Lady Joker, Volume 1 by Kaoru Takamura (lightest ebook reader .txt) 📕

“Hello there, it’s been a while,” he called out. Negoro quickly remembered the man’s name—Okabe—and nodded back.

He had no idea what Okabe was doing these days—up until four years ago, at least, he had worked at the Nihombashi branch of a certain major securities company.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Negoro heard himself asking, his ulterior motive getting the better of him as he considered the prospect of going back empty-handed.

“I’ve got no leads for you, though.” Okabe laughed bitterly. “I was on my way to get some ramen before going home, so just one quick drink at the noodle shop.” He started walking toward Ginza under the elevated train tracks.

“Do you still work for the same company?” Negoro asked.

“Hanging on somehow.”

“Are you still trading bonds?”

“No, I got let go from that position. I’m working with individual clients now. This month earthquake recovery stocks took a tumble, so I was just at a client’s home near here, bowing my head in apology.”

“I see. But I hear spot purchases are doing well for private investors?”

“Picking up deep-value shares here, OTC stocks there? This isn’t stockjobbing.”

“What about the big accounts?”

“They prioritize returns so it’s sluggish. Even futures are only moving to hedge risk.”

“What about today’s incident with Hinode Beer? How’d their stock do?”

“That news first thing this morning was pretty shocking. But since the president was found safe and sound, nothing much happened today. Hinode shares are expected to rise based on their new product announcement. Once it goes to market in April, it should be a good time to buy . . . Ah, now I see. For you and the other papers it will be all Hinode, all the time. What are the chances of the criminals being arrested?”

“It won’t happen any time soon.”

“Is that so . . .” Okabe’s expression in profile revealed a flash of the inner workings of his mind—he was trying to read the stock outlook—but it only lasted a moment.

They were now on the northern side of Shimbashi Station, under the elevated Shuto Expressway, where they arrived before a red noren shop curtain on a back street. Okabe entered through the curtain first. When Negoro met him five years ago, Okabe’s title had been manager of the first sales team handling major accounts, but after his branch was indicted for illegal compensation to clients for market losses, no doubt there would have been some internal reshuffling. Most securities brokers were indistinguishable from regular salarymen, but Okabe had a bit of roguishness about him. He was the kind of guy who had always worn an Audemars Piguet watch that cost a few million yen as if it were no big deal—and as Okabe opened the sliding door of the ramen shop, Negoro recognized the same item from back then, still on his wrist.

They sat down at a table covered with a cheap vinyl cloth. Okabe ordered beers, and from his suit pocket he casually tossed a crumpled red pack of Lark cigarettes and a hundred-yen lighter on the table. His manner and his expression—not much about them had changed in five years. Whatever shifts had occurred in economic conditions or the financial market, they did not affect the substance of the people who moved money around.

“Okabe-san, how are speculative stocks these days?”

“There are some stocks that have speculative potential. But they just get dragged around through arbitrage. Which causes the spot prices to fluctuate so much, and that only makes it harder for regular investors to buy right now. Lately, anyone with funds—from top of the line to the bottom—they’re all aggressively trying to make a profit margin on the Nikkei 225 or with bond futures. Of course, hedging all the while. You can’t turn a profit without moving money. Say, is something going on with the market?”

“Oh, no, it’s just that when I bumped into you, you reminded me of an acquaintance. He called me three or four years ago out of the blue and told me he’s running a boutique investment firm, but since then I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

“We had a few guys like that at our company too, who made off with clients and went out on their own. Those were good times, in the sense that we all had our dream . . . I’m having ramen, how about you, Negoro-san?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two chashu ramen, please,” Okabe called, raising his hand. Over Okabe’s shoulder, Negoro saw the door slide open and two men peer into the shop. There were no other customers besides him and Okabe, and the two men cast a glance in Negoro’s direction before retreating and closing the door.

With nothing to accompany their drinks, Negoro took swigs of the cold beer. He was aware of his exhaustion, but in a mild attempt to press things further he lobbed, “About that acquaintance I mentioned earlier—it seems he managed to borrow money using a client’s bond as collateral.”

“When you go out on your own, there’s a lot to deal with. I, on the other hand, if I lose money—so long as they’re minor accounts—all I do is go around, bowing my head in apology. I just tell them we’ll get it back next time.” Okabe snickered a little, his shoulders quavering lazily.

“Don’t give me that. I know you have your own fan club over in Nihombashi.”

“I told you, these days I go around apologizing to all my fans.”

“Okabe-san. Have you ever heard of a company called GSC, by any chance?”

“Is that your guy’s company? No, I don’t know it. That wouldn’t be a G.S.C. group, would it?” Okabe guffawed, and Negoro laughed awkwardly as he mumbled, “No way.”

G.S.C. was one of the corporate groups composed of the Seiwakai’s front organizations, and the name was rumored to be an acronym for the English words Generality, Service, and Confidence. Funds loaned by financial institutions were absorbed into an inscrutable network of G.S.C.’s affiliation of non-banks, loan sharks, investor groups, real estate companies, and