The Capitalist by Robert Vaughan

“Greed is good,” Kennith Andrews said. He finished shaving, and he 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 stretched his neck, had he slept well? Sleep. His nemesis. He could sleep on planes, as he had yesterday from Thailand to Oahu. His laptop powered on: seventy unread e-mails, double spam. Too many and not enough time. Never enough. He took a bite of his bagel. Sighed. His iPhone rang. Wells-Fargo Bank. Open this early? He answered. “Mr. Andrews?” A woman’s voice. “Yes, what can I do for you?” He disliked business calls, they might trace his location. Could misuse the information somehow. “Mrs. Shelton from Wells-Fargo. I’m sorry to inform you, there’s been some recent alarming activity with your savings account. Are you aware of this?” “Alarming how?” Kennith walked to the blinds, peered out. Sickening sunlight. A neighbor speed-walked her dachshund. “Sir, our records show that during the past twenty-four hours, your account was drained.” “Dr-drained?” He couldn’t swallow. “Yes, sir. The original balance of 478,000 dollars is now 2.78.” Complete silence on the other end. “But, that’s impossible. I’ve been home this entire time. And no one but me has access. No one.” “The activity was mostly between 2 and 4 a.m.” “How? I was asleep.” Or was he? He traced his steps into his bedroom, as if surveying the wrought iron bed, or crumpled white comforter would give him clues, anything. Nothing.

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