We found the offices of the Money Talks hedge fund crosstown in one of the high rises. Wilson was getting cold feet about confronting the recipients of his stupidity. I, on the other hand had feet warm enough for the two of us.
“I’m not sure this is the right way to handle this,” he said, stopping on the sidewalk in front of the building.
“Okay, so let’s assume this is the worst way ever to handle this,” I said.
I caught sight of Wilson when I passed his office as I was roaming the halls wasting time. The man looked distraught. Sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands. I was no expert, but his body language said something was the matter.
It was the bowling ball that caught my attention. There it was nestled in amidst a large pile of boxes, suitcases, a lamp, and a jumble of other items that appeared to be pulled from our attic, or basement, possibly both. The pile was sitting in the foyer near the front door.
I picked up the bowling ball, examined it and tried to remember when was the last time I used it. It may have been during the Reagan administration, or maybe it was during the Clinton presidency.
The crowd was clustered together in a tight circle near the entrance of the building. There was yelling and pointing, and it looked like the old days of Three Card Monte games on a sidewalk.
Except it wasn’t the old days. It was pandemic days, and I was on my way into work and wondering what all the commotion was about.
I slowed as I got closer and heard voices, muffled through face masks but plenty clear enough to understand.