Big Money

by James Hudson

  “I don’t trust anyone,” George said in a mysterious tone.

  “OK, let’s grab some coffee!” she suddenly ordered.

  George frowned again. He didn’t like it. She instantly started dominating me. I can’t trust her. I can’t remember her at all. At the moment, he was overtaken by fear. It was the same feeling he had when he’d left the skyscraper. This is horrible… They all know who I am; they think I know everything. But I can’t control people anymore! I’m like a child in their arms now!

  “You’ve changed,” Sarah smiled. They were quickly walking down the street. “Do you still ride a motorcycle?”

  “No. And you?”

  “Of course! Haven’t you looked at me yet?” she exclaimed.

  George glanced at her legs and saw leather pants and tall boots.

  “When did you quit the motorcycle club? After we broke up?”

  George flinched at her words. Oh, Jesus! Was she my girlfriend?

  “A long time ago,” he replied. “I have no time. I work really hard.”

  She grinned. “You always told me that your work was a pure pleasure. You enjoyed your life, George. Your eyes were sparkling with energy! You’d drive the fastest cars. You’d jump with a parachute. What happened, George? Why do you look like a timid rabbit?”

  “Life has changed,” George shrugged.

  “You’re a shadow of that George I’d always known…” she said disappointedly.

  “OK,” he said indifferently.

  “Let’s have a drink!” she suddenly grabbed his arm and dragged inside the coffeehouse to his left.

  George obeyed. He didn’t want to attract people. What actually happened to me? Last night, I felt so vigorous, so happy. The prostitute in the hotel made me believe in myself. This girl… suppresses my will.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked as they came in.

  George looked around. Most of the visitors were young people about twenty. They would hardly recognize him. George coughed loudly. Several young men glanced at him indifferently. Nobody cared.

  George sighed with relief. I should stay alert anyway. My team – my employees – betrayed me, the intelligence officers dug up dirt on me, my competitors are obsessed with the idea to replace me. I just can’t sit and feel freedom among these people even if they wish me no harm.

  George squeezed the pistols in his coat pockets. He took them with him, although he was sure he wouldn’t fire, not at any price. He must’ve already destroyed a lot of lives.

  “You want something to drink?” Sarah took off her red jacket. She wore a tight-fitting T-shirt. Her breasts were big and ripe.

  “You’ve always liked them,” she snatched his glance. “Remember the night when it was raining like hell. We left London. I was driving Yamaha. You were sitting behind me, squeezing my boobs… When we were moving through the woods, you suddenly ordered me to stop. I pulled over. We walked into the forest. You were holding my hand tight. Then we found a fallen tree. Night, rain, leather jackets… We took off the wet helmets, and you touched my lips with yours—”

  “I’ll have an espresso!” George said loudly to the waitress. Sarah didn’t notice the waitress had approached them.

  “I’ll the have the same,” Sarah smiled. “I see your taste hasn’t changed.”

  “Really?” George raised his eyebrows. “You remember what I used to drink?”

  “Of course! We’d been dating for two years!”

  George swallowed nervously. “I remember,” he lied, averting his eyes from her.

  “What do you do?” she asked. “I’m still a fitness instructor, and I still train a lot of businessmen. You wanna come?”

  “Wanna be my personal trainer?”

  “Yeah. Why not? We could go right now. It’s not far from here. I think when you quit sports, your testosterone level decreased, and things went wrong.”

  George did not elaborate on the theme. Testosterone… If she knew what actually happened to me…

  He looked at Sarah. She doesn’t attract me. Why? Not enough femininity? Strong shoulders? More confident and relaxed than me? Yeah, probably. She controls the situation – not me. I wonder what I thought about her when we’d been dating. Did I love her? Have I really changed so much? But my tastes are the same – I still love espresso. But I don’t like her too much.

  “What do you reckon?” Sarah brought him out of his daze.

  “Regarding what?”

  “You didn’t listen to me, did you?” she squinted her eyes.

