Billy Hanks

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Billy Hanks was a lower east-side scumbag synthetic alpha dealer in the swinging naughties.

He cut his product it with all kinds of low-life scrapings to artificially boost the yield.

“Synthetics?”

“Some, but mainly illicit stuff. Billy Boy had a taste for the funky gibbon, know what I mean? This was not your non-usual coke-lite levered beta: Billy dropped in all kinds of bad juju: front-runners, insider intel, short squeezes, corner action. He liked the young energetic lads in the naked shorts, shall we say. And he had the good connections if you are that way inclined. A proper abuser was our Billy Boy. Liked his prices dirty.

Billy’s medicine could bang you up bad: just a tipoff is all it took. The high lasted a week but the downer was a killer.

Got away with it for years. He had friends on the inside.

Billy copped to a market manipulation rap in 2010 and the cops shut him down. He went way for a stretch but what do you know, hallelujah he found God and got time off for good behaviour. He got right back in the game.

But twist: our Billy-Boy’s a clean skin now. The CFTC goons tailed him for four solid years. Parked up in a dented Chevy outside his family office and quaffed donuts to no avail. Billy kept it clean. He did not indulge.

The disbelieving goons tried to work him over. He says “how can I? I don’t deal no more.”

“Son, you’re generating 200 large a week. What d’you need all that for?” He looked at me. “need ? Need? I deduce that you ain’t met my missus. She’s exhausting, Officer Dibble.”

“Is for my own use. What can I say? My missus has expensive taste. Her daughter is even worse. She’s a bad influence.

And you bought that?

Boone looked at the PI. “I’m not buying this.”

“There’s a beaucoup paper trail. I’ve got what I need.” The Dick grinned thinly. “Due dilly, you know.”

Boone snatched his lapels and pulled him close. He growled, “I expect it of Wang. I expect better of you.”

The Dick shrugged. He checks out legit. he’s largely clean and generating good alpha.

Where do I find him?

He's in the family way. He’s running a money for he rich aunt from a swap shop in the West End. Family style. Long only. Given the shorting away. That's the story he tells but you know — leopards, spots. The Swissies love him.

“Who?”

The Swiss. His prime brokers.

Boone dropped the dick and said, “you poor naïf”. He left the door swinging.

The Dick was curled up in a ball, but he fanned his billfold and said, “I don’t think I’m the naif, Opco Boone.”