Ride the Lucky

by Kendric Neal

  They sat in the darkest corner of a place that somehow had quite a few of them. Neely guessed business deals on this level were just mafia deals anyway, the lines blurred at both the top and the bottom.

  Neely told him his story, start to finish, and left no detail out. The waiter brought Neely his martinis—and two of something cool, clear and expensive-looking for Dunn, who apparently had a standing order. As they finished the first and moved leisurely onto the second, Neely watched for signs of skepticism and didn't see them. In fact he had Dunn's full attention, no mean feat for a guy with accelerated ADHD.

  It felt good to tell it. They'd been good friends once, though not the kind who'd talk about wives and girlfriends, not in any deep sense. Well, Neely anyway, he wasn't sure Dunn had a deep sense. He found now that the words rolled out, even the embarrassing ones, the ones that made him sound crazy, that made him sound obsessed. Dunn was possibly the least judgmental person Neely had ever met, but probably because he was least in the position to judge. It felt great for Neely now to tell the whole absurd, ridiculous story to someone standing outside of it. Dunn sipped his drink, joked about Neely's feuding olives, then worked on a plate of neatly-prepared avocado-shrimp eggrolls. He ordered another round of drinks, then one more. “Well, well, well. I can't say that's what I was expecting. That was a helluva story, Neely. That's a doozy.”

  “All true.”

  “Oh, I believe it. Every word. I know you. What are you going to do now?”

  “What would anyone do?”

  “Anyone would bank the $5.7, buy a mansion and start a harem.”

  “Okay, what would you do?”

  “You already know my answer. You go first.”

  “Do a barrel roll. All in.”

  “Ride the lucky.”

  “How do you not ride it? What happens if I don't?”

  “You die.”

  “And if I ride?”

  “You die riding.”

  “And that's better?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Got a game I can get in on?”

  “Sure.”

  “No one will let me play.”

  “I'll let you play.”

  “I'm serious, I'm banned.”

  “It's not a problem, that's why you called me.”

  “I also wanted your opinion. This isn't something I could share with anyone else.”

  “I appreciate that. You know I'm straight, right?” Neely laughed. “You know how this goes?”

  “How does this go?”

  “Nothing suspicious. These guys make those casino assholes look like cos-play dorks.”

  “There's nothing to worry about. I didn't cheat.”

  “Don't even wonder what would happen if you did. I mean it, they'll know. Tear the word “cheat” out of your dictionary, delete it off your spell-check.”

  “When can this happen?”

  “We haven't set our terms yet.”

  “What are our terms?”

  “You win, you're buying the steaks.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “I'll have Margaret Michaels come sit on your face.”

  “I'll take that deal.”

  “You must be confident, she's gotta be over 350 by now.”

  “You get the spillover.”

  “You're a good friend.”

  “Your face is a good friend,” said Neely, slipping back into one of their favorite juvenile jousts.

  “You're a festering ass pimple.” said Dunn.

  “Your face is a festering ass pimple.”

  “You're a brown-bagging, tuna-sniffing scrotum hair.”

  “Your face is a brown-bagging, tuna-sniffing scrotum hair.”

  “Oh, yeah… good times…” Dunn said, wiping away a tear.

  “We got a deal?”

  “Thursday. Hundred thou buy-in.”

  “You playing too?”

  “Hell yeah. Which end you want?”

  “Flip ya.” They bumped fists.

  “Barrel roll, baby,” said Dunn.

  “Let's get wet,” said Neely.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hope stood in the doorway, dressing robe on and hair wrapped up in a towel turban. What a shame women didn't do that anymore, he thought—it had a wonderful retro-60s vibe to it.

  “You seem antsy tonight,” she said.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. Ever since you got home. Everything good at work?”

  “Sure. The usual. Maybe the Jepp thing, added pressure.”

  “Everything okay so far?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And our rule? The one you keep reminding me of?”

  “No point worrying about something that hasn't happened yet.”

  “That's right.”

  “I'm good. All is good.”

  “That your second or your third?” she asked, motioning to the drink in his hand.

  “I topped off the second.”

  “Third, then.”

  “They're not strong, Hope. I'm just unwinding.”

  “Sleepytime or chamomile?”

  “Here…” He let her pour out the rest. “All good.”

  She smiled and climbed into bed. He brushed his teeth and climbed in after her. He turned out the light and it was suddenly pitch black. Suddenly Hope screamed, “Neely, your hands are cold!”

  “Sorry, let me warm 'em up.”

  She screamed even louder. “Stop!”

  “There's other ways to unwind, you know.”

  “This isn't one of them.”

  “It's working for me.”

  She screamed louder. “Neely…”

  “You don't know where the next one's coming from, do you?”

  She screamed, trying to keep her voice down. “The kids, damnit.”

  “The kids know. Hasn't Jess ever rolled her eyes at you the next morning?”

  “She doesn't need to know everything.”

  “It might earn a measure of respect.” Hope screamed again, only to have her outburst suddenly stifled. “mmm. warm cookies…” Neely said, channeling Homer Simpson.

  Neely looked at the clock and got up quietly. He walked out to the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind him.

