Template:M comp disc 2006 ISDA Definitions Business Day Convention
Each year, bankers, lawyers, travelling salespersons and like-minded pedants gather in the MTM Grand, Las Vegas to discuss the minutiae of business day definitions before repairing to the bar to network and drink themselves into a stupor at the annual business day convention.
From Hunter Barkley’s forthcoming FWMD thriller, The ISDA Protocol:
The business day convention winds down. The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar hard: TARGET chit-chat is thirsty work. The MTM Grand is buzzing. The house band plays flat-stick Cajun washboard scat. They play it loud. It kicks an angsty groove.
Waiters boogie-woogie through the crowd. They flog cold beers and live crabs on overhead trays. Nippers gnash. Punters chug Satoshi Extra-Dry. It’s an on-chain open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. Daycount chit-chat hits peak. The accordion swing-jive hits peak: breakneck BPM.
Stage left: the Negotiator cuts a track through the hullaballoo. And then sees her. Hullaba-helloooo.
The counter scene is chaos. His bar presence is zilch. All the same he catches her eye — just. There’s a flicker and its gone. She looks down. She looks away. She flushes red. There: she steals another look through that tumbling fringe.
He knows it: this is his moment.
He rams a Tortuga chaser: that bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?”
She stares straight at him. “Not yet.”
She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “Weren’t you in the day count fraction break-out session?”
The Negotiator grins. “Actually, —”
“You’re a funny guy. Are you following me?”
He cracks out his *innocent face*. “I was here first —”
She looks him up and down. She scoffs, but vibes playful. She runs a finger round the rim of his glass. Their eyes lock again. “O.K., so you were preceding me?”
“I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I was in place.” He shrugs. “Call it modified following you.”
He pops an olive.
She spits her drink.
The zydeco wails. They get close. She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She gasps – clocks something, someone, over her shoulder.
She leans in. She whispers in his ear – lips touch his lobe. It’s hot. “Have you got something for me, big boy?”
He whispers back. His lips touch her lobe. It’s infernal. “Well, do you want something?”
“Honey, I’ll take anything. No questions asked.” She runs a finger down his gilet.
“Anything?”
She takes a step back. That half-cocked smile. “Come find me. Come find yourself.”
“When?”
“End of the month. For business.”
“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at his wrist: a Rolodex Perpetual. Top of the range.
“Nice piece.”
“So, tomorrow?”
“Work it out, big boy,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, upon a raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –”
As she floats away she tosses something. He snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: HACIENDA 547. She floats away.
“Wait – what’s your name?”
She floats on. Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “Marissa.”
He reaches out but she’s gone, her wake dissolving into an angry sea.
He says it to himself: “Marissa.”
A Bus-boy rocks by with bacon-wrapped scallops in newsprint party hats. He leans in casually, as he goes. “Careful with her, sir: She’s an agent.”