Shane's gaze fell on the row of oak bookshelves behind Henry James Hill.
"The risk isn't small. However…" His eyes lifted, revealing a restrained, knowing smile. "If we can confirm the source of the information…"
A sudden bark of laughter erupted from Old Henry, cigar ash fluttering onto the Persian rug.
"Kid, I knew you weren't an ordinary gambler!"
He opened a drawer and withdrew a gold-edged folder.
"Take a look at this."
Inside lay a carbon copy of Federal Reserve meeting minutes, blue carbon residue still clinging to the edges. The black stamp of CONFIDENTIAL was slightly smudged, and Shane's pupils narrowed.
"Before the market reacts… do you think this is worth investing in?" Henry asked.
"Why choose me?" Shane countered, his voice calm, almost inquisitive.
Henry leaned back into his leather chair, cigar smoke curling around him like a veil. "Because for thirty years," he raised a finger, "I've seen too many fools stare only at quote boards. But you…" He leaned forward, the folder scraping across the mahogany table, "there's something different."
Turning almost to himself, Henry muttered, "It's not greed, but calmness. In this crazy market, calmness is everything."
Outside, the trading floor erupted in a wave of shouts and rapid activity. Shane noticed the gold ring on Henry's left pinky finger—the emblem of the New York Yacht Club.
Henry poured amber liquid from a crystal decanter, the liquid catching the sunlight in a honeycomb pattern.
"Do you know what the most valuable commodity on Wall Street is?" Henry asked, pointing his cigar toward the window. "It's not inside information—it's the mind that can turn information into money. And I believe you have that mind."
Shane's thumb paused on the rim of his glass. Behind Henry, a 1926 Dow Jones chart displayed three dates circled in red—moments of unusual stock surges.
"Fifty-fifty is too generous," Shane said, placing his glass down. "I'll take thirty percent—but with one condition."
Henry froze mid-gesture, cigar suspended in air.
"Thirty percent?" he repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice, as if testing Shane's resolve.
"I want real-time access to all trading records," Shane said, eyes meeting Henry's. "I want to participate in every decision, not just execute trades."
The pen in Shane's hand tapped the folder three times, corresponding exactly to the three red-circled dates on the chart.
Outside, the clamor of the trading floor softened. Even Henry's experienced eyes twitched at the subtle anomaly in market behavior.
"Interesting… I expected you to ask for more money. But control over decisions? That's rare," Henry murmured, relighting his cigar.
"Money is important," Shane said, "but understanding how it's made is even more important."
Henry opened a drawer and pulled out a rusty copper trading token, thumb brushing the indentations as his voice softened. "There was another young man in 1924… now in the Caribbean, enjoying his favorite view."
Shane sensed the loneliness behind the broker's words, a quiet warning in his tone. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the sunlight dance through it.
"I prefer New York winters," he said softly. "Especially before Christmas, when the banks are fullest."
The telephone suddenly rang, piercing the silence. Henry's left pinky twitched, instinctively acknowledging the call. After seven rings, the line went dead; the trading floor bell chimed the end of the session.
"Alright, it's a deal," Henry said. "But I'll be watching your back. Happy cooperation."
Before the ash hit the rug, Shane had grasped Henry's hand, feeling the deliberate pressure on his thumb—a secret sign of trust among old-school brokers.
A knock at the door. "Mr. Hill, Morgan Bank is on the line," the secretary announced.
Henry straightened his suit. "Come to my office Monday; we'll discuss operational details." He handed Shane a gold-embossed business card.
Outside the Stock Exchange, the afternoon sun cast Shane's shadow onto the marble steps. He glanced at Henry's card before tucking it into his suit alongside his RCA stock certificates.
Amid the bustling streets, Shane entered a red telephone booth, inserting a copper coin.
"Kevin, it's me." His voice was low, urgent.
"Mr. Cassidy!" Kevin's excitement trembled over the line. "RCA rose another three points today…"
"I want to mortgage all the stock certificates," Shane interrupted. "How much can I borrow?"
Kevin scribbled furiously. "At the current market price of $138 for 2,000 shares, you can borrow sixty percent… approximately $165,000."
Shane's lips curved into a faint smile. "Process it immediately. Funds must be available by tomorrow. Also, prepare a full financial report on Pacific Railroad by noon."
Stepping out, the autumn wind swept past the booth, carrying Wall Street's cacophony.
After confirming the direction, Shane hailed a taxi.
"New York Harbor, East Dock," he instructed.
The car accelerated gracefully, carrying Shane toward his next move in the bustling heart of New York Harbor.