  He poured another drink, four fingers of straight Grey Goose this time, and wandered over to his computer. “Account Suspended.” He stared at it again, unable to muster any interest in reading his email or web surfing either. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a pack of cards—he took a slug of the Grey Goose and began shuffling. He started to deal out Solitaire, when he changed his mind and instead cut the deck like his bet with Gus. He held up a 5. He cut them again and held up a 9. One more time, and a 2 and a 7. Bored, he sat back and took another pull on his vodka.

  He went out to the garage and shut the door. His unfinished tin light sculpture sat on a workbench, abandoned. He turned it on, turned out the overheads, and panels of hammered copper shone as patterns punched through the metal let light out. Stained-glass panels echoed similar patterns and framed a cathedral effect, offering a soft, warm glow over the room. He wasn't interested in the half-completed project though, and instead took down a box from the cabinet and withdrew a Ruger SP101, box of bullets and gun-cleaning kit. He sat back at his bench and spun around the stained glass panel on the cutting mat. He opened the chamber on the gun and withdrew the bullets, setting them down among the shards of glass as he examined the cylinders and barrel. He cleaned the gun out, gave the bore a coat of lubricant and wiped the whole thing down with a gun cloth. He picked up the bullets in his hand and put one back in a chamber. He spun it and held it up to his head. He motioned to squeeze the trigger but didn't, smiling at the thought instead. He opened the cylinder to see where the bullet lined up, indeed it was up next in the chamber.

  “You little son of a bitch,” he laughed.

  He shut the cylinder and rolled it again, holding it up to his head. This time he stopped, checked, and again the bullet was in the chamber.

  �
��Persistent, aren't you?”

  He closed it, spun it, held it to his head and closed his eyes. He cracked a grin, just fooling around, put the gun down, grabbed his drink, but suddenly put the gun back to his temple and fired. Click. He laughed, tossed it back in its box and put it back on the top shelf. He left the light on in his sculpture and took the rest of his drink to bed.

  CHAPTER 20

  Neely sat in his office, coffee in hand, briefcase laid out on his desk, feet up, wearing a headset, talking via Skype with Jason and Falk as he scrolled through the latest lines on the upcoming weekend's NFL games on one screen and played poker on the other.

  “It's not that big a deal, Jason” Neely said, talking on Skype.

  “It is a big deal if it's an attack. We lost network for 38 hours.”

  “That was before us,” Falk said, who was also on the call.

  “I don't care, the point is, if there's a vulnerability we need to fix it before MarCon…” said Jason.

  “Falk just said he put up a lockout, no one's getting through that,” Neely said.

  “That's what Pedott said.”

  “Well, they screwed it up,” said Neely.

  Marcia ducked her head in. “Neely?”

  Neely looked up at her, then turned back to his screen, “Got to put you on hold guys. Talk to him, Falk.”

  He looked at Marcia impatiently. “Sorry,” she said. “But do you have Falk's report? Mr. Tchavitz hasn't seen it.” Neely rooted through his briefcase and withdrew a plastic file folder, revealing the gun box underneath it. He handed the file to her, shutting the briefcase as she looked at the box curiously.

  “No interruptions, Marcia,” Neely said.

  “Sorry,” she said, closing the door.

  Neely went back to his video conference, catching Falk in the middle of a sentence. “…open data line, your password on the help line and there was a pass-through to the system for maintenance…”

  “I know, I know, that's fine,” Jason said, “I'm just getting heat on the upgrade schedule, is there any way you can stop and—”

  Janet's voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Thomas. There's a Miles McKee here to see you.”

  “—fix it? I mean a patch job, Falk, we can't take a chance, it's 70% of our new business annual,” Jason continued.

  “I don't know who that is,” Neely said to her.

  “He said he's with SEC.”

  “Eamon's going to ream me on this Wednesday,” continued Jason, “He's going to make me say it's done, I have to say it's a done deal.”

  “SEC what?” Neely asked her.

  “The SEC.”

  Neely blinked, looked down at the intercom. “Tell him to make an appointment.” He clicked off the intercom and went back to the conference. “We'll have it locked, we've got it locked now, don't we, Falk?” Clearly they didn't, as Falk only stammered. Neely continued, “Secure by Wednesday, bank on it Jason. We're here for you, you just got to give us some trust here.”

  “It's not me, Eamon saw it too, he's worked systems for almost twenty years, this just didn't look internal—”

  A face appeared in his office doorway as Neely looked up. “Mr. Thomas. Miles McKee,” the man said, offering his hand. He was in his early 40s, African-American, with closely-cropped hair…elegant, casual, poised, confident…he seemed smart and well-educated. It was always in the eyes, Neely thought. “Field Investigations, Southwest Region, Security & Exchange Commission. I just need a moment of your time.” Neely looked surprised, looking out the open door to see why Marcia let him through. She looked scared and intimidated, though that was nothing new for her. His view was blocked as a well-dressed woman entered as well, and Miles continued, “This is my partner, Meghan Sterling.” She was just hitting 30, very pretty, and wore a slim black skirt that hung on a toned and athletic body—with an understated beige blouse, no frills, just a perfect cut and press. Together they looked more like upscale restaurant owners than government employees.

