The Capitalist
“Greed is good,” Kennith Andrews said. He was done shaving, and smiled at the image in the marbled mirror. He liked this week’s mantra, downloaded from mantra.com and taped on his moisturizer bottle. He squinted, the sun radiated through the vast room, flickering on the palm fronds, and bouncing off the cantelope walls of his master bathroom.
He stretched his neck, couldn’t tell whether he’d slept well or not. Sleep. His nemesis. He could sleep on planes, as he had from Bangkok to Oahu. His computer clicked on: thirty- seven unread e-mails, and another eighty spam. Too many and not enough time, never enough. He took a bite of his sesame bagel. Sighed.
His iPhone rang. He glanced: Wells-Fargo Bank. Open this early? Why would they be calling? He answered.
“Mr. Kennith?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” He disliked business calls, they might trace his location. Might use the information against him somehow. And too many people were calling lately for donations.
“This is Mrs. Shelton from Wells-Fargo. I’m sorry to inform you, there’s been some recent alarming activity to your savings account. Are you aware of this?”
“Alarming how? Kennith stood, walked to the blinds, peered out. Sickening sunlight. A neighbor speed-walked her dachshund. Typical Vegas morning.
“Sir, our records show that sometime during the past twenty-four hours, your account was drained.”
“Dr-drained?” He couldn’t swallow.
“Yes, sir. Your original balance of 478,000 is now 2.78.” There was silence on the other end.
“But, that’s impossible. I mean, I’ve been home this entire time. And no one but me has access. No one.”
“It looks as though the activity was mostly between 2 and 4 a.m., sir.”
“How? I was asleep.” Or was he? He traced his steps back into his bedroom, as if surveying the wrought iron bed, or crumpled white comforter would give him clues, anything.
Nothing.
