The Humanist Read online

  “Why don’t I just invest my money legally, on the exchange?”

  I laughed. “You don’t strike me as the type to do anything legally.”

  “There’s hope for you yet, kid. But tell me why, anyway.”

  “The returns on this program are so much better. The average return on the stock market is around seven percent. I’ve estimated the return on the human market to be around fifteen, with dividends paid quarterly.”

  Talon tapped the table and ran a tongue over his moustache. He was very interested.

  “How the hell do you put a value on someone?”

  “A range of metrics and characteristics,” I said, tapping my bare feet on the floor. “I don’t want to bore you with the idiosyncrasies of it all.”

  “Bore me,” Talon said. His elbow was on the table, and his head was leaning against a fist. I didn’t know if he was genuinely curious or if he was testing me.

  I took a deep breath. “As I said, a range of things.” I mentally checked them off as they spurted forth. “Lifestyle factors like age, family, exercise, health. Historical factors like family illness and inheritance. Professional factors like what they do and how much they get paid. The program even considers arrests and convictions. It tracks emails, text messages, publications. Everything. Everything is connected with this application,” I said, pointing to my phone, hoping and praying to God that Sonja would be able to make all of that possible. It turns out she could, by the way.

  “Everything is live. If your investment runs a red light or has an affair, this impacts their value. It might be marginal, but it depends on who it is. People who are well-known and well-respected who do stupid shit, or complete losers who hit the big time, are representative of large swings. Think George Clooney getting arrested for robbery, assaulting a police officer, then urinating on the cruiser.”

  “Large swings equal big money,” he added.

  “Of course. Like anything. Big risk, big reward.”

  Talon mulled this over, perhaps too much. I would like to say I could see his mind working behind his eyes, but the truth is, I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see beyond those dark, reflective pits. Nothing but my skinny, naked arms, with my hands still covering my genitals.

  “And what do you want from me?”

  “Starting capital.”

  “Ah, and there it is.”

  “Well, something like this doesn’t fund itself. This is just a prototype, albeit a damn fine one. And I needed funds to bankroll the dividends.”

  “I see.”

  “And...”

  “And what?”

  “I also need your connections.”

  “My connections?”

  “Yes. You know people. People who could see the value in this. People who have as much to lose as I do. This will never get off the ground with mom and pop investors. Let’s face it, they wouldn’t want to be involved, anyhow. I need big people with big money. And the beauty of this—the real beauty of this? It’s clean money.”

  Talon raised an eyebrow. “My money’s already clean. There’s no need to launder it twice.”

  “I’m not talking about laundering your surplus. That raises a bunch of other issues that I’m sure you know all about. I’m talking about taking your clean money, and doubling it. Maybe tripling. Maybe even more.”

  He mulled this over. “Go on.”

  “All funds are stored in an offshore account via a series of ghost transactions. Nobody will even know it exists. And if it doesn’t exist—” I paused to let him to complete my sentence.

  “It can’t be traced.”

  “Damn right. It’s your own private bank that you can draw from whenever you want, at rates that no bank or investment could possibly provide.”

  “And what’s to stop you taking my money and disappearing into the wilderness?”

  “Two reasons. Him,” I said pointing to Stone. “And his fist up my asshole.” Stone stood motionless, his hands cupped in front of himself, waiting for instruction from his employer.

  “And two?”

  “And two, the money you give me pales in comparison to what I will make when this takes off.”

  Talon smirked. “I like your confidence.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrow, his moustache twitching. “What guarantees do I have of my return?”

  “I don’t control the market as much as I don’t control the decisions people make. You invest wisely, you’ll make your returns.” I shrugged. “Fuck it up, and that’s on you.”

  “Yes,” Talon said thoughtfully. “Which is why you’re going to also give me a percentage return.”

  A series of rapid blinks. “But... I’ve spoken about your potential returns.”

  “I’m not talking about a return on my investment,” he growled. “I want a return on all investments. I’m buying in. Not just on trading human success and misery, but into the program itself.”

  “On what terms?”

  “On my terms! Who the fuck do you think I am?”

  “But what does ‘terms’ mean?”

  “You seem like a smart guy. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  I did know what that meant. Unfortunately.

  “How much are you planning on putting in?” I asked.

  Talon looked to Stone and shrugged. “I’m thinking a quarter of a mill. You know, to get the ball rolling.”

  I coughed. Showed my hand.

  “And what about your initial investment?” I pushed. “How much are you planning on putting on the humans?”

  He stared at me. “Seventeen million. But you manage my affairs personally. No one else. And you don’t look after anyone else.”

  “That kind of takes away from my impartiality.”

  “I don’t give a shit. No one else needs to know.”

  We shook hands. I had a new business partner.

  He pulled me closer. “Trust is very important to me. Above all else. With me or against me, I need to trust in you and your actions.”

