Flynn Sullivan
Flynn had twelve years in the pit. He sat on the Pit Committee. He was not the biggest trader there. But he held his ground. There were short guys, a lot of them Jewish, who were taller than Flynn when they stood on their wallets.
Flynn stood six feet six. Two hundred forty pounds. Still, some in the pit made him seem slight. A new man had to claw his place. Fight if need be. Flynn came into this pit on the first day it opened. He chose his corner. Held it against all.
He grew up on the near West Side of Chicago, just outside the city limits. There was a well-worn path from his town to the pits of Chicago’s three exchanges. If you were a math whiz, you probably went to the CBOE. If you had a family legacy, the CBOT. Mavericks with no way and no connections from Flynn’s town went to the CME.
Flynn was married. He had kids. His trading account was his family’s private hedge fund. When he made money, things were fine. His wife could shop at Bloomingdale’s and Cartier. Lose and she shopped at Walmart. Most of the time, Flynn made money. But there were days.
Yesterday’s storm had passed. Today ran even. Not wild. Not dead. Flynn glanced at the clock. High on the wall. The numbers ticked seconds. The bell drew near.
He was a spreader. The pit was as large as a tennis court and jam-packed with 2000 bodies. More millionaires per square foot than anywhere else on earth. Sell the near month. Buy the front one. Try and scalp out of them for a tick. “Make 5g a day, they say, and it’s a million a year.”
They traded interest rate futures, but most of the people in the pit didn’t know what a yield curve was or even how to calculate the cost of a bond, let alone strip out the interest on it. The only degree that mattered in the pit was a PhD, “parents have dough”. This wasn’t NYC, where an Ivy League degree and an Hermes tie were necessary. This was Chicago. No degree necessary.
Just a level head, a tolerance for risk, and your wits. The pit exposed people. They were naked and alone, even though they were crammed in it together. They were competing with one another, like animals over a kill.
A broker’s clerk watched him and entered orders in other months. He employed a trade checker to check trades and count his position. She was easy on the eyes. Flynn employed her because order fillers would trade with them to get an eyeball on her when she checked the trade. She knew how to flirt. She wasn’t there to check trades.
Flynn held spreads to drop. Sell the month under his feet. Buy the front one. Over in the other crush. At the price now, five thousand more. He carried two grand already.
He waved to the front-month clerk. Flashed the circle. Okay. The clerk threw it back. Okay.
The bell hit. Hard.
SPLS stood on the top step. Seven feet off. He bid the market up. Thousands of contracts. Flynn turned to the front-month clerk. Signaled “Buy two hundred at the market.”
He shouldered right then. Two feet. Knocked men sideways. Yelled it as loud as he could, “Sell you two hundred. Sell you two hundred.” SPLS met his eye. Nodded once. Flynn bellowed. “Sold you two hundred at twenty.” SPLS nodded again. Kept pulling from the locals’ tangle.
Flynn eased back. Started on the card.
A new kid leaped over him. Fresh badge. Shoved hard. Yelled wild. “Sold sold. Sold sold.” SPLS gave him nothing. Eyes elsewhere.
Flynn took the new guy’s lapel. Tight. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Trying to cover my one lot,” the kid said.
Flynn read the badge. “Oh my God. Idiot wop. You don’t jump ten men to cover a one lot on the close here. What are you doing? Buying or selling?”
“Selling,” the kid said.
“Buy one.” Flynn signaled the clerk. Sell one. “Kid. Learn your p’s and q’s. No one sees a one lot in this pit.”
The bell struck. Sharp. Closed.