Free Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) by Neil Behrmann Page B

Jack?'
    'Yes. I'm going to show them.'
    'Show who?'
    'Them!'
    I didn't want to tell her that I was talking about Sandy and her rich boyfriend. It would sound silly. But that was the truth. I couldn't help thinking about her. One day I would have a sports car. Cool clothes. Big flat. Then I would meet her and tell that Taylor guy to get lost. That's what kept me going at the library. That's why I wanted to win. No way was I going to be on the streets again. I had done my bit for the homeless!
    'If you put your mind to it, you'll become rich, Jack. But don't forget your true self.'
    'What do you mean? I know who I am.'
    'Why do you think I gave you The Crowd?'
    'The book's a bit boring, but I read a few pages. Learnt a few things.'
    'I wanted you to read it because it was one of my husband's favourite books. I was his secretary. That's how I met him.'
    I couldn't believe it. Martha was nice, but nutty. A secretary? Her house was a mess. Sure, she cleaned it up for me, but her things were still all over the place.
    'As a psychoanalyst, Tony believed in the individual. That we're all unique. He warned that individuals lose themselves in the crowd.'
    'Your book gave me some good tips about the stock market.'
    'It's not about getting rich, Jack. Those celebrities. Their parties . . . They're just another crowd.'
    'So what. They have a great time.'
    'Really? Tony had lots of celebrities as patients. They weren't too happy. They were depressed. On drugs.'
    I nodded my head, but wasn't concentrating. I was thinking about Sandy. Was fed up with being poor. Martha's book had showed me that the crowd was powerful. If you knew how to take advantage of it, you could make lots of money.
    The next morning I put on fresh clothes and Martha gave me a battered old briefcase that belonged to Tony. Inside were my papers with gold share prices and drawings of the aquarium, a pencil, pen and crayons. Jazz and I began our walk across the heath to the brokers. It had rained during the night and the dew on the grass glistened in the sun. We climbed Parliament Hill and looked back towards the city. The atmosphere was hazy in the early morning light. I could just make out the buildings in the far distance. It was 8am in the morning. Thousands would be arriving at their offices to start work. Jazz, nearby, was licking the dew off the fresh grass. I felt the coins in my pocket and held the briefcase tightly against my side. It was my big day. I was going to show Sandy that I was a winner.
     
    *   *   *
     
    When I arrived at Wardle & Co, Jim Wardle, David Drummond and Shri Khosler were huddled around a desk. They were looking at the screen on the terminal. I could see from the doorway that virtually all the figures were in red.
    'It's a bad market,' muttered Drummond. 'Last week we told them to hold on. Now what?'
    'Good morning . . . Nice day,' I said.
    Drummond looked up: 'Nice day? You must be joking.'
    He turned his eyes towards the red prices on the terminal. Drummond was calm the previous week, but now his hand was shaking. He struggled to light a cigarette, had a few puffs and put it out quickly when Khosler glared at him.
    'What do we say to our clients now?' asked Khosler.
    'It's a bear market,' said Wardle. 'Prices could go down a lot further. But we don't want them to panic. Just tell them it's a small setback. That it won't last. Try and calm them.'
    'It's going to be one hell of a day,' mumbled Drummond softly.
    The words were barely out of his mouth when the phones started ringing. They rushed to their desks, ignoring me.
    'It's a market correction,' Khosler explained to a client as he scrolled down the screen. 'The market's down five per cent. Yes I know I told you not to sell last week . . . Sorry. I can't get it right all the time . . . OK . . . OK, I'll do my best.'
    He picked up another phone: 'Sell at best 2,000 M&S, 5,000 BAE . . .'
    'Want some coffee?'
    I looked up at Tracy, Wardle's secretary. She seemed to be the only one who