Seymour Schneider had been keeping an eye on the monitors around the floor since the opening bell, when about twenty minutes ago the market started to trend down. Flat-screens tuned to CNBC and other channels were all alive with coverage of the latest bank woes in China.
Rockingham was taking a sharp decline. Schneider wasn’t surprised to see the company’s CEO himself making his way across the floor. He turned away from the post making BP’s trades, but it was too late.
“Where are Treadwell and the other BP people?” Rockingham demanded. He was clearly agitated.
“Reid had a board meeting, and O’Connell had to get back to her office. They got you started, and the rest is up to the market. It’s how it works.”
“Why the hell is the market taking a nosedive?”
This was the part of the business that Schneider hated most, dealing with BP’s clients, many of whom had no idea in hell what the market was all about, how it worked. “China, Mr. Rockingham.”
“China?”
“Yes. A number of their banks are on the verge of collapse. We got the news less than a half hour ago.”
“It’s not fucking fair. The traders have priced our stock too low for when we actually do start to trade. And what the fuck are we paying you guys for?”
“Your product is popular in China, we know that. And you have factories there, some of which you want to move to Vietnam. But in the meantime some investors might be feeling that the Chinese bank situation will hurt you. At least in the short run.”
“It’s not fair.”
Nothing in life is fair, Schneider wanted to say. “Look, market gains are never in favor of the nervous investor. Hang on, it will get better, it always does.” In the long run, he wanted to say, but he held that comment off too.
“How stupid can it get? Most of our product is sold right here in America.”
Schneider was in no mood to hold the son of a bitch by the hand; there were other things going on right now that were a hell of a lot more important. “The market doesn’t always work with logic. Sometimes it’s emotions, you know? Pure gut feelings. Go with it, trust me.”
“My daughter put her entire savings into our stock. A hundred grand. What the hell am I supposed to tell her?”
“A hundred thousand?” Schneider said. “You can give her that much as a gift to replace whatever she lost, and it’ll be tax-free because it’s under the threshold. But you have a solid company, your stock will come back.”
“We paid you people big money to make our opening happen,” Rockingham said, his voice rising. “For what?”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Schneider said. It was one of the brush-off lines he’d used more than once. What he wanted to say was: If you don’t want to gamble, stay out of Vegas. Or at the very least learn something about how the system works before you jump in. “I’m only one of the guys who trades stocks on the floor. You should talk to Reid.”
“We have to do something,” Rockingham demanded.
Schneider had had enough. He stepped closer. “Why don’t you take all your clothes off, to get everyone’s attention, and then run around shouting that what the world needs now is some good, rugged clothing, so that your company will become a long-term winner?”
“I’ll have your fucking job for that, you little prick,” Rockingham shouted, but his voice was lost over the hubbub caused by the latest China news: Five more major banks had just taken a dump.
“I hope you enjoy it,” Schneider said. BP had already extracted all of its IPO fees from the company, which meant Rockingham could do nothing to them. In any event, Treadwell would never fire him. “I’d love to chat more with you, Keith, but I have a meeting with Betty Ladd in five minutes.” Ladd was the president of the NYSE.