Cockroaches(38)
When Nho picked Harry up outside River Garden, his high-rise apartment block, the sun had only just risen and was shining gently down on him between the low houses.
They found Barclays Thailand before eight o’clock and a smiling car-park attendant with a Jimi Hendrix hairstyle and headphones let them into the car park beneath the building. Nho eventually spotted a solitary free slot for guests between the BMWs and Mercedes by the lifts.
Nho preferred to wait in the car as his Norwegian was limited to “takk,” thank you, which Harry had taught him to say in a coffee break. Liz had half teased that “takk” was always the first word a white man tried to teach natives.
Nho was uncomfortable in the neighborhood; all the expensive cars attracted thieves, he said. And even if the car park was equipped with CCTV he didn’t quite trust car-park attendants who clicked their fingers to an invisible beat while opening the barrier.
Harry took the lift up to the ninth floor and entered the reception area of Barclays Thailand. He introduced himself and looked at the clock. He had half expected to have to wait for Brekke, but a woman accompanied him back into the lift, swiped a card and pressed P which, she explained, stood for penthouse. Then she darted back out and Harry rose heavenward.
As the lift doors slid open he saw Brekke standing in the middle of a glowing brown parquet floor, leaning against a large mahogany table with one phone to his ear and another on his shoulder. The rest of the room was glass. Walls, ceiling, coffee table, even the chairs.
“Talk later, Tom. Make sure you’re not gobbled up today. And, as I said, don’t touch the rupiah.”
He smiled in apology to Harry, shifted the other phone up to his ear, glanced at the ticker on the computer screen and uttered a brief “yes” before ringing off.
“What was that?” Harry asked.
“That was my job.”
“Which is?”
“Right now securing a dollar loan for a customer.”
“Big sums involved?” Harry surveyed Bangkok, which lay half hidden in the mist beneath them.
“Depends what you compare it with. An average Norwegian local council budget, I imagine. Did you have a good time last night?”
Before Harry could answer, one of the phones buzzed and Brekke pressed a button on the intercom.
“Take a message, Shena, will you? I’m busy.” He released the button without waiting for confirmation.
“Busy?”
Brekke laughed. “Don’t you read the newspapers? All the Asian currencies are on the slide. Everyone’s pissing their pants and busting a gut to buy dollars. Banks and brokerage companies are shutting down every other day and people have started jumping out of windows.”
“But not you?” Harry said, absentmindedly rubbing his spine.
“Me? I’m a broker, vulture family.”
He flapped his arms a few times and bared his teeth. “We earn money whatever happens so long as there is action and people are dealing. Showtime is a good time and right now it’s showtime 24/7.”
“So you’re the croupier in this game?”
“Yes! Well said. Have to remember that one. And the other idiots are the gamblers.”
“Idiots?”
“Certainly.”
“I thought these traders were relatively smart.”
“Smart, yes, but still absolute idiots. It’s an eternal paradox, but the smarter they become, the keener they are to speculate in the currency markets. They’re the ones who ought to know better than anyone else that it’s impossible to earn money on the roulette in the long term. I’m pretty stupid myself, but at least I know that.”
“So you never have a punt on this roulette, Brekke?”
“I do place the occasional bet.”
“Does that make you one of the idiots?”
Brekke proffered a box of cigars, but Harry declined.
“Wise man. They taste awful. I smoke them because I think I have to. Because I can afford it.” He shook his head and put a cigar in his mouth. “Did you see Casino, Officer? The one with Robert De Niro and Sharon Stone?”
Harry nodded.
“Do you remember the scene where Joe Pesci talks about this guy who is the only person he knows who can earn money from gambling? But what he does isn’t gambling, it’s betting. Horse racing, basketball games and so on. That’s quite different from roulette.”
Brekke pulled out a glass chair for Harry and sat down opposite him.
“Gambling is about luck, but betting isn’t. Betting is about two things: psychology and information. The smartest person wins. Take this guy in Casino. He spends all his time gathering information, about the horses’ pedigrees, what they’ve been doing in training earlier in the week, what feed they have been given, how much the jockey weighed when he got up in the morning—all the info the others can’t be bothered with or are unable to get or absorb. Then he pools it, works out the odds and watches what the other gamblers do. If the odds for a horse are too high, he bets on it, whether he thinks it will win or not. And overall he’s the one who wins. And the others lose.”