Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (34 page)

     No, he shouldn’t use that term. He’d
earned
the money with a shrewd trade. Maybe he had a gift for this kind of thing.

     He immediately made another trade and earned another $70. He did it a third time with success. Then doubled his investment to $200 and was right when he predicted the dollar would rise.

     He looked at his watch. Within five minutes, he’d made $350.

     Wow!

     Greg got up and paced around the room for a few moments, feeling so lightheaded he thought he might pass out. This was not like some sweepstakes where the chance of winning was one in a million. No. He sat back down and thought through the odds. Even if you only flipped a coin, didn’t every bid have a 50/50 chance of being correct—up or down, just two possibilities? But certainly, if you used your head, you could do a little better than flipping a coin. You could make an informed guess . . . no, an informed
bid
, couldn’t you? He’d just done it four times in a row.

     This was what he was looking for!

     Greg was ecstatic. He wanted to support his family so badly. He was ready to do anything for them, but all his efforts so far had been fruitless since he’d lost his job. Finally—finally!—God was answering his prayer. Had to admit he hadn’t been praying that hard, but God must be showering mercy on him, pouring out that fantastic blessing Pastor Hanson had promised, prosperity beyond all imagination.

     He felt like laughing. All the wealth the SlowBurn people had offered—new car, bigger house, boat, whatever—it was coming through another avenue.

     For the next hour, Greg kept going, bid after bid. His enthusiasm was tempered a little when he lost, three times in a row at one point, and with larger bids on the block. But when the market closed that afternoon, Greg was—as the TopOps site described it, “in the money,” with $120 more than when he started.

     That cooled his jets. He’d made more than that in a day back when he worked for Powersports. But the potential was still there with TopOps, and very alluring. Maybe it wasn’t going to be $350 every five minutes, but big earnings were still possible.

     Even though the market had closed for the day—for the weekend, actually, since it was Friday—Greg wanted to learn more. Trading on international currencies wasn’t the only way to bid on binary options. Stocks, commodities, and various indexes could also be traded. He needed to explore them all.

     When he finally shut down his computer and stood up, the tension of the day had so sapped his strength that his knees felt shaky. But he was happy. He should take Nicole and the kids out to dinner to celebrate. So far, he hadn’t even told Nicole about his breakthrough, just dismissed her when she came into the room while he stared, white-knuckled at the progress of his latest bid.

     As soon as he walked into the kitchen, Nate and Becky ran up to him, hands covered with flour. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, we’re baking bread. We’re gonna have hot bread for dinner tonight.”

     “Hot bread?” He looked down at the white handprints on his jeans. “That sounds great.” He leaned down and scooped them up. “I can’t wait.” Maybe this was better than going out. His whole family together, everyone excited, the perfect time to tell them the good news.

* * * *

Nicole got up early Saturday to make a special breakfast—eggs in a nest, plus bacon, the kids’ favorite, especially when she sprinkled grated cheese on the eggs. She wasn’t really celebrating Greg’s “breakthrough,” which frankly sounded more like gambling than a solid business plan. But whatever it was, it had sounded too complicated to discuss at the table with the kids present. And then as soon as dinner was over, the kids had begged to go out for ice cream, which Greg agreed to do while she cleaned up the kitchen and went back to work on the last section in Lincoln’s project. He’d even offered to read to the kids and put them to bed.

     By the time she’d staggered up to bed—still not finished—he was already asleep.

     Asleep but happy. Well, that was something. She’d ask him more about this new binary trading today before trying to finish up her work project. She should give Greg a chance. Maybe it would be a good thing.

     She stepped out of the kitchen and peeked into the master bedroom. “Greg, you up? Time to eat.” Then she circled around and called up the stairs. “Time for breakfast! Becky, Nathan, I made eggs in a nest!”

     That got the kids tumbling down the stairs and seated at the table, and Greg showed up a few minutes later. Serving up the last slice of grilled toast with eggs nestled in a hole cut in the middle, she turned off the griddle and started to sit down, when the phone rang. “Let me get that first. Then you can pray for us, Nate.”