  I nodded. “How’s this for trust and loyalty? If you’re looking for who’s playing this table, I would turn your attention to the lady in red at position one. And Steve.”

  He squeezed my hand tight. Beyond tight.

  “Who the fuck is Steve?”

  “You know,” I said. “The dealer.”

  “You mean Isaac?”

  “Yeah, sure... Isaac.”

  Talon glanced at Stone, then back at me.

  “You know what’s in store for you if all this is bullshit?”

  I nodded.

  But it wasn’t bullshit.

  Chapter 18

  So, the scene was set. The next week saw everything in motion. I won’t bore you with the details—I know you’ve got better places to be—so I’m just going to hit the high points. My work week was a juggling act of keeping Tealson happy, finding equally lucrative investments to kick my human stock market into gear, and finding a new apartment to move into.

  I had no problems syphoning some of Talon’s investment to prop myself up. At the very least, a less shitty apartment in a slightly less shitty neighborhood. But when you had access to that kind of cash, why not go a little better, a little bigger? I found something in the Upper West Side—a single bedroom apartment for four and a half grand a month, complete with magnificent views of the city. With my newfound wealth, I could secure and furnish it within days.

  Every few hours, it seemed, my phone was vibrating. Talon had secured another investor, someone interested in being part of The Humanist Network. Money was piling into the various accounts. Expectations were being raised. Talon made it clear he wanted a sizable piece of the pie, along with his investment returns. At that point, I was sure everyone would win. How could they not?

  I spent my nights working through the algorithms. How does one value someone? In reality. I mean, I knew the words, but I needed to find a way this translated that into dollars and cents. Calculations, testing, computations, analysis. If this, then that. Cause and effect
. What I ended up with was a series of equations that were crude and inefficient, but what the hell. They would do that job. It’s not like anyone was looking over my shoulder, checking my work, complaining about the numbers. The numbers were the numbers. No one ever bothered to check the numbers. When you fill up with gas, you pay what you owe. You don’t argue or negotiate the price per gallon of fuel. You accept the price. The same applied to me. If it was close enough and made sense, no one would argue, barter, or negotiate.

  Between energy drinks, I considered packing my meager items into boxes to take to the new apartment, but for all I cared, they could burn with the rest of the shitty dwelling.

  I took an afternoon when I knew Tealson was off swinging a club at a course to knock out several chores. My first port of call was to the pawnshop to regain ownership of my watch. With my one win on the tables (plus Alan’s pile of chips I had inherited), I had more than enough to get my watch back without further dipping into investments.

  The bell above the pawnshop door sounded as I entered.

  “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore out thou, Romeo?” Janet’s voice boomed from behind the counter, her appearance sending a shiver down my spine. She had pulled her dark hair back, revealing more face than I cared to look at. Dark liner outlined her eyes, which peered out from her fat face.

  “Art,” I answered.

  “What?” she replied, her chins wobbling.

  “Wherefore art though. You know what, never mind.”

  “Absolutely never mind! The kid has returned. Now come over here and plant another one on Momma!”

  Jesus Christ!

  “Janet, my wonderful, I have only come for what is rightfully mine.”

  Janet pulled her top down over her shoulder and leaned on the glass cabinet top. “Well, why don’t you just take me, then! We can go in the back room, and you can bang me into oblivion.”

  I pulled up her sleeve to cover her shoulder. “The watch, Janet, just the watch. My watch. Although, you would be a close second.”

  “Oh, kid,” she sighed. “Maybe one day.”

  She returned with my watch and paperwork. I dropped three grand in cash on the counter. “As per our agreement,” I said. I signed her ledger (using “Romeo,” of course).

  She picked up the stack of notes and flicked through it. “Certainly seems like it’s all here.”

  “Now tell me, Janet.”

  “Yes, my Romeo,” she responded, batting her eyes at me.

  I leaned forward, our faces only marginally apart. “My Juliet, did you at all disable your recording equipment?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, quivering. “That is what you wanted, dear Romeo.”

  We moved closer to each other, our lips almost touching, our collective weight on the glass causing it to creak.

  “Excellent, Juliet.” I pointed to the glass. “How much is that?”

  She kept her eyes on mine, not wanting to break our connection. “Whatever it is, whatever price it is, you can have it for free. If you give me something.”

  She bit her lip.

  I was loathed to ask, but I did, anyway.

  After that unpleasant encounter, I met up with Sonja in the same shitty diner where I had first secured her services. While I waited, I avoided the coffee and ordered three beers instead. I skulled one, hoping the cheap liquor would destroy the lingering taste. An entire pack of mints did little to quell the stench in every breath.

  The roar of Sonja’s motorcycle preluded her entrance. She made her appearance, shoving the glass door open and marching in to an unheard song. Patrons and waitstaff alike ignored her as she strode toward me, whipping off her helmet and running a gloved hand through her purple and black hair. She chewed gum as she glared at me, the pissed-off look on her face cutting through the musky interior with little effort.