  At the moment, George noticed them. He was absolutely sure that the guys who’d just entered the coffeehouse were not going to drink espresso. Two tall men about forty in black leather jackets looked around. Their wet black hair glittered. When they noticed George, he’d already taken out his pistols, hiding them under the table.

  “Come closer, bastards,” George hissed. Of course, he wanted them to leave the place.

  But they quickly approached.

  “Let me guess! I’m dead, right?” George grinned. His heart pounded like a hammer. He pointed both pistols at the strangers.

  Sarah squeaked and stopped dead. However, the men weren’t surprised at all. They must’ve gotten used to such situations.

  “Mr. Hartley, officially, you’re dead already. But not everyone knows that. We’d like to talk to you privately.”

  “You want to bury me for real?” George smiled wryly. “Where? East London? Do I have the privilege to choose the way how to die again?”

  The men didn’t smile. George was afraid of them. Why was he acting like that? He didn’t know. Probably, he wanted to impress Sarah?

  She stared at him. Her big jaw dropped. And she looked different now. There was no more strength in her eyes. Her face expressed submission. He was sure she was ready to go with him to the edge of the world.

  “Come with us, Mr. Hartley!” one of the guys said.

  “George, don’t go!” Sarah exclaimed.

  But George stood up and smiled. He enjoyed the process.

  “You’re right, Sarah,” he said. “I’ve changed. I did a lot of bad things. And I sincerely hate that old George. But I can’t throw away my past!”

  “Everyone is looking at you,” one of the guys remarked.

  “Let’em stare at me!” George exclaimed. “One minute of my life is more interesting than the whole life of thousands of people.” Then he looked around triumphantly. “Everyone of you knows that I’m going to die now!” George moved toward the exit. The guys followed close behind him.

  “Your coffee…” the waitress muttered, approaching.

  “Oh! I’m sorry!” George extracted a one-hundred-dollar bill and handed it to the girl. “Keep the change!”

  Sarah exclaimed suddenly, “George, I’m calling the police! Please, wait!”

  “The police will never believe you’ve seen me,” George grinned. “I’m officially dead and buried. Read the latest financial newspapers. Au revoir!”

  23. Abduction

  The black Range Rover was moving fast. The rear seat was so comfortable that George nearly fell asleep. The three men in the car behaved politely. They didn’t even search him. George still had two pistols in his pockets. But he didn’t even attempt to use them.

  They left London in fifteen minutes. Do they need me alive?

  Suddenly, one of the guys turned to him and said,” Yeah, we forgot! Show him the video, Dan! The guy shouldn’t spend time in vain.”

  George grinned. Do they respect me?

  Dan, the guy on the right, touched the screen, which was mounted in the headrest. It was meant for the rear passengers to watch movies during the long journeys.

  “This is… me!” George exclaimed, staring at the screen. A man about twenty-five in an expensive white suit was definitely young George Hartley.

  “Yes,” Dan nodded. “This is one of the videos that had been deleted from the Internet a long time ago. But we found it. It had been recorded in 2007 right before the financial cris
is. Enjoy!”

  George put on the wireless headphones and started watching.

  He saw a big studio, two men, one woman.

  The woman started speaking, “Hello, I’m Ashley Thurman. As we promised earlier, we invited two gentlemen who would talk about global economic problems. Our guests are traders, investors in the financial markets. George Hartley is the youngest guest—”

  “The youngest doesn’t mean the most stupid,” George Hartley suddenly barked. His eyes glistened with anger.

  George shuddered. I didn’t observe the proprieties at all.

  “No, no, sir! I didn’t mean to offend you!” Ashley Thurman said quickly. She was sitting straight back, nervously fidgeting with a list of questions. “Our second guest is Walter Schmidt. He’s a trader, investor.”

  George sprung up in his seat. He paused the video. This is the guy who’d probably poisoned me! I lost my memory because of him! What do I know about him? Walter Schmidt visited my office about a month ago. And he left being very angry. He wanted me to join the venture. But I rejected the proposition because I didn’t want to mess with the reporters. There was absolutely no comparison between his plan to manipulate stock prices and my trip to Saudi Arabia. Was Walter Schmidt a less significant figure than me?