     Nicole picked up the receiver. “Hello, Singer residence.” The voice on the other end was speaking so fast, she could barely understand her, but she finally realized it was Tabby Jasper. “Slow down, girl. You say you can’t watch the kids this morning? You have to go where?” She listened more carefully. “What? Both of them?” She clasped her hand to her mouth. “Wait, Tabby, don’t hang up—”

     Then, as if in a trance, Nicole slowly hung up the phone and turned toward the curious faces staring at her from the breakfast nook.

     “Tabby can’t come. She and her mom are heading for the hospital.” She swallowed. “Both Jasper boys were shot yesterday.”

Chapter 34

Greg stared at Nicole.
Shot?
Both boys? How in the world had
that
happened?

     “We need to pray for them.” Nicole grabbed hands around the table, her voice rising and falling as she prayed protection and healing for Destin and Tabby’s twin brother. Greg’s mind spun as she prayed. Wounded apparently, not killed, thank God. Were they in a gang or something? Hard to believe. The Jaspers seemed like a nice family. Boys seemed like such great kids too.

     He had no idea how seriously the boys had been hurt, but one thing seemed certain—if Destin was in the hospital, he’d be out of commission for a while. Maybe it was because the kid was young and in need of cash, or maybe it was because he’d been someone Greg imagined he could motivate to break into a youthful market, but he realized he’d been counting on Destin to provide the breakthrough he needed to make SlowBurn work.

     Greg stared at the unfinished breakfast on his plate and sighed. At least God had guided him to an alternative in time. What was it Pastor Hanson always said?
One door never closes but God opens another. So just keep knocking!
Well, that’s what he’d been doing, and it had paid off with TopOps.

     Still, it was really tragic about Destin.

     “You think we should do something?”

     Nicole’s question broke into his reverie. “Uh, yeah, sure, but what? We don’t know how serious it is or even what hospital they’re in.”

     “Yes, but they’re our neighbors, and you hired Destin.”

     “I know, I know. I’m just as concerned as you are, but until we know what’s needed, it’s hard to know how to respond.”

     “Well, I’m gonna check with Estelle Bentley as soon as we’re done with breakfast. She ought to know.”

     Greg nodded. “Sounds good, and I agree. If there’s anything we can do, we should.”

     While supervising the kids as they cleared the table when Nicole ran across the street to see Estelle Bentley, Greg’s phone rang. He stepped into the dining room to take the call away from the squabbling between Becky and Nate. “Hello. This is Greg.”

     “Hey Greg, wasn’t sure I could catch you on a weekend. Is this your personal number? I was afraid all I had was your Powersports number.”

     “Not Powersports.” He should know that voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Powersports closed. So what can I do for you?”

     “Well, last time we talked—back in May or early June, I think it was—you were interested in joining Potawatomi’s sales staff . . .” Greg snapped his fingers—it was Roger Wilmington from Potawatomi Watercraft. “But at the time, we couldn’t afford someone at your salary level, and I didn’t want to try to talk you down. Hope you don’t have any hard feelings over that.”

     “I understand, Roger. Business is business.” Though Greg recalled Roger had taken several days to get back to him, and then only by email. That had seemed like a rebuff, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to hold grudges.

     “Right. But now I’m coming back to you. Turns out we lost another man, which leaves us shorthanded. Problem is, business hasn’t picked up that much, so we can’t offer you much more, and I’m not sure what you’re doin’ now, but thought I’d just reach out and see if you were interested.”

     Greg waited a few moments, knowing silence was often the best question, but when Roger didn’t offer more, he finally said, “Well, I’ve started a new business, and that’s kept me pretty busy. But what are we talking about here?”

     “To begin with, there’d be a base salary, same as all our sales staff, and a commission on top of that. We can’t budge on the salary even though I know you’re living down there in the city where it’s more expensive, but I got you a couple of extra percentage points on your commission to sweeten the offer. If things go well for Potawatomi, they’ll go
very
well for you.”

     “And those numbers would be . . .?”

     “Like I said, the salary’s locked in relative to seniority at forty-two grand to start, but I was able to bump you up to a whopping 38 percent on the commission. And of course, we offer medical and dental on top of that.”

     Greg’s heart sped up a little.
Thirty-eight percent?
But he needed to stay cool. “And what’s the commission on? Just new boats, or is it on everything—trailers, accessories, storage contracts?”

