Target Practice

Shooting Range; New York City; Tuesday, November 6, 2012; 6:15 P.M.

“You’re all one of ‘em,” Jimmy chided his partners. He looked around at the crowd. “Right now, all these cocksuckers look like their mouths have overloaded their tails. These city boys are no hunters. Bunch of amateurs, I say. Steve, buddy, by the time I’m done teachin’ you, ya better be showin’ some damn potential. Kevin, I sure as hell hope you can shoot better than ya trade ‘cause ya can’t trade for shit.”

“Come on, that last spike in natty was bullshit,” Kevin protested, referring to the recent rise in natural gas prices. “We’re going to frack the shit out of this land. Be so much gas forced out of the earth, be no place to store it,” he argued further, trying to defend his bearish trading position.

“God dammit, Kevin, I swear to the good Lord above, you’d fuck up a two-car funeral,” Jimmy told him, exasperated. “The only gas I’m smellin’ is comin’ from you. Steve killed it in the past month, abso-fuckin’-lutely. Damn near fifty million. The markets move in waves. They don’t just go in one direction forever. Gas ain’t goin’ to zero, dammit! I told ya over and over, a position’s like a two-dollar whore: useful for gettin’ the job done, but don’t get married to it. Steve scored in crude too. How much did he make last month in crude, about thirty, eighty million last month in energy? What the fuck have you done, besides screw up the nat-gas position, then piss away the move in gold because you wouldn’t divorce that short bitch in gas? Ya gotta ride that position like ya ride a bull at the rodeo—know how and when to get on, know exactly how long to stay on, and know how and when to get off. Ya get off too soon, you’re stuck with nothin’. Ya get off at the wrong time or in the wrong way, that son-abitch is gonna turn on ya and stomp ya all to hell. Gotta play the angles. See an openin’, ya fuckin’ take it! Ya take that bitch ‘n ride it ‘til ya find the next best wave. If it’s not workin’, ya get the fuck out. It’s that simple. The market’s a bitch. Our bitch. Just like what’s happenin’ in the White House t’night. There’s gotta be some changes. Get that Muslim-loving socialist, liberal fuck out of there, so we can get our bitch in there. Why I ever let y’all, and I mean EVER, have offsettin’ positions, even if it’s just b’tween books is just fuckin’ stupid. While you were so worried ‘bout your short position in natural gas, we lost real opportunities to profit, and ya missed opportunities elsewhere. Remember the name of the firm! What is it? I’ll tell ya what it is. It’s At All Costs. That’s its fuckin’ name! AAC, At All Costs!”

Kevin was feeling the pressure, and he hated it. Not making money was bad. Losing money was insufferable. Jimmy was nothing less than brutal. But this was nothing new. The pressures in the office never ceased. The bantering and innuendos were as sharp and pointed as a boar’s tusk. You either performed, or else. There was no room for mediocrity, let alone losers.

Kevin regretted not closing his short position in natural gas when he had a gain of nearly $25 million. Instead, he stayed short even as the market began to rise again, wiping out $10 million of the $25 million in profits he had booked. To make matters worse, he added to his short position, betting the price would decline just as Steve was madly buying natural gas. Before he knew it, the market went up another 4 percent, and he lost all of his profits and was now sitting on a loss of $7 million.

“Turning a $25 million profit into a $7 million loss in two weeks damn sure didn’t earn me any street cred at the office,” he thought to himself. Especially since his third quarter was anything but stellar.

Jimmy planned the night of target practice moments after he determined who was going to fly to Amarillo for the boar massacre. And again, like everything else, he implemented a regimented plan. Leave the office by five-thirty to be at the shooting range by six, ready to practice by six-thirty. The goal was to get a little practice in and to make sure Steve and Kevin were up-to-snuff handling high-powered rifles. Jimmy wanted to shoot a pistol as well. The group had decided to practice for an hour before heading out to dinner and a few drinks. Jimmy would have his customary Johnnie Walker scotch, but only a few. The team knew Jimmy was utterly intolerant of excessive drinking. Drunks or druggies were not allowed in his inner circle. The guys knew three drinks was the limit. Any amount beyond that was unacceptable and grounds for permanent exile. If the conversation continued beyond what was expected, water, tea, or a soft drink was ordered. As always, the objective was to be home by ten, so they could be in the office by six the next morning.  

