Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  Static.

  “Hello?”

  The connection dropped. Malcolm hung up. What the heck was Ryan babbling about?

  The scene on television looked interesting, like they were reporting on the end of the world or something. Malcolm reached for the remote and turned the sound back on. A female reporter spoke in a frenzy from the floor of the stock exchange.

  “The bond bombing has resulted in the worst one-day percentage loss in history, outpacing Black Monday in 1987 by two percentage points. The DOW closed down more than 24% today, wreaking havoc across all other asset classes. In Chicago, bonds were smacked just as hard, which is the spark that started the melee. We’ve attempted to get rate lock quotes on 30-year mortgages from the nation’s largest lenders, but they all refuse to provide them. I talked to a senior floor trader who used to work in upper management at Chase Bank, and he estimated Fannie-Mae 30-year fixed mortgages with zero points to now be somewhere in the neighborhood of 8.5%, based on current bond yields, which is almost double what they were a few days ago. You can bet the repercussions in the real estate market will be felt wide and hard all across our country.”

  Malcolm left the den and went into his living room. He slid across the hardwood floor in his socks like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, right up to his stereo. On it went. He tuned the classic rock station in and cranked it up.

  Dancing his way to the living room window to the beat of Heart’s Barracuda, Malcolm played air drums on the pane before sliding it open. CNBC should be interviewing him, the man who made millions today. Maybe they would.

  Malcolm stuck his head out of his tenth-floor Midtown apartment. There was 52nd Street below him. A small crowd gathered outside the convenience store on the corner. Some kind of commotion was happening down there. Whatever. Malcolm looked to the sky. He felt like shouting. He made a fist in the air and stretched his neck upward.

  “Yes! Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

  That’s when he saw the jumper.

  At first Malcolm thought it was a bird of some kind, but it was too big—and it simply dropped. Malcolm’s eyes followed the unknown object down. It finally registered as a suicide just before the jumper hit the ground. Malcolm turned away at the last second and withdrew into his living room.

  Talk about your party poopers. That was an awful thing to see. Fodder for nightmares. Malcolm turned the stereo off.

  Yes, there were no doubt many who experienced financial ruin on a day like today. Was it right for Malcolm to celebrate? It seemed unfair if he couldn’t. But right then he knew he didn’t want to be interviewed. There would be those who would direct their anger at him if they knew he got rich while so many others were made destitute, even if he did so as a neutral market participant. People just weren’t cool that way.

  Malcolm meandered back to Ryan’s desk and found his half-finished beer. His celebration would have to be a private one.

  The Survival Properties web page was still on the screen, with that West Virginia lot for sale. Malcolm found the broker’s phone number and dialed it.

  Chapter Six

  Joseph Slate instinctively increased his speed as he crossed the West Virginia border, leaving Pennsylvania behind. Then he remembered he was a highly-sought fugitive driving a stolen car—a red one at that—and eased back off the gas. Damn those feds. How had they gotten on to him like that?

  But it didn’t matter at this point. It only mattered that he had been alert enough to sniff them out and escape, without compromising the customers. Now he needed to warn Duncan and Tony. If the feds knew enough to tail him from Maryland, they were probably zeroing in on the print shop by now.

  Duncan and Tony weren’t going to be happy. Especially Tony.

  The forest grew thick as Joseph drove the last few miles of scenic road into the town of Cheat Lake. On the far western end of it, at the shore of the south arm of the long lake, the sign for Coopers Rock Business Park came into view. Joseph slowed to a crawl as he entered the small industrial complex. The shop was the last warehouse unit on the right. Joseph parked on the left, opposite of it.

  He looked about nervously as he walked across the small strip of asphalt before his eyes landed on a sight that almost made him stop in his tracks. It was Tony, staring at him through the front window of the shop. His expression was even more blank than usual. Well, no changing your mind now. Joseph continued through the front door.

  Tony was the only one in the front office. He said nothing when Joseph entered. Nor did his stone countenance change. He simply motioned with his partially-shaven head down the hall that led to the warehouse. Joseph went through the doors. Tony followed.