     “Anything connected with a new boat sale.”

     “
Hmm
. . .” He’d been making sixty-two thousand plus benefits at Powersports. If sales were decent, he might match that with a job like this, but it wasn’t guaranteed, and it sure wouldn’t be the “prosperity” he’d been anticipating. “I don’t know, Roger. I really appreciate you thinking of me. Could I get back to you early next week with an answer? I need to weigh some issues . . . the commute for one, and like I said, I’ve just started my own business, and it’s got a lot of potential. But I’ll give your offer some serious thought if you can give me a little time.”

     “No problem, man. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. You got my number, don’t you?”

     “Yep, right here in my phone. See ya.”

     Greg walked into the living room and stared out the front window. There’d certainly be some relief in having a steady income again, like a bird in the hand. But he was so close to catching two in the bush . . . no, more like a half-dozen in the bush. And it sounded like Potawatomi was running a little lean. What if the commissions weren’t even enough to match his former salary? Then Nicole would need to go back to work. Humph. She might agree if it was for Lincoln Paddock, but he wasn’t going to stand for that.

     He watched out the window as she returned from across the street. It looked like she’d lost a little weight. The bounce was back in her step and her blonde hair ruffled in the morning breeze like waves in a wheat field. Hmm, nope. Going back to work was out of the question if it would be for Paddock!

     He turned as she came in the front door. “Find out anything?”

     Nicole nodded. “Estelle said Michelle phoned last night to ask for prayer. Said Destin was hit in the leg. Tore it up pretty badly, but the bullet missed the bone. The younger one’s a little more serious. Tabby’s twin was hit in the stomach. But he’s supposed to recover.”

     “Man! How’d all this happen?”

     “Estelle didn’t know. Shooting took place somewhere down near Hamlin Park, she thinks.”

     “Anything we can do?”

     “Estelle said she was going to provide meals, and I said I’d be glad to help, but I don’t know what else.”

     Greg shook his head. How did a nice kid like Destin get caught up in a shooting? Shootings happened all the time in Chicago, but usually they were gang related. Greg hadn’t seen any sign that Destin was involved with a gang, but what did he know? Maybe the kids were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.

* * * *

The next morning, Nicole did the usual hurry-scurry to get the kids and herself ready for church, but to be honest, she didn’t feel much like going. The messages had been easier to swallow while Pastor Hanson was away on his Holy Land tour the last couple of Sundays, but the Victorious Living Center still seemed so far removed from the church she’d grown up in . . . though she had to admit, her greatest complaint as a teenager had been that it was boring.

     Greg went on ahead to their regular seating area in the balcony while she checked Nate and Becky into the children’s program. It took longer than usual, and when she finally hustled up the stairs, someone had already taken their usual seats. Looking around, she finally saw Greg waving to her from the next section over.

     The congregation of nearly four thousand was on its feet while the full, hundred-voice choir and praise band belted out a thunderous new song. Laser beams swept through the auditorium, colorful spots throbbed with the music, and fog from machines snaked across the platform, spilling down into the front rows of the congregation. She knew all the hoopla was because Pastor Hanson was returning, but she was glad she wasn’t down there on the main floor.

     The house lights dimmed while the giant overhead screens showed video clips of the Holy Land tour—Pastor Hanson baptizing people in the Jordan River, praying at the Western Wall, riding a camel, teaching on the Mount of Olives, preaching from a small fishing boat in the Sea of Galilee, silhouetted on the brow of a hill with his arms outstretched as though he were a cross, serving communion at the Garden Tomb, and then boarding a private jet at the Tel Aviv airport.

     The next scene was of a silver Cadillac Escalade stopping in front of the church, followed by a black Tahoe with darkened windows. Four men in matching black suits and wraparound shades got out of it, looking like Secret Service agents with coiled earphone leads curling over their ears and into their coat collars. Two stood stiff-legged, facing the church, while the camera followed the other two to the silver luxury vehicle, its smoked windows hiding whoever was inside. But when they opened the back doors, Pastor Hanson emerged, followed by First Lady Sheila in a slinky, black-sequined gown.