Jimmy believed, “You develop the plan, execute it, adjust as necessary, but always follow the integrity of the plan.” It was uncustomary for him to deviate much.

But tonight, Jimmy strayed.  

Making a phone call just before the first shot, Jimmy told everyone something had come up and he had to leave. “Mark, make sure these amateurs can handle a rifle. No faggots are allowed to hunt with me. Remember, they’ll be usin’ my Noslers. We have five of ‘em. You can all use ‘em if ya want. But make sure these guys are ready.”

“Muthah a’Gawd. Yah friggin’ kiddin’ me, right?” Mark asked. “Whaddya, bookin’ on me heah? Why not just ask me to cawna the wheat mahket next? Shit!”

“Quit bitchin’! If anyone can do it, it’s you. Afterwards, go have dinner, enjoy yourselves, and determine some odds b’tween our wanna-be boar slayers on who gets the first, the largest, and the most boars. I’m takin’ Steve straight up ‘cross the board,” Jimmy responded. The continued shots at Kevin were starting to be felt by all. And just like that, Jimmy left.

Within thirty minutes, Mark was already pissed. Steve was showing some ability, and his confidence was growing with every hit. But he was still a novice. Target practice is not the same as shooting outdoors: the lighting, the distractions, and knowing that a wild boar may charge—nostrils flaring, tusks positioned to gore the hell out of you. Those factors made hitting the target harder. A lot harder! But Kevin?  

During the office discussion, Kevin stated that it had been a while, but that he used to shoot all the time and was pretty good. In actuality, he was no better than an advanced amateur. Basically, he sucked and grew worse throughout the practice, missing his target time and time again. By the end of the session, Steve’s and Kevin’s skills and confidence levels had crisscrossed like a damn pairs trade in the stock market.

In his mind, Mark pictured what the chart looked like. Steve’s initial value resembled a penny-stock while Kevin’s was priced like an unloved blue-chip equity. By mid-session their lines had crossed, and the trend never stopped. Steve’s value surged and closed at a high; meanwhile, Kevin’s price closed at session’s lows. In the end, Steve had no profits yet, but there was a lot of potential revenue. Kevin was bankrupt. And Mark’s imaginary chart of Steve’s and Kevin’s stock prices reflected that.

Over dinner Mark tried to minimize the collateral damage. He could see the tension and pressure crushing Kevin and tried to make light of the situation at the office as well as at the range. Exchanging past war stories, Mark made every attempt to artfully pump up Kevin. He realized the hunt was Jimmy’s way of testing Kevin and that his boss’s law of the land was simple. Weak people die. Or at least don’t work for AAC.

While Mark delicately worked on Kevin, he couldn’t help but notice Steve’s growing confidence and ever-so-subtle jabs at Kevin. Mark sensed that Steve knew Kevin was ripe for the kill. And Kevin’s demise would benefit Steve more than anyone. Steve was becoming Jimmy’s new favorite. With Kevin out of the picture, the capital employed by him would be divvied up amongst the group. And Steve was confident the lion’s share would go to him. Another law of the land, at AAC, it was “kill or be killed.”  

Kevin ordered a fourth, then a fifth Johnnie Walker Double Black. Mark joined him. Steve sipped the remnants of his third drink. Their conversation veered away from the markets and boars. Nothing was following script tonight. Mark asked Steve about his plans for the holiday after the hunt.  

“I’ll head back home to Connecticut. Spend some time with my parents and sister.”

On Friday, his girlfriend would arrive to meet his parents for the first time, and he was confident they would love her. Mark had seen pictures of her and knew she was beautiful, elegant, and highly educated like Steve. Life couldn’t be going better for him.

Mark reengaged Kevin; it was a rehashing of a few hours ago. The only thing positive for Kevin was that he and his wife were anxious to get their new standard poodle. Their old one had died last month. Mark couldn’t block out the imaginary chart reoccurring in his head: two stocks, both in the same industry; one full of vigor, expectations, and moving higher. The other? In the middle of a death spiral.

It was ten forty-five before anyone arrived home.

Next Chapter: Nip Then a Bite