Deep down, everybody thinks they deserve to make as much money as the next guy, and they're scared to death they won’t make as much. That’s what you got to tap into. That’s why when one guy hears that this other bozo bought five hundred shares of Dumb Ass, Inc., he’s gotta do it too. It’s like those…what do you call them? Lemons. Like when the lemons march into the sea.
“Yeah, Oz? Listen, I'm glad I caught you. You know that Galactic Guardians? No, no, I got you the three units, just like I said I would. I said I would, didn’t I? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Listen, the reason I called, some more units just became available. No. No. No. What happened is, one of the guys that bought a bunch of it ran into a cash problem and he’s trying to unload a few units. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I don’t know yet—how many would you be interested in? Uh-huh. Yeah. No, he just wants to get his money back. Two thousand a unit. I don’t know. Sure, I'm pretty sure he could let loose of three more. And, Oz? You can just make the check out to me. I run it through Litten here, you got your transaction cost. We don’t need that, right? Yeah. Okay. Three units. You got it, buddy. You want any more, let me know, okay? Yeah. Thanks, Oz. See you tomorrow night at Zink’s. Right. Bye.”
Wicky set the phone back on its cradle, shook his paperweight, watched the snow settle. He picked up the phone and dialed another number.
“George! Rich Wicky here! You been watching the market today? It’s looking real shaky. I'm thinking it’s about time to sell that Unisys. Yeah. Uh-huh. At least you’ll get the tax break. Yeah, I really think you should. In fact, I'm getting a lot of my people out of the market altogether—things are just too uncertain right now. They're saying it could go down another three hundred points before it makes a new bottom. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, you know, the money markets aren’t paying much now. I'm getting a lot of guys into this limited partnership I found. Yeah, I know. I know. I know. The thing is, this one’s different. You read that article about comic books in the Journal a few days ago? Well, let me tell you…”
It was after six o'clock when Wicky left Litten Securities. His efforts to unload the rest of his Galactic Guardians were not going well. He still had another eighty-six units to dump, and he’d used up most of the juice he had with his existing clients. They weren’t buying his line. Something must be coming through in my voice, he thought—they can smell fear right through the phone lines.
He decided to stop at Myron’s Pub for a martini, something to get his mind off his troubles. Jack Mitchell was sitting at the bar with one of the new guys—a wimpy-looking kid, all decked out in his new Brooks Brothers suit, wearing it like it was alive. First day on the job, out for a few drinks with one of the big boys. Mitchell introduced Wicky as Litten’s number-one sales animal. Even called him “Rich” for once, so of course Wicky had to buy a round of drinks. It was the kid’s first martini. Mitchell was wearing his cherry-popping smile. In about twelve hours, the kid would be experiencing a hangover to die from. Mitchell was keeping his hand on the Brooks Brothers shoulder, keeping the kid focused, saying, “You can talk on the phone all day long, read your script to every little old lady from Thief River Falls to Winona, but the real business happens right here in Myron’s. This is where the deals are made. Right, Rich?”
Wicky smiled and saluted with his martini.
Another round, and the kid loosened up and started talking macroeconomics, a bunch of shit he’d learned in college. Wicky ordered some shots of tequila to shut him up. It worked, but then Jack Mitchell started in about Las Vegas. He went there for two weeks every year, acted like he owned the place. Wicky shared some of his hot stock picks with the kid, who dutifully typed them into his new electronic memo pad, punching the tiny keys one at a time. By seven o'clock the kid was zonked, complaining in slurred sentence fragments about women in general and about his new wife in particular, who hadn’t gone down on him since the day they were married. A smiling Jack Mitchell kept prescribing new drinks for the kid’s problems. “Ever had a Zombie, kid?”
Wicky said, “I gotta get going, guys. Gotta go win the rent money. You guys interested in playing some cards tonight?”
The new kid had never been this drunk before in his life—not even in college—and, after what awaited him in the morning, would likely never be this drunk again. But he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know he was too drunk to play poker. Unable to form words clearly by this time, he simply shook his head.
Mitchell laughed. “This kid’s no dummy,” he said.
When Wicky floated out of Myron’s, Mitchell was suggesting that the kid buy another round of Glenlivet for the road. No deals had been made.