  “Sorry, guys, got to deal with this,” Neely said to the screen, putting them on hold again. He turned back to his visitors, “Don't you guys make an appointment? I'm in the middle of a workday here.”

  “Our supervisor feels it's best to handle these matters in person and unannounced.”

  “Unannounced? What matters?”

  “May I?” Miles said, motioning towards closing the door.

  “No,” Neely said, but Miles closed it anyway.

  “You have 16 stocks in your portfolio, Mr. Thomas. They are up an aggregate of 10,000% in the last three weeks, the rest of the market is down 300 points. How do you explain that?”

  “Do I need to?”

  “We're asking you to.”

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  “We're not making any allegations, Mr. Thomas,” Meghan said in a voice that sounded surprisingly man-like.

  “I'm assuming the follow-up to that is 'at this time'.”

  “Can you tell us how and why you chose the shares you did?”

  “Sure I can. Luck,” Neely answered flippantly. Why hadn't he thought of this? Why would it be restricted to gambling?

  “Luck…” said Miles.

  “Yeah, I don't know about stocks. I'm a computer guy, I read Barron's and Forbes, I go to cocktail parties, hot tip here and there. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

  “That's your explanation?” said Meghan.

  “That's it. I didn't even know I was up that much. I haven't checked it in a few days.”

  “Not since Friday morning, no,” said Miles.

  “But you were checking it almost twenty times a day before that,” said Meghan.

  “How do you know that? Isn't my account access confidential?”

  “You said 'hot tip'. Can you tell us what you mean by that?” said Miles.

  “You're pulling my leg.” They both stared at him. “Come on, guys. Who put you up to this?” They looked at each other, then back at him. “You guys must be pros. Local theater community? I didn't know our little town had people like you, I would have thought Atlanta would have beckoned.”

  “Mr. Thomas…” said Meghan.

  “Neely. Let me see that card again…” He took Miles' business card as the two agents looked at each other, perplexed, as the one thing they didn't expect was for Neely Thomas to seem like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “You print this at a copy center? Fed Ex? It's pretty good, you must have started with a decent .jpg.”

  “We can assure you this isn't a gag.”

  “You really think a network guy in a middle-class Charlotte suburb is wrapped up in insider trading?”

  “We haven't made any accusations.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We're only trying to determine—”

  “Where I got my information. Yeah, I got that.”

  “You said hot tip.”

  “I regret the choice of words. Obviously, that's fresh bait to people like you.”

  “Who recommended these stocks to you?”

  “Your mother. I was teabagging her and she said something but it was kind of muffled, so I dragged my junk off her doublechin and she said, 'Hey, Neely, you want to make some real money?' What can I say, the rest is history.”

  Meghan began dialing a number as Miles gave him a cold, angry stare that pretty much shattered any comparison he might have still had to an upscale restaurateur. “You want us to arrest you?”

  “Thought you were just asking questions.”

  “For now. We can always come back with the FBI, IRS, whatever seems warranted.”

  “Great. I'll get a keg. You bring the Tostitos.”

  Miles put an arm on Meghan's forearm and she hung up the call. “So your explanation, once again, for the record is—”

  “Luck.”

  “Just—dumb—luck…” he said, typing out the words on his phone's memo pad. “You may think we're playing, Mr. Thomas, but we're not.”

  “Can't get lucky if you don't play.�
�

  Neely hadn't had time to plan a reaction and was wondering why he seemed to be opting for belligerence. They hadn't accused him of anything yet and neither seemed very confrontational. In fact, this looked a lot easier to handle than his little meeting with Gus Finn in Vegas. Maybe that was it, though. Maybe he was sick of being grilled over something beyond his control. And maybe these guys looked like nothing compared to the likes of a Vegas casino manager.

  “Alright, we'll play it your way. Just so you know, we have an XK7 system monitoring all trades and all contracts to purchase. The bar's pretty high to eliminate chance and false alarms. A score of 82 is considered a hit. Highest number ever reached by someone who was later convicted was 104. You're currently at 122.”

  “Cool! I never did get top grade in school.”

  “We can go that way if you want. You won't like it,” said Meghan.

  “So the kegger's out?”

  “Agent McKee, would it be your opinion that the witness isn't cooperating?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “And should be identified as hostile?”

  “Yes he should.”

  “You have the right to hire an attorney to answer our questions,” Miles said to Neely, then turned to his partner, “Have I informed him of his rights to have an attorney?”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Have I handed him the document and information request from the SEC in preparation for its investigation?” he asked, handing it to Neely.

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Mr. Thomas, you'll find my number on that card. We will expect to hear from you or your attorney shortly.”

  “Oh, kegger's back in, then. Crowny.”

  “In the meantime, you may want to hold off on any further trades pending the outcome.”

  “Suggestion or threat?”

  “You haven't checked your account, have you?”

  “Not lately, no.”

  “Not since Friday.”

  “Has it been that long?”

  “You don't get updates on your phone?”

  “Had it turned off.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Had a little weekend away.”