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MANHATTAN, THE NEXT DAY, 9:00 A.M.

While the storm raged on through the night in California, in Manhattan it dawned calm and clear. Ronnie Glass took a spinning class at Equinox, snagged a coffee and bagel, then made his way to his office. He got there a comfortable half hour before the bell rang on the NYSE and trading got underway.

He clicked on his Bloomberg Terminals, scrolled straight to the three California casualty insurers. He smiled. At the opening bell they were already down an average four percent. His Aunt Mandy had rung him last night, 2:00 A.M. his time, raving about the storm.

“Hey, Ronnie!” she’d screamed. “ARk Storm! They called it, officially, at 1:30 yesterday afternoon. It’s the real deal. I got me the hell outta there. I’m in Reno on the slots.”

Ronnie smiled at the memory. His aunt was a prime-time pain in the ass, but she was useful; as to the true extent of her value, time would tell. If Mandy were right, the storm would go on and on, causing billions of dollars’ worth of damage. They’d make out like bandits. He felt the stirring; making money always made him horny. He might just treat himself, some more art, some fresh sex, not in that order.

He scrolled on ArtScene, checking the exhibitions, running quick calculations, scenario-planning on different budgets. Next, he scrolled to the news. Storm warnings flashing red. Hundreds already dead in California. Potentially thousands of deaths feared. The trend was right. All he needed to do now was sit back and watch the devastation.