U.S. Ucker is, as we say in contemporary American literature, everyman. At the Filch & Finagle storefront in Minneapolis, his name appears prominently on the sucker list assigned to grifter Cash Draine.
Cash is a teller of tall tales. The tallest, I assure you.
U.S parked in front of the Crime Family storefront to see what Cash was doing while the mobster sweet-talked him over the phone.
Grifter had called Ucker’s home earlier with a pick and a price.
Readers, whenever your grifter calls, take heed. But if he’s got a stock pick and follows it with a price, hang up your telephonic device, and drive down to the storefront to stake his lying a$$ out. Park right out front, and call the big fibber back from there. It behooves you to watch through the storefront window and see exactly what sweet-lips is up to while he surmises the sting is going down.
On this one, the piece of calamari spin-doctor was doing a jig. In fact, all the wise guys were hoofing away. Inside the Minneapolis Filch & Finagle storefront, Riverdance had come to town. Champagne a spilling, legs a flying. Party balloons bounced gently along the ceiling as confetti scattered everywhere.
Across the office a wise gal hiked up her hem and boogied. She’d obviously closed some kind of deal moments before.
Atop a desk now, Cash raised both arms and started tapping his toes. From the other side of the storefront window, U.S. peered harder inside.
Now, from there, parked in a nice space directly across the street, one can see if gangsters are crossing names off a sucker list, and, readers, that’s precisely what U.S. Ucker was looking for. People like U.S. never get to experience the horror of a subbasement War Room under the City of Broken Dreams, nor sit in on a Crime Family conference call detailing a mob sting. But whatever’s going down, if the racketeers are working it from a sucker list, one thing is always sure.
They’re proprietary trading on you. All over you and yours. Proprietary trading all over your account, all over your nest egg, all over your financial plan, all over your golden years. They’re proprietary trading all over your future. And your future’s future too.
Crossing names off a sucker list is the tell.
There are only two sources of money on Wall Street. Yours and theirs, and when it’s making-yours-theirs time, remember, all this stuff starts in somebody’s subbasement War Room, and there are monsters down there. Throw your arms around yours, hold on tight, and keep it out of their thieving, bloodsucking hands.
From the driver’s seat of his Lexus, parked across the street from their Minneapolis Filch & Finagle storefront caper, U.S. Ucker could see racketeers crossing names off a sucker list. It was the tell, the great big fat, for-sure tell. He called Cash back with resolve.
The grifter picked up. “Hey, U.S.,” he crooned, “you in? I'm counting on you to drop a bundle.”
“Yes,” U.S. teased, and the grifter got a Charleston working, “I’ll think about buying some.” Wise guy stopped flopping his feet. He looked stunned. There was silence, and Cash jumped down from the desk, and started pacing the room.
“Maybe not, though.” U.S. wanted to see how Cash would react to that one. The grifter stopped moving, then dropped to his knees in prayer. “No. I’m not going to buy any. None of that at all.”
“I don’t like your pick,” U.S. added as the wise guy buried his face in his hands.
“And I don‘t like your price.” Cash fell forward, supine on the floor. The staff raced over to console him.
U.S. cranked the ignition, and dropped the Lexus into gear. He turned away from the curb and pulled into a break in traffic. U.S. smiled broadly. This was going to be a good month. He’d saved a bundle already. Happily, the former sucker headed home.
Bloodsucking thieves didn’t get him this time. Silently, U.S. thanked all his friends at The MacDougal Post. Without them, this would’ve turned out a lot differently.
U.S. vowed to keep reading on a regular basis. Whenever a new blog came out.
Everyman owes himself that much, U.S. knew.