  We took up our positions, facing each other in our booth. She slid her helmet across the bench, grabbed a beer, and took four large gulps. She slammed it back down on the table, the froth working its way up the neck and creating a white dome on top.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, dissatisfied, as if looking at me caused her pain.

  “Just checking in,” I said, taking a swig of beer.

  “Bullshit,” she countered. “You could have done that over the burner. So, I’ll ask you again, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She enunciated every syllable of her request with sparkling clarity.

  I leaned forward on the table, trying desperately to hide my excitement. “I’m sure you’ve seen the money coming into the accounts?”

  “I have.”

  “Things are really kicking into gear.”

  “I know.”

  “We need to make sure this thing will fly when we hit the launch button.”

  “It will.”

  I eyed her. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your busy week of dying your hair, getting a tattoo, or fixing your motorcycle?”

  She drank the rest of her beer. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re positively fucking up my chi.”

  I sighed, pulled out a flash drive, and slid it across the table. It skittled over the cracked bench top toward her. She watched and didn’t stop it as it fell into her lap. She looked down.

  “And what’s that?”

  “That is the brains of the system.”

  She smirked. “I’m pretty sure I’m the brains of the system.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You get the idea. Just make sure—”

  She held up a hand. “What are you paying me for? Trust me, what you’ve seen so far is just the tip of the iceberg. The next version will have everything you need.” She held up the flash drive. “Including whatever is on this drive.”

  “The calculations,” I offered.

  “Yeah, yeah, the calculations.”

  “Don’t ‘yeah, yeah’ me. Include what I give you.”

  This time, she rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad!” She held up the drive. “I don’t get the big deal. The value of something is based on what people are willing to pay.”

  I put an elbow on the table, rest my head in my palm, and massaged my temples with my thumb and middle finger. “No,” I said. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Sure, it is,” she said dismissively. “That’s why people negotiate when they buy a house or a car.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it different?”

  I slammed my hand on the table. “It just is.”

  She leaned back, folded her arms, and raised an eyebrow. She blew a bubble with her gum. It burst, and she worked it back into her mouth. “Fine,” she said between chews. “It just is.”

  We looked at each other.

  “So,” she said with a shrug. “Is there anything else, or can I go back to fixing motorcycles and getting tattoos?”

  I finished my beer and wiped my mouth. “What else can you do?”

  She waved over the waitress and ordered two more beers. They quickly arrived.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  I smiled. There was a lot on my mind.

  On Thursday, I met Olivia at an upmarket coffee shop near my new apartment. I must say, when you had money, things moved damned fast. I had picked up the keys from the realtor and ordered two overpriced coffees, waiting for my date. Right at seven, Olivia walked in.

  I would like to say my heart leapt to attention as she breezed in the doors, her hair aflutter from a gust of wind outside. I would like to say time stopped as she slipped through the crowd. I would like to say that, would like to have felt that. But in reality, it was my groin that responded to her arrival. She wore tight jeans and suede pumps. Her coat was splayed, revealing a loose, white top that was unbuttoned to reveal part of her bosom. I wanted her, more than once.

  But that would have to wait, I told myself. You didn’t just jump to these things—not with someone like her. Contradictory, right? This time, I was sober.

  She removed her coat and placed it on the back of her chair as she sat down.


  “Well,” she said with a smile. “This is a surprise.”

  “Well, I am known for my surprises.” That was bullshit.

  She picked up her cup and took a sip. As she placed it down, she looked around.

  “This is a little different than our usual spot. You know I don’t care for any of this. I like you the way you are.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that I hope you don’t mind getting used to it.”

  “I’m used to it,” she said, taking another sip. “I’ve told you who my father is. It’s just that I don’t care for it. I don’t need it.”

  “So, none of this is good?”

  She reached over and grabbed my hand. “This is good. To see you is good. I don’t care about the periphery, as long as you are in the center, under a spotlight.”

  Goddamn it. I stared into her eyes, looking for some form of sarcasm, some other underlying meaning to her words. Nothing but sincerity. Shit.

  “Wait,” she said. “What did you mean about getting used to it?”

  “Well,” I said gripping her hand tightly. “Things have changed a little at work.”

  “Oh, more surprises.” She wiggled in her seat. “Do tell,” she said with a wink.

  “I’d rather just show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  I flicked on the lights. The empty room lit up. Bare hardwood floors reflected the overhead banks of LED bulbs. The city lights twinkled outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was like a museum, clean and quiet.

  “This place is yours?”

  “Yeah,” I said, joining her at the window, two glasses of champagne in my hand (the bottle courtesy of the realtor). “All mine.” It wasn’t, but it could be if the money kept coming in. “I mean, when you’re the best investment banker in the city, this is what happens.”

  “The city?”

  “You got me. The Eastern seaboard.”

  She took a glass and clinked. I watched her sip while she took in the view.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s stunning.”