September 11th, New York Stock Exchange. Morning light poured through the towering arched glass dome, casting geometric patterns across the black-and-white marble floor.
Shane's polished leather shoes clicked crisply as he crossed the floor. He adjusted the lapel of his grey pinstripe suit, eyes narrowing at the flurry of activity on the trading floor.
The room was alive with motion. Red-vested quoters weaved through the crowd, slips of paper fluttering like butterflies. Numbers on blackboards were erased and rewritten incessantly, chalk dust dancing in the shafts of sunlight.
Shane's gaze swept the crowd to the electronic ticker board. Westinghouse Electric flashed: $89.25.
"Up fifty-one dollars and twenty-five cents… exactly as it should," he murmured, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
Just over a month ago, he had stood at a corner counter, exchanging nine hundred dollars for twenty-three Westinghouse Electric shares. Then, the shouts of brokers filled the air:
"Westinghouse! Westinghouse Electric!"
"Eighty-nine and three-eighths!"
"Buy! Buy!"
Shane ignored them, eyes fixed on the radio stock ticker at the far end of the hall. His memory from a past life guided him: in 1927, radio stocks would skyrocket.
He reached into his inner suit pocket, feeling the thickness of twenty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. His new beginning awaited.
"I want to open a margin account—two thousand shares of RCA stock."
The broker in front of him looked up, assessing the young man with quick, sharp eyes. "The current price is one hundred and two dollars, margin interest seven percent. If that's acceptable, I can open your account."
Shane nodded.
The broker scribbled on the contract.
Nearby, an older broker with neatly combed silver hair leaned on a mahogany counter, a Cuban cigar held loosely between his fingers. Hearing "two thousand shares," he froze.
The posture, the raised jawline, the confident stride—so familiar. He remembered the morning of a tragedy three years prior, the headlines in The Wall Street Journal: "Young Trader Falls to His Death."
He exhaled slowly, clenching the cigar as the aroma seeped through his fingers, then let it rest in his inner pocket, the memory fading with a sigh.
Shane's contract signed, he moved to the spiral staircase leading to the third floor.
Sunlight through stained-glass windows cast mottled light across the polished oak floor. He reached the office overlooking the trading floor, financial newspapers neatly stacked, stock charts lining the walls.
"Do you know why radio stocks are rising?" asked Henry James Hill, the silver-haired broker, lighting his cigar.
Shane's fingers traced the rim of a teacup. "Westinghouse acquired KDKA. Radio broadcasting will change how Americans live and consume information."
Old Henry raised an eyebrow. "And what comes next?"
"Automobiles are strong—Ford's Model A and GM's expansion—but aviation excites me most. Lindbergh's transatlantic flight will make aviation stocks soar." Shane's voice was calm, confident.
Henry's eyes narrowed. "Where do you get this insight?"
Shane shrugged. "Observation. Newspapers. Knowledge is power."
Henry exhaled a smoke ring, its gray curl rising in the lamplight. "The Federal Reserve will cut rates soon. Do you understand what that means?"
Shane rested his fingertips on the leather armchair, considering. "Liquidity will increase. Financial costs for railroads and steel could drop thirty percent. Investment potential will surge."
Henry smiled, a mix of admiration and surprise. "Clever boy…" He leaned forward, the cigar's scent mingling with his cologne. "Would you like to partner with me? I provide capital, you handle operations. Profits split fifty-fifty."