Four

What the hell do brokers know? Coz asked himself. Or stock analysts, for that matter? Half the time what little the analyst did know they couldn't say. It depended on how the brokerage house they worked for feeling about a particular corporation. If the house was pushing Horse Manure. Inc., the analysts were bullish on Horse Manure, Inc.

If not, they weren't. To Coz, the only truth was on the tape. And the TV screens. How a stock actually performed from minute to minute. The upticks. Down ticks.

And more important, who was buying and who was selling. For an instant he was tempted to call Doris and tell her that if she'd bought any stock today, she should not sell.

No matter what Hefflin said. Not even if the bottom dropped out of the Dow. The market would come back by the close. But he knew it was useless.

She wouldn't listen to him. Doris was lucky if she makes 8 percent on her money, including dividends. That figured. Eight percent were for widows and orphans. Like Doris. Making eight times your money------800 percent----was for professionals. Like his boss, Cameron Hightower.

The widows of Cameron Hightower's office on the Street overlooked Brooklyn to the East, the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor to the south, and west across the Hudson River to the watching Mountain range.

The office did not conform to traditional standards; it was a mix of contemporary and antique furniture and lacked the variety of electronic devices often found in Wall Street offices. The office had a strong personal flair that impressed corporate clients, men who regarded the freedom to express one's personality in one's office furniture as a sign of status and power.

The huge twin sofas were covered in shades of casual brown tweed and were complemented by modern Italian easy chairs with brown leather cushions and chrome frames. The floor was covered by a large Oriental rug. One wall had floor-to-ceiling cantilevered shelves which were filled with leather-bound books and small art objects.

The only concession to the Street was an IBM personal computer with a nineteen-inch monitor which was programmed to give Cameron Hightower necessary stock market information.

Her desk was eighteenth century English, a huge piece of mahogany furniture covered on top with green leather that had originally been designed as a partner's desk.

When Herbert Coz entered the office, Cameron Hightower was stated at the desk poring over computer printouts covering the trading Coz had done that day. She looked up and said,

"Very neat, Herbert."

As the managing partner of Fitzgerald Associates, she also personally managed the trading desk.

"Thank you," Coz said.

"You played it perfectly from start to finish." Her woman's instinct told her, as it always did with Herbert Coz, that she was feeding a passion in him; not love but an urgent, deep-rooted need to have her appreciate the fact that he could outfox the other pros.

" I see we netted just over four hundred fifty thousand dollars for the firm and our discretionary accounts."

Smiling played very little part in Herbert Coz's repertoire of expressions, but now he smiled.

"It went like clockwork. I passed Tom Ucciarde the word we were buying, but he didn't believe me. He's convinced we have some inside information that there will be bad news tomorrow."

"He thinks we know something he doesn't."

"He certainly does. Why was I selling?" Cameron was pleased.

"He took the bait. He's even more jittery than I'd hoped. What else did you say?"

Coz sounded thoroughly virtuous as he described how he had told Tom not to worry.

"God's in his heaven and so forth. All the truth."

"But since he doesn't believe in you or God or heaven, he should try to sell fast into the opening market."

For an instant, the naturally flat eyes of Coz seemed to glitter with mischief.

"Before the bad news breaks. Bad news that I know and he doesn't."

"does anyone else know you were selling?"

"Sure. But Ucciarde's the linchpin. He's the floor trader for Mason, Adam, and Fenwick. And as John Mason goes, so goes the street.

When he starts dumping, the lemmings on the floor will follow. All those boys ever do is play follow the leader."

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