cruz.

Quiet enough, chimed one of the junior traders.

Really, responded Cruz, wondering if the trader’s name was Sean. He couldn’t differentiate between these three young heroes, and it still amazed him how all juniors looked the same, only discernable by the respective shininess of their faces.

Eerily quiet, said Pete, the senior trader, while wrinkling his eyes further. Nothing of any interest for you… except some commie from the Chancellor’s office on Bloomberg warning of an overheating economy.

He’s just getting some insurance in, suggested Cruz. After all, it’s corporate pricks like us who are to blame for all the shortcomings of the poor, don’t you know. The desk erupted, tension draining from all five of the junior traders as they collectively endorsed Cruz, quickly filing away his previous questionable comments. It’s just a pre-emptive strike to get everyone to work harder. This government knows what it’s doing. Cruz had concluded his pitch and closed the door to Robert’s office behind him.

Staring at a computer screen, he watched for anything more than a minor move. It did seem quiet. Just ripples, but these began to lull him, and he didn’t like to be lulled; it was always a precursor to something that would require mad action. Still, he knew he was loitering in the right areas, but today he felt that he wanted something more procedural to analyse; it was strange, he thought, that now he was determined to bin everything procedural, he seemed to want it more—maybe to alleviate any future yearnings, however misplaced they might be. Cruz looked down at his right index finger and saw it cocked over the mouse button. He was ready to switch to currencies. If nothing else, they would give him some ammunition at that afternoon’s meeting.

Hmm… Asia, a total fucking mystery. I don’t think so; they seem a whole lot more practical over there, not so bound up in finding something. Then, why can’t I get a handle on their currencies? Cruz mused. Because I’m all up in it, and I shouldn’t be. Why should it be any harder to gauge movements there? Same motivations surely; even purer maybe.

Cruz leaned back, forcing the chair’s suspension to its limits, and began to scan the room he found himself in. Robert’s office was the least jarring room in Gold Garr, and the least interesting to Cruz; a simple combination of cream and gold yet somehow blurred around the edges. One staunch oak wardrobe sat in a corner, looking suspiciously like it had been pilfered from Roman’s office, or perhaps his former partner’s, whatever his name was. The wall-to-wall carpet was the same colour as the shirt Robert was wearing. Cruz was fleetingly disappointed he hadn’t noticed this before. The entire set-up was okay, but he knew he would never excel here; he felt like a dog getting used to a second home that was ostensibly better than his first but would always have him on guard.

Eeeeeeee……, sighed Cruz, standing up. He walked towards the door so he could get a look at the trading desk and maybe some inspiration from people whose actions he never regarded. He could see Pete in profile: patchy tan, over-wrinkled for his age… maybe forty-five, and a rock. Always straight, a pro; seven out of ten, day in day out, with the occasional nine thrown in to remind people he was worth six figures. The five junior traders who comprised the desk were busy not talking. This was unusual during quiet periods: probably afraid they were going to have to sit in on that afternoon’s meeting; perhaps evaluations were on their minds. Two of them appeared in profile within Cruz’s eye-line, like smaller Matroyshka dolls to Pete’s big momma. They were probably smart and hard-working, likely to be successful, and into indie music when it was socially advantageous to declare it. The three juniors facing him presented the spectrum of what young traders should be, according to Cruz’s prejudiced intuition: shiny-faced Sean; perma-smiling Tom; and auto-sexist Sam. I’ve gotta stop this… I’ve barely said two words to any of them. What the fuck must they make of me: older, but not old enough to be an old-school old boy; an old charity case probably. How wrong they must be. Cruz smiled, acknowledging that he was jockeying in his own way and that maybe they weren’t trying to position him at all.

They love a gamble, these Asians, but they seem a whole lot better at circling their wagons. They probably wouldn’t overreact to the latest Wall Street warnings. Devalue to make exports more attractive, their go-to move. But which ones? An involuntary exhalation of minor stress followed. Jesus, I’m not going to have to start trawling through The Economist, am I. Fuck it. I’ll just short the fuck out of the Won and whatever Taiwanese folding stuff is called. Cruz sat back in Robert’s chair and clicked the requisite buttons. Restless, he decided to tidy up the log on the previous day’s trades. A little bit of research on Taiwan from a random selection of Google hits, one in every five, and that would qualify as a decent morning’s work. The less preparation for the afternoon meeting the better, he thought. There were only a few things that needed mentioning.

Cruz could now let his mind drift from procedure, back to his new office. Instead of upgrading Roger and Robert to make space for his own office, or getting involved in a merry- around, he could present a cheap alternative, one that was bound to find favour with accounts and appeal to the remnants of Roman’s imagined Spartan youthful adventures, and it was going to enhance the bottom line. All this before he even decided to reel in a CDO. Cruz undid the second-from-top button of his shirt. Just to be