  Chad and Lanny were cleaning the bill washing tanks. When they saw him, Chad said, “Hey!”

  Joseph kept walking. There was Duncan, sitting at the old wooden table drinking coffee and scribbling in his notebook. When he saw Joseph he stood, all six-foot-four of him. Duncan raised his eyebrows, as if he were surprised to see him and expecting an overdue explanation. Joseph had one all right, but knew it wouldn’t be well-received.

  Chad and Lanny left the tanks and came over. All five of them now stood in the poorly-lit middle section of the warehouse, where the printers were partitioned off so they were out of sight from the bay doors.

  Joseph decided to speak first.

  “They tagged me in the Maryland panhandle. Cumberland Valley area.”

  “What do you mean, tagged?” Duncan asked. The concern in his voice was high.

  “You know, they made me. Pulled me over and searched the truck. Then they let me go. Said they were looking for stolen goods of some kind.”

  “You brainless idiot,” Tony muttered.

  Joseph glared at him.

  “Go on,” Duncan said.

  “An FBI helicopter landed there, when they searched the load. I didn’t know what to think when they let me go. But I was paranoid of every traffic helicopter after that. When I got to New York, I pulled over in the West Village and paid some kids to unload the machine parts in a carport space. I know the property, as I used to live next door. So I watched from a safe place. The feds sprang their trap on the kids. I got away, but lost the load.”

  “Where’d you get the car?” Tony asked.

  “Newark.”

  Tony shook his head. “So you lost our biggest shipment, a million-five payday, and then have the balls to come back here driving a red stolen car when you know you’ve been pegged?”

  “Red?” Lanny said with a voice of contempt.

  Joseph knew whatever response he gave next would be the wrong one, so he just told the truth.

  “It’s what I could get. And I got out clean. I’m not stupid, Tony. They lost me, and I made sure I wasn’t tagged again before I crossed into Pennsylvania.”

  Tony didn’t respond with words. Instead, his fist came across Joseph’s left jaw. Joseph wasn’t surprised by that. Nor was he surprised when both Tony’s hands grabbed his shirt collar and forced him against the metal shelving behind him.

  “Don’t get smart with me, asshole. You knew we had everything tied up in that shipment. Every freaking thing. Any idiot can drive a truck to a destination without attracting attention. But I guess you aren’t just any idiot.”

  Tony seemed to be waiting for some kind of response before delivering the next blow. Joseph obliged him in the form of a slightly-furrowed brow. That was all Tony needed. The next punch hit Joseph under his nose. It knocked his head against a rail.

  Joseph wasn’t expecting what came next, though. Tony’s beating continued, and became severe. Joseph found himself knocked in several directions all at once; his head and torso serving as a punching bag for Tony’s unbridled rage. No one else in the shop dared restrain him.

  At length, Joseph looked up from the cement floor past the cartoon birds circling his head and managed to connect his gaze deep into Tony’s eyes. There he encountered utter disdain. This was new. Joseph didn’t like it. Those eyes betrayed a hatred Joseph didn’t
deserve to be the recipient of.

  Yes, he expected to get knocked around a little. Okay, the beating was extreme and he was now badly hurt. Nothing Joseph wasn’t used to. His father beat him within an inch of his life on at least three occasions. Joseph was twice pummeled in prison by connected dudes he knew better than to fight back against. And this wasn’t the first time Tony’s knuckles rendezvoused with his face during the eighteen months Joseph spent with this crew. All of this he could handle. Physical pain was something he simply learned to live with. But not this judgment from within Tony’s soul. That was the look of a sworn enemy. And Joseph wasn’t okay with that. Not by a long shot.

  “Fuck you,” was all Joseph could utter as he struggled to stand. One of his front teeth flew from his mouth as he spoke. Tony grabbed him with one hand and raised a fist with the other, but stopped and watched the tooth bounce off his shoulder. Someone chuckled.

