Reborn in America, I am a legendary short seller on Wall Street.

Chapter 237 Bad News

At six o'clock in the afternoon, Larry wandered alone into a noisy German beer hall.

This is Saturday, after get off work, the most leisurely day of the week for people, and also the busiest time for beer bars.

The air in the tavern was thick with the mixed smells of grilled sausages, sauerkraut, and cheap tobacco. The wooden tables were polished to a shine by the bottoms of beer glasses, and the lively chatter, laughter, and boasting among the people mingled together, along with the melodious violin music played by a lonely musician, creating a bustling and vibrant atmosphere.

Larry stood at the door and glanced around. He saw Henry Goldman sitting in the corner, with a glass of stout and a grilled sausage on the table in front of him.

"Let's get a table together..." Larry muttered, sat down next to him, took off his hat and threw it on the table, casually called the waiter and asked him to bring him a beer and a roast pork knuckle.

The two of them squeezed into a corner, looking like two ordinary office workers who just wanted to have a drink after get off work.

Henry took a sip of dark beer, the foam sticking to his upper lip. He wiped it away casually, leaned forward slightly, and spoke in a very low voice, almost drowned out by the clinking of glasses and laughter around him.

“As you instructed, I secretly investigated the guys who sold their company stock today,” Henry Goldman said, his eyes not on Larry but fixed on the wood grain of the table. “I have some leads, but it’s strange…”

Larry's heart skipped a beat, thinking, "You short-circuit troll, keep going..."

But he remained outwardly calm, simply picked up the large pitcher of beer that the waiter had just slammed onto the table, took a sip, and gestured for the waiter to continue.

“Those stocks really did fall for no reason. Central Railroad, Union Gas, and fire insurance... you know, they are all respectable big companies with very solid foundations.”

"Hmm, what rumors have you heard?" Larry asked.

“There was no whisper of it…” Henry shook his head, his brow furrowing. “No, not a single bad news, which is the strangest thing. But it just really crashed… My friend at the exchange said that just like that, at least $70 was traded on the NYSE. What were they doing? Nobody knows.”

Larry did some mental calculations and realized that the number was less than he had expected. Of course, if it was just a momentary sell-off, then more than $70 would be quite a lot.

Henry paused, picked up a warm napkin to wipe his hands, glanced around casually, and said,

“I checked where these sell orders came from, and it’s even stranger. They didn’t come from the big brokerages in New York. They seemed to be coming from the west, from St. Louis, Chicago… and even some orders came from small brokerages in Denver.”

Larry frowned and asked, "You mean, arriving at the market almost simultaneously?"

“Yes, that’s it,” Henry confirmed, his expression revealing a financier’s instinctive alertness to unusual patterns, and continued.
“I tracked down a Chicago brokerage firm that we do business with, and they said that people who place orders pay their margin very quickly, in cash, and all at once. It doesn’t feel like gambling; it’s more like they have a script in advance and know exactly how the play should go. They’re not taking risks; they’re making money,” Henry said slowly and clearly.

“Just state the facts, don’t add your own doubts,” Larry said softly, because he was also analyzing the ins and outs of the matter in his mind and didn’t want Henry Goldman’s analysis to disturb his thinking.

But Henry immediately explained, "That's not what I said, that's what the people of Chicago said."

Larry frowned and continued, "What about last Saturday?"

"That's right! Yes, that's the most crucial point of the whole incident. They lost money shorting last week. People in Chicago said they lost 3% of their profits due to the insider's surge on Monday, with a total loss of $8000, but they still paid up without hesitation." Henry Goldman said hurriedly.

A chill ran down Larry's spine. This kind of short selling, regardless of cost, with diversified sources and a unified goal, must have a very compelling reason behind it.

At this moment, the waiter at the pub brought Larry the roasted pork knuckle he had ordered. The two took this opportunity to stop talking, each drinking their beer and thinking to themselves.

After the waiter left, their eyes met again. Henry Goldman continued, "And there's something even stranger. The largest blank order was for New York fire insurance, and the order came from London. It's said that the order arrived at the brokerage at 9 a.m., but the order was supposed to be placed at 11 a.m.

"How much has been sold?" Larry asked quickly.

"Almost one-eighth of the total share capital, you know, this kind of malicious short selling is naked short selling. The other party doesn't need to actually hold short positions in New York Fire Insurance; they just need to issue an order. But this is also very terrifying... You know what? When the order is placed on the floor, it instantly wipes out all the insurance company's circulating buy orders."

After Henry finished speaking, he leaned back in his chair, picked up his wine glass, and his eyes were filled with incomprehension and a hint of barely perceptible worry. "I don't know what this means. This is not the way things are; the market shouldn't operate this way. Just like you said, this isn't business; this is someone preparing for a funeral. But whose funeral is it? I don't know."

Larry fell into deep thought, holding his wine glass without speaking. He had a terrible suspicion in his mind: perhaps those people's target was not just the Astor family, but other people, and more wealthy families!

But that's where the problem lies, because in the foreseeable future, the only person who can influence so many wealthy individuals at once might just be the foundation's founding ceremony...

The chill that crept up his spine continued to rise, and Larry's forehead began to break out in a cold sweat.

Should we cancel the roadshow? It seems like the best option, but what if those people realize that we've ruined their plans and turn their attention back on us?

Larry was genuinely worried as he recalled their bizarre and reckless methods of assassination.

How can we capture them all without having to show up ourselves?
Larry pondered, his expression shifting between light and shadow. Henry Goldman, observing his expression, finally spoke the words he had been holding back for so long.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, or who this is related to. But for the sake of our friendship, stay away from this! Because the other side is lurking in the shadows, someone is setting up a big net to catch their prey. I have no evidence, or perhaps this is just a coincidence thanks to your reminder, but I hope… Larry, you don’t get involved.”

Larry looked up and stared intently into Henry Goldman's eyes. He noticed that Goldman no longer had his usual greedy expression, but instead looked solemn.

Perhaps realizing he had said too much, or been too concerned, Henry added a shrug and said, "...Who told you to be the best client I've ever had? I don't want to lose a lucky charm like you."

Having said all that, Henry seemed relieved, regaining some of his ease. He raised his glass and took a large gulp before remarking, "The beer is good, but it's a pity the sausages here are so burnt..."

Larry nodded silently, took a big gulp of beer, stared at the plate of braised pork knuckles with their tempting golden-brown color, pondered for a few seconds, then grabbed his hat and stood up.

"Thanks!" Larry said in a low voice, patted Henry Goldman on the shoulder, and then disappeared into the noisy crowd.

Henry Goldman turned to look at Larry, who had pushed open the door and walked out. He looked anxious, his mouth agape as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he didn't say anything.

Turning his head, Henry stared at the fragrant pork knuckle before lamenting, "You haven't paid yet! This beer and pork knuckle should cost at least $1.5..."

Logically, Henry shouldn't eat pork knuckles, but he was still worried about the dollars he was about to spend, so he said fiercely, "No, I have to eat them all, otherwise it would be such a waste."

Larry strode down the street, searching for the tall, familiar shadow of the Astor Hotel in the gaps between the buildings.

Regardless of who is shorting the stock, or what tricks they intend to pull or what disasters they might cause, at least now it seems to be increasingly relevant to me.

I must act quickly.

Let's go back to the hotel and gather our teams.

(End of this chapter)