When the Getting Was Good

   WHEN THE GETTING WAS GOOD

                                                         by Susan G. Bell

                                                           Chapter One

Kate Munro pushed herself away from the bank of screens, leaned back in her chair, and said out loud to no one in particular, “I’m out!” The guys on the trading desk whooped and whistled: they knew she had just completed the trade. A million dollars in profits on a billion-dollar trade, by far her best day as a trader.   

            “Nice going, Kate. You can take the rest of the day off,” Jim Fletcher kidded from the far end of a row of desks in the center of the trading room. Jim was Kate’s boss, the head of government bond trading at A. J. Matheson & Company. His praise made her blush.

            She reached for her shoulder bag under her desk at the opposite end of the row. She loved getting the market right but wished she hadn’t been so obvious. Her job was to trade and, win or lose, keep quiet about it. She had little respect for the hot-doggers in the business, who high-fived it all around when they made money and broke handsets against the phone turrets when they lost.

            Kate fished in her purse for her wallet and stood up. She was tall and slim, her light brown hair pulled back from her face. She wore no make-up, though at the moment there was color in her cheeks. She had what her father described as good features: clear hazel eyes set the right distance apart, ears that didn’t protrude, straightened white teeth.  Her wide mouth made her smile generous, though her expression was usually serious. The double ridge of skin between her nose and upper lip was pronounced, like a crimp in the crust of a small pie. It was this feature and her full and unshaped eyebrows that gave her a boyish look.

            She ducked around a marble-clad column and into an aisle of wide steps leading up and out of the trading room. Her workplace resembled a small stadium, with rows of desks rising on either side from where the traders sat. She glanced at the wall of windows in back of her and saw that the weather outside was nice: sunlight permeated recently cleaned glass. She would escape to the lobby and step outside for a moment before anyone came over to investigate the reason for Jim’s compliment. Already the phone lines were lighting up as word spread about Matheson’s success in the year-bill auction.

            She couldn’t have played this one better. She sold the bills she’d bought in the auction to dealers whose auction bids had been too low, not aggressive enough for the strong investor demand. The clients who had taken her advice and submitted bids alongside hers were rewarded with instant profits. The flurry of buying and selling after the auction results were announced had been awesome. She had never felt more powerful or up to the test of a trading job on Wall Street.

            And now she was completely out, the revenue booked, her risk cut to zero. It was a quietly satisfying moment, the most rewarding part of the ride—and it wouldn’t last. By Monday, everyone would have forgotten her winning trade; it probably wouldn’t be mentioned again. And maybe that was better. Though she wanted the recognition, craved it even, for how well she had done, she was wary of drawing too much attention. She was the only woman on the trading desk and already stood out. 

            On that particular Friday afternoon, a steady buzz filled the trading room as the salesmen at A. J. Matheson wrapped up what for them had been a routine day in the government bond department. As she walked past them, Kate remembered her own days as a salesman, and the sense of closure that would come once her tickets had been written. She had always shared her clients’ concern about their portfolios, and followed the trades she recommended to see how they worked out. But being conscientious about her clients’ performance didn’t approach the responsibility of taking trading risk of her own. People in sales might witness the action, but they were only spectators. The players were the traders.

            She was a player. Her performance in today’s auction had proved it. Anyone who made money could be a hero in this business, even a woman. She didn’t have to say a word; her trading profits would do the talking. Feelings of bravado exhilarated and frightened her, like a ride on the back of a motorcycle.

            Jim Fletcher’s voice came over the intercom. “In honor of Kate Munro’s successful coup of today’s bill auction, she’s offered to buy ice cream for everyone. Do we have any takers?” Cheers went up, and Jim made an elaborate show of counting hands. “Just buy the place out