  “It had to be the machine shop,” Chad’s voice said. “I’ve never trusted them.”

  “No,” Duncan replied. “It was the Pittsburgh stripper.”

  Tony let go of Joseph and watched him crumple back to the floor. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “After we heard the shipment never showed up, I contacted all our paper providers. Turns out that whore was busted with her loser check-forger boyfriend. This is my fault. We got sloppy with her. Dumb bitch doesn’t even know what she knows, but the feds questioning her obviously did.”

  “Well what the hell are we going to do now?” Tony said. “It’s time to move west, but we don’t have the funds. Everything was hinged on numb-nut’s load. Covertly moving an operation like ours is expensive.”

  “We have enough fives accumulated for a run of about a quarter-mil.”

  “What will that net us? Eighty, eighty-five grand? Not enough. And that’s assuming our New York customers will even still do business with us after this fiasco. Dammit, we were counting on 1.6 million!”

  “It’s time for plan B,” Duncan said.

  “What’s that?” Chad and Lanny both asked.

  “As soon as I realized the shipment might be lost, I started scouting for …unorthodox jobs, locally. Came up with a couple. Cash businesses. One’s residential. Then there’s one a little farther west that looks juicy, in Salem. One of those doomsday-prepper homes, only it’s not well-defended. Might be half a million in gold bars there. Got the lowdown from a trusted friend on the inside at Graterford, and it wasn’t cheap information. So I want to use it.”

  “Interesting,” Lanny said.

  Tony pointed to Joseph. “What about him?”

  “I think you’ve been a bit hard on him, to be honest. He had some of it coming, of course.” Duncan stepped over to Joseph and bent down.

  “You up for it, Joseph? These jobs I have planned are probably more in your wheelhouse than mine. Then we can move the printing operation to Illinois and reboot. Maybe we won’t be so …unlucky there.”

  “You’re the boss,” Joseph said. “I have nothing better to do.”

  * * *

  Malcolm decided to go outside. It was, after all, a beautiful Sunday—as long as you were looking up.

  Looking down, or even around at street level, wasn’t as rewarding. Midtown had suddenly become a much less attractive place to be. The same streets and small businesses garnished the famous New York City landscape, but the people were different. They all seemed changed, somehow.

  Malcolm first noticed it yesterday when he went for a walk. His fellow New Yorkers had become rude, sullen, and edgy, even by New York standards. The voices he heard along the streets were mostly involved in arguments with vendors and storekeepers. Even the old Italian guy with the panini cart had stopped singing, and looked as though he were attending a funeral.

  Malcolm didn’t feel like being immersed in gloom and contention again today. He was, after all, happy. If Hannah would just call him back, he’d be even happier. He needed to go someplace where people weren’t all knotted up over money worries.

  Malcolm headed to Central Park.

  Being Sunday, many businesses were closed. But Malcolm thought he noticed more than usual closed, even some of the retail stores which did a lot of business on weekends. Then he passed Carnegie Hall. The sign for tonight’s classical music performance flashed “Canceled.”

  Considerably fewer people populated the park than what was normal for a warm Sunday in springtime. It was refreshing, but Malcolm also longed for some kind of human interaction. He was fast discovering that celebrations spent alone were dispirited. He couldn’t get through to Ryan or Hannah, and he hadn’t gotten desperate enough to call his parents yet.

  After a ten minute brisk walk within the boundaries of the park, the trail opened to the green expanse of Sheep Meadow, also sparsely occupied today. A homeless man fed squirrels nearby. Malcolm stopped and watched as the squirrels freely approached him, sometimes climbing on his lap to wait their turn to get a seed. Malcolm, too, found this man to have a comfortable, natural attraction about him. He moved closer.

  “A man with food is a man with friends,” the vagrant said glancing up at Malcolm, his voice much smoother than his wardrobe.

  Malcolm took that as invitation enough to further invade the man’s space. The squirrels weren’t so trusting of Malcolm and scattered from his path.

