The First Billion

Meg sprang from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. "Congratulations, Jett. We're all so proud. You done good."

And then the others were up, shaking his hand, hugging him, treating him like a returning war hero. It was easy to forget that he'd only left them two hours earlier.

"Seriously, Jett, we're honored to share this evening with you," sounded Tony Llewellyn-Davies. "Believe it or not, we care about you deeply." He held Gavallan at arm's length, then proclaimed, "Oh, what the hell. I'll say it for everyone. We love you and we're overjoyed to be here. And that's the last nice word you'll get from any of us this evening." And with that he gave Gavallan a peck on the cheek.

"Here, here," added Giles, a handsome youth in his twenties. The two-carat diamond stud in his ear and eighteen-karat gold Cartier on his wrist hinted that his interest in Tony was more pecuniary than personal. Gavallan hoped his friend wasn't being played for the sap.

"The honor is mine, ladies and gents," he said, touched by the outpouring of affection. "It's rare that you get to work with your friends, and for that I feel both privileged and grateful. Now enough of this smarmy nonsense. Let's sit down and enjoy the evening." Raising his glass, he quoted from Bum Phillips, former coach of the Houston Oilers and honorary "good old boy." "Every man have a drink. Every good man have two!"

"Hoo-yeah!" shouted Tustin, glass raised high.

Gavallan clinked glasses with Tustin and his wife, Two Names, Giles, Meg, Harry, and Nina. He couldn't help but think of the one man who was missing from their ranks. After everyone quieted, he raised his glass again.

"To Grafton Byrnes. Let's pray for his health and safe return."

***

It was midnight in Potomac, Maryland. Streets in the leafy suburb were so calm as to be deserted. A warm, gusty evening breeze carried the sweet scent of cut grass and the merry sawing of crickets. On Dumbarton Road, the lights in most houses were dimmed, the occupants asleep. But in the Vann residence, a stuttering spectral light glowed from the second-floor dormer windows.

In his bedroom, Jason Vann dashed from computer to computer, pausing long enough to type in a sentence or two, before moving to the next. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. A hunted look shadowed his drawn face. Round and round he went, enraptured by this game of his creation. A game of cat and mouse. Vann was after the Private Eye-PO. He was trying to lure him into the open, and his bait was praise and scorn and disbelief and any number of the hundred emotions that stock enthusiasts routinely express.

At that moment, he was working five characters on the IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, and they were discussing the Mercury Broadband IPO to be brought to market in five days by Black Jet Securities. Mario was a high school student who was president of his stock club. Julie was a middle-class housewife who grew interested in the market after her husband had lost all of their money. Al was a New York know-it-all, a seasoned investor, and a veteran of many (losing) campaigns. Krystof was a programmer of Polish descent who believed that the stock market was every immigrant's way to riches. Heidi was a computer science teacher in Mamaroneck, New York, who had just invested her first five thousand dollars. And they all lived in a twisted corner of Jason Vann's conniving mind.

Al: The market's gonna gobble up Mercury like a pastrami sandwich. I'm saying double the first day. Think positive.

Krystof: You are sure? I also think it time for big success again.

Heidi: Is it safe?

Mario: I doubled our stock club's fund investing solely in IPOs last year. But be careful. Didn't you see the latest news?

Julie: Where were you when my husband started trading?

Al: The Private Eye-PO don't know his ass from his elbow. He's probably a trader pushing his own stocks, knocking down the others. Caution!

Vann rushed from chair to chair, simulating the voices and thoughts of these five would-be investors. He'd spent three hours online introducing them, getting them into a chat room and allowing them to grow comfortable talking in the open. His job was to create a fictitious universe the Private Eye-PO might stumble upon and wish to join. So far he hadn't had a nibble. He was getting discouraged. It was time to up the ante.

Mario: I disagree. I think he's the only one we can trust. I follow his advice to the letter. If he's a trader, he's a darn good one. Remember what he called Mercury? A scam dog!

Julie: Sounds like you're the Private Eye-PO himself, Mario. Come on, tell us the truth!!

Mario: Ha, ha.

Krystof: Who is this Private Eye-PO? In Poland, you never trust man who does not tell you name. I mean, his name. Excuse me.

Al: No way a company like Black Jet is gonna touch Mercury if it's got problems. No way. Be real. I saw Gavallan on CNBC. The guy's a pro. He was a pilot!

Vann had slid back into Mario's chair when a new name popped onto the screen.