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Chapter Eleven,” Rags says. “That’s a voluntary reorganization. It could take a while, but our clients’ principal is secured by a first mortgage on the hospital’s land and property.”
    I see two or three inexperienced brokers sigh with relief. They believe Rags’ implication that a first mortgage means our bondholder clients have the St. Louis hospital firmly by the short and curlies. Experience has taught me otherwise. If the hospital’s land and property could pay off the bonds—as well as other similar lien holders in a yet-to-be-determined class of bankruptcy petitioners—the bid on our bonds would be a lot higher than nine cents. The market knows this stuff.
    “That’s right, Rags,” I say. “Our bondholders have the right to foreclose on the hospital’s land and property. Maybe we can turn the facility into a drug rehab center. I hear that St. Louis neighborhood would provide an excellent base of potential clients.”
    Rags stares, then scowls at me. My humor is slow-acting in his system. And extremely toxic. Too bad, boss. This isn’t my first Shore Securities’ bond default. I guarantee the hospital’s expensive medical equipment is one hundred percent leased, thus not attachable, and the buildings and land are worth virtually nothing. An inner city location puts nasty limits on financing and alternative construction opportunities.
    I’ve had about enough of this day. Staying at my desk means calling clients to tell them their bonds defaulted. Psycho Samson, a former Notre Dame lineman and pro wrestler, now a fishing boat captain, will probably strangle me. I should probably give him another day of ignorant bliss.
    What a world. What a world. I walk out of the meeting and out of the building. I hate to retire so early, but I couldn’t give investments away feeling like this. With rest and attitude adjustment, however, perhaps I can bounce back tomorrow.
    Fifteen steps into the fresh air and sunlight, Shore’s open-air parking lot, I hear the door click behind me. Someone’s followed me outside.
    It’s Rags. With narrowed eyes. Pinched lips. A twitching muscle near the bottom of his jaw. It ticks with every angry heartbeat.
    Rags marches closer, but not too close. I’m standing beside my pick-up mounted camper now and Rags doesn’t want to chance rust on his tw o thousand dollar Canali suit. Or even dirty his shoes or tie.
    “You’re close to getting fired, you know that? Your numbers suck, Carr, and that’s enough for me. But this attitude of yours lately…since I got promoted…it’s affecting the other salesmen.”
    The sneer on his lips clenches my right hand into a fist. I’m sick of taking everybody’s shit. My ex-wife. The judge. The gouging divorce lawyer who no longer takes my calls. A daily dose of complaining clients. And now Rags, the new punk sales manager from Staten Island who screwed his way into boss-dom. My hand wants to explode on his nose.
    “My attitude isn’t about you,” I say. “This is Shore’s third default in five years, Rags. Any idea how many clients I’ve lost?”
    “You’re such a pussy,” he says. “Have you even tried to replace them? When was the last time you stayed late to make cold calls?”
    I stare at Rags’ silk tie: baby blue with silver dots shaped like…what, anchors? Knowing Rags’ penchant for fine apparel and ass-kissing, the tie probably cost two or three hundred bucks and he picked the design because of Straight Up Vic’s interest in boating.
    “You’ve lost the killer instinct,” Rags says.
    “Not really. It’s just no longer directed at my clients.”
    He steps back, maybe wondering if I’ve threatened him, and I seize the opportunity to scramble behind the wheel of my movable home. Rags shakes his head as I start the engine. The snotty, brown-nosed jerk would love to fire me, take my good accounts for himself and pass out the rest to suck-up brokers he wants to cultivate.
    But getting rid of Austin Carr won’t be