Sunday afternoon sunlight slanted across Wall Street, glinting off the polished bronze doors and the carved wooden facades of cafes.
Shane pushed open the door of a quiet café, and a crisp chime rang from the brass bell above.
Behind gold-rimmed glasses, Kevin Harris looked up from the Wall Street Journal, the financial pages dusted lightly with powdered sugar from a cream puff. Shane walked over and pulled out a chair.
"Kevin, is everything ready?" Shane's voice was calm but carried a weight of authority.
Kevin pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, leaving a faint sweat mark on the leather folder he held.
Outside the window, the statue of George Washington in front of Federal Hall cast a long shadow across Wall Street, stretching toward Fifth Avenue.
"Mr. Cassidy, I've prepared the loan documents as you instructed," Kevin said cautiously. "But… Morgan Bank is requesting additional collateral."
Shane picked up the black coffee a waiter had set before him, the steam blurring Kevin's anxious gaze.
"What collateral?" Shane asked.
Kevin hesitated. "Property… or the company shares you hold."
Shane tapped the rim of his cup lightly. "Is this Morgan's requirement or Citibank's?"
"Morgan. Citibank only wants to review your assets." Shane unbuttoned his suit jacket, the chair creaking under him.
He studied the cinnamon powder floating atop his coffee and thought, Every loan on Wall Street is a thorny rose.
"Tell Anderson…" He set the cup down firmly. "Citibank's bronze doors are warmer than Morgan's iron rules."
The next day, Shane approached Citibank's second-floor VIP area. Loan Manager Anderson was waiting, the office filled with the mixed scent of cedarwood and Cuban cigars.
"Mr. Cassidy," Anderson greeted, extending a hand, gold cuff buttons gleaming. "We've completed your loan review."
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the financial district sprawled below, sunlight glinting off Trinity Church.
"Based on the market value of your RCA shares, we can offer a credit line of $160,000," Anderson said, sliding a document across the mahogany desk.
Shane tucked the gilded check into his inner pocket and allowed his gaze to sweep over the bank's license before exiting under Anderson's polite escort.
On the steps, a newsboy hawked the midday extra: "Federal Reserve Maintains Interest Rates."
Shane hailed a dark green taxi. Through the open window, October sunlight poured over Park Avenue's Gothic Revival spires. Shoeshine boys worked energetically, street musicians played saxophones, and sycamore leaves drifted lazily through the air.
At Henry James Hill's office, sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, tinting the room amber. Shane sank into a leather sofa, running his hand over the armrest's grain.
"Shane, what's your plan?" Old Henry asked, calm but probing.
"Based on your information, Mr. Hill," Shane said, "we should fully acquire Pacific Railroad Company bonds before the Federal Reserve announces its interest rate cut."
"Smart." Henry slid a folder across the desk.
Shane studied the equity structure diagram of Pacific Railroad. On the surface, it seemed routine, but he recognized the hidden complexities. He sipped his coffee, bitter with a hint of sweetness.
"The Class B shares are concentrated in a few companies," Henry noted, pointing steadily. "These others are just pawns; the real control lies with Morgan Bank."
Shane tapped the bottom of his cup on the desk. "Morgan will think we're targeting the Class B shares. But we must acquire these bonds before the rate cut is announced."
Henry nodded, producing another folder. "This contains three months of freight data. Morgan has manipulated several companies, deliberately lowering rates to simulate losses."
"They're shorting," Shane observed, scanning the numbers with a practiced eye.
"Exactly. Once the interest rate cut is announced, bond prices will surge. If they can't cover their positions, their plan collapses."
Shane flicked cigar ash silently into the crystal ashtray.
"So we can't give them that opportunity—and we need to hedge," he continued.
Henry raised a brow, unfamiliar with the term in 1927 Wall Street parlance.
"When bond prices rise, we profit," Shane explained. "If Morgan tries to crash the market, our hedge protects us." He retrieved a slip with Citibank credit figures. "I'm already prepared."
Henry leaned back, the cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling like mist over the harbor. He laughed. "Kid… you're even more dangerous than I imagined."