  George listened to Walter Schmidt. He was talking about the world economy, European monetary policy, and that was really boring. Walter Schmidt cut corners, used clichés, vague and ambiguous wording, and never looked at George Hartley. Was he afraid of me? Or just envy? He must’ve hated my success in 2007. I bet his hatred toward me increased in twelve years. He must’ve been pretending to be a ‘normal,’ polite, non-confrontational manager for all these years. And a few days ago, he stabbed me in the back… What’s his motivation, I wonder? Money? Power? Or something more sophisticated?

  Then George listened to himself again. Back then, he expressed the hope that the world economy would hardly face the crisis. Nobody mentioned the United States housing bubble.

  Anyway, they both survived the severe crisis and succeeded in business.

  The Range Rover smoothly slowed down and pulled over behind a van with blacked-out windows. George quickly looked around. The road was completely empty. Dark, rainy forest surrounded them.

  “Get out! Someone wants to talk to you,” Dan said calmly.

  George sighed. “I expected a luxurious villa, pool full of cool champagne and gorgeous girls…”

  George opened the door and stepped out of the cozy, warm SUV. He wrapped his coat and squeezed the pistols in his pockets. Would I shoot if they shoot me?

  He looked around again. The last thing he wanted was to die in that gloomy, damp forest. He’d die like a hero. If he’d been shot in that coffeehouse half an hour ago, he’d loved it. He would’ve grinned and ordered guys to shoot. Sarah would’ve stared at him, her eyes wide…. What the hell am I thinking about? Am I a teenager? Such stupid things to wish!

  The door of the Mercedes V-Class opened, and there appeared a short, heavily built man about sixty. He slowly approached George and peered into his eyes.

  What to expect from him? A bullet in the forehead?

  “Good evening, Mr. Hartley! I’m Ross. I highly appreciate your time. Thanks for coming.”

  George raised his eyebrows. “Did I… have a choice?”

  “Of course!” Ross exclaimed. “Don’t think we forced you to come here. We are friends, aren’t we? We are not going to do any harm to you.” Ross had a blank face.

  George grinned. “I believe you, but I don’t trust you.”

  “Let’s take a stroll, Mr. Hartley.”

  “Through the woods?”

  “Yeah. Nature brings people together. When was the last time you were in the forest?”

  George chuckled. “I don’t remember.”

  “Me too,” Ross nodded.

  The man stepped on the wet narrow path. George followed him.

  “Actually, I know these places well. I used to walk here fifty years ago picking up raspberries.”

  Is he armed? George thought. Maybe, I should hit him and run?

  “I like the smell of earth after rain… petrichor, you know…” Ross said warmly. “It reminds me of my youth.”

  Smell of earth… Is he an undertaker? George suddenly thought. Is he gonna bury me alive? His heart sank.

  “Mr. Hartley, we invited you to inform you that you have an enemy. The enemy is watching you.”

  “Shocking news, Ross,” George grinned. “Does this enemy know I’m still alive?”

  “Of course! You escaped and spoiled the game.”

  “The game?” George frowned.

  “Take this,” Ross stopped, turned around, and handed George a USB flash drive. “Some interesting videos. Watch them later.”

  “OK,” George nodded. Watch them later? Is this guy not gonna kill me?

  The autumn foliage rustled under their feet. Dark trees sighed and moaned but couldn’t protect both men from the fierce wind which chilled them to the bone.

  Security guards could follow us. And I wouldn’t hear and see them even if they’re walking thirty feet behind us.

  “Here we are!” Ross said, satisfied.

  They walked out of the woods onto a small clearing. In the center of it, there was a round table under two big umbrellas. The table was full of food and drinks. Ten candles in massive candlesticks were a source of light. All that looked a bit surreal.

  “Wow! Is it… yours?” George was stunned in admiration.

  “Yes!” Ross smiled. “I have a soft spot for delicious food.”