  Malcolm sat crossed-legged on the grass and smiled at the friendly stranger. He appeared younger up close than he had from a distance. Sure, he was unshaven and unkempt, with shoddy slept-in clothes typical of the city’s homeless citizenry—but he looked sober, and probably wasn’t more than a few years older than Malcolm.

  “Here,” the man said tossing something in the air towards Malcolm. “You look like you could tolerate making some new friends. My name’s Dion.”

  Malcolm looked at the object that landed next to him: a zipped baggie full of sunflower seeds. He picked it up and opened it. As soon as he did, one of the squirrels came near him and stood in the begging position.

  “Thanks. I’m Malcolm.” Malcolm held a seed out in his hand, which caused the squirrel to run in circles. He finally flicked it to him, which induced several more to approach him.

  “Pleased to meet you, Malcolm. Such a beautiful day. It takes them a while to warm up to you. Can’t say I blame them. People used to eat squirrels in this country. Still do in some parts. In fact, you could order squirrel meat online last I checked. Tastes like pulled pork, only much leaner.”

  “Never heard of anyone eating a squirrel.” Malcolm tossed a few seeds on the ground, closer to him this time. One fat grey customer was brave enough to run up and get them all.

  “Spend a few years on the streets and you’ll see a lot of new things,” Dion said.

  “How long have you been homeless, if you don’t mind my asking? You strike me as different than most.”

  “Oh I’m different than most, all right. I suppose we all are, when met individually. Homeless folks I mean. You strike me as a little different, too—different than most ‘normal’ people I meet in the park, that is.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by that,” Malcolm said. “You just seem to have a pleasant demeanor. Like you’re happy.”

  “I am happy. What’s not to be happy about on a fine spring day like this? And I meant the same thing towards you, friend. Seems like everyone else has a serious case of the grumps this weekend.”

  Malcolm smiled. “I guess I’m luckier than most.”

  “Luckier or smarter?”

  Malcolm tilted his head at that comment.

  “Five years,” Dion said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You asked how long I’ve been homeless. Five years, going on six. Just so happens that’s also how long I’ve been happy. One heck of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “You like being homeless?”

  “I like not having money problems. No money means no money problems.”

  “I don’t know if I’m able to accept that,”
Malcolm said after laughing politely. “How do you know when you’ll eat again? How do you get a new pair of shoes when you need them? Where do you find shelter from the weather?”

  “You know how much trouble I’ve had with any of that in the last five years?”

  “How much?”

  “None whatsoever. And I’ve yet to see a squirrel, or even a bird, that died from starvation or exposure. Certainly not any humans.”

  “Huh.” Malcolm had no response. But he did manage to get one of the squirrels to run up and snatch a seed off his kneecap.

  “Of course, it requires a leap of faith…” Dion’s voice trailed off. The way this guy talked reminded Malcolm of his Uncle Lou, who wasn’t really his uncle. Malcolm thought about his parents …who weren’t really his parents, either.

  “You weren’t a priest by any chance, before you went homeless?” Malcolm asked.

  “No.” Dion laughed. “Far from it. Why? Are you Catholic?”

  “No.” Malcolm shook his head. “My parents took me to a Baptist church when I was young, but…”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “It was all right, I guess.”

  “Why’d you want to know if I was a priest?”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  Dion frowned. “Not to a crime, I hope.”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Well, go ahead if you need to. Confession is good for the soul.”

  “I …made a lot of money on Friday. I mean a whole lot. I feel like celebrating, but I have no one to celebrate with. Most people suffered significant losses on Friday, and would be resentful of me if they knew.”

  “You ain’t kidding there,” Dion said. “Even fence-sitters who were all in cash lost a lot of money, seeing as the U.S. Dollar is tanking and inflation is probably about to explode. But you have nothing to feel guilty about. Betting on the don’ts is perfectly legal—and the markets, unlike the craps table, need people who are willing to do that in order to function.”

  Malcolm stared back at him. “You really are the most unique homeless person I ever talked to. Did you end up this way because you lost everything gambling?”