Infinite Liquidity 1

Off the grid, up and to the right

Jérôme Cellier was nervous. He hadn't done this before. But he couldn't let Jamie down. After all, he had promised tonight would be "epic", and how could someone just not bother to show up to something they called "epic"? The inherent problem lied in the fact that for all intents and purposes, his dates were subject to cancellation at any point in time if his date so happened to type his name into Google. And so he swiped on an amalgam of dating apps under a pseudonym, first name only, stating to anyone he matched with that he was looking for "conversation". He hoped they got that it wasn’t a euphemism

Finally, a girl walked in, phone in hand, quickly scanning the room to match a face to the profile. He wouldn't come right out and say that it was him. In fact, he skirted around the fact that he knew her intentions at all, and allowed his eyes to casually wander over as to make eye contact “incidentally”. It was a start. She caught his eye, smiled, and sat down across from the man who only went by "Java" on his profile.

He was surprised at how naturally the conversation flowed, like beer on tap from a fresh keg. She found herself spilling out how she ended up at the bar, how she struggled with the fact that her parents resented the fact that she was studying her passion - psychology - rather than a more technical field that would secure a higher ROI from an investment that she was barely able to make in the first place. How this was the first weekend she had had free in years, due to the fact that 4 days a week, after classes, she would tend bar on the night shift. The money wasn't even worth it, and the more attractive waitresses got the weekend shifts. He regaled her with stories about his solitary travels - nay, exile - throughout the world, including one about a trek to see the Pope. He didn't reveal much about himself, preferring to recount the myriad of experiences and conversations he had that were simply too complex and ridiculous to be made up. When she asked him what he did for work, his only answer was “nothing” - odd words for a man who clearly didn’t look like he did nothing. Though she probed, all she got out of him was that there was a wrongful termination suit, which he had won.

They walked out of the bar four hours later - two hours later than planned - and made plans to see the new Moby Dick play being put on in the London Theater. “Java” walked home with a spring in his step. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to hide his identity much longer from Jamie.

A large letter was waiting for him outside his flat. It had what seemed to be a phony Libyan return address on the outside. He vaguely recalled some shady investment schemes that had played out, but that was over a decade prior and had nothing to do with him. He shrugged and opened the package on his way through the door.

Inside the yellow padded envelope was a single DVD in a clear jewel case with a small piece of red tape over the indentation. He opened the case, put the DVD into his home theater system, hit play, and checked his watch, a modest, plain-dialed Breguet. It was just after 10 pm.

A title screen popped up in black and white, with MALT LIQUIDITY in bold capital letters sprawled across what appeared to be a banner on the Empire State building. Suddenly, the scene shifted to four charts meting out candles in what looked like a trading day playing out in hyper-speed. Mildly perturbed at what appeared to be a one-off joke, Jérôme reached to shut it off, but then he realized that he was seeing perhaps one of the purest index short plays he had ever seen. He simply had to know whether the index cratered like he thought it would.

Two hours passed. The trade that he would have placed - indeed, he was mentally keeping track of where he would have started to sell each future short had he still been trading - was still not playing out, but he was convinced that it had to come. Yet the prices kept rising and rising, as if there was a source of infinite wealth driving up the market. Three trading days had played out on the tape so far. He simply couldn’t understand why things weren’t moving down, but he knew eventually he’d be right. His phone buzzed with a text from Jamie asking him if he wanted to meet for “coffee”, but he didn’t even bother to read it, let alone reply with a winking emoji, as he was engrossed by the film.

Three days later, Jamie had not gotten a response.

3000 kilometers away, a letter was delivered to the return address specified on the envelope.

It simply said, “done.”

To be continued…