  They came closer. There were fried meat, vegetables, two bottles of wine, and juice.

  “Help yourself!” Ross said warmly.

  Is it my last meal? George thought.

  “Who is supposed to eat all this? Is he dead?” George asked.

  Obviously, it was a stupid question. Ross burst out laughing. George saw his yellow, crooked teeth. Probably, the man smoked a lot.

  “I bet you never relax, Mr. Hartley. You look so strained. Don’t you find that simple things give us maximum pleasure?”

  He opened one of the bottles of wine and filled the glasses with ruby-colored liquid. Then he put three pieces of lamb with broccoli on the plastic plate.

  He looks like a good-hearted family guy, George thought. Does he really kill people?

  24. Philosophy of a Financial Market Manipulator

  “Aaa…” Ross moaned. He swallowed the first piece of meat and sipped wine. “I knew you wouldn’t eat first,” he grinned. “I respect your ability to stay alert all the time, steer clear of all kinds of troubles. Let’s drink to you, George, the bravest man I’ve ever met. God created you. And he saved your life. That means your mission is not completed yet.”

  George grinned but raised the glass. They drank.

  “I think,” Ross went on, “People are the happiest creatures in the world. Look at the animals! They can’t even smile! And we are able to think, to feel, and to do good. Can animals or plants devote their lives to the holy love? No, but we can!”

  “Great toast!”

  They drank again.

  “Lamb is splendid,” George remarked.

  “Young lamb,” Ross nodded. “Mind if I smoke?” He extracted a pack of cigarettes, not waiting for a reply, lit a cigarette from a candle.

  “What are we celebrating, actually?” George asked.

  “Nothing,” Ross shook his head. “We’re just clearing our thoughts before we start the war.”

  “War?”

  “Against our mutual enemy Walter Schmidt,” Ross said.

  George exhaled in relief. What if Ross doesn’t know I lost my memory?

  “Why did he poison me?” George asked quickly.

  Ross shuddered. “This is obvious, George. Everybody wants to be in your shoes. Your financial empire was a perfect example of how to flourish even during the apocalypse.”

  George grinned.

  “What about my employees? D
o they work for him now?”

  Ross waived off.

  “Everything went wrong without you. Walter Schmidt is a charmless man. And he’s jealous. Jealous people are weak, George. They are lazy, and they hate charismatic leaders who always make progress in different spheres.”

  “These weak people almost killed me!” George exclaimed.

  “But they didn’t do that, did they?”

  “So… Walter Schmidt wants me to stay alive?”

  Ross smiled and quickly said, “Let’s drink to the strongest people in the world!”

  The wine was terrific. Ross opened the second bottle and poured the glasses again.

  The rain stopped. Both men stepped away from the table with big umbrellas.

  “What about system administrator Jason and Lana? Do they still work for Walter Schmidt?” George asked.

  “Ross shrugged. “I don’t know them. I don’t care about people at all. I care about life, pleasures, events. People are so predictable—”

  George squinted his eyes.

  “Oh, no…” Ross laughed. “Not you, of course! I wouldn’t have invited you if you were just an ordinary office clerk.”

  “So, there’s something I should hear from you, right?” George asked. “By the way, how do you know all that about Walter Schmidt?”

  “Why do you think God created us, George?” Ross asked.

  “Come on… don’t dodge the questions!”

  “OK, I’ll tell you what I reckon,” Ross said, smiling. “For me, money has always been my God. The more I believed in that, the more people I’d made happy. You heard me right. I’ve been helping people for many years. My money made them happy. They were literally thousands of sick people, poor children whom I gave money, medical care, food, clothes, and education. They thought I was God... Hell, they thanked me as if I’d been Oskar Schindler who’d saved 1200 Jews from the Nazis.

  But I’ve always been a trader, investor, market player. For any trader, money is God. Nothing is better than rising stocks when you bought them. So, money comes from one group of people to another. Rich people give me money, George. When they lose, I win. So, when I make rich people unhappy, I make poor people happy!”