Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (41 page)

     He needed to think positively. Yes, plan now how he would invest his money wisely. He wouldn’t risk investing it all at once. He’d play the market, perhaps with $2,500 bids, at least until he was sure he had the pulse of how the currencies were responding today. And then, once he was sure he had its pulse, he’d make his big move . . . or would it be best to continue with small, measured increments?

     Finally, he got up and turned on his computer . . . just to see.

     Still only $51 in his account.

     Greg took a shower, shaved, and made himself some breakfast. But his stomach was too jittery to handle something even as supposedly soothing as a small bowl of farina, and his reheated coffee from yesterday was bitter in his mouth.

     He forced himself to stay away from the computer, but at eight o’clock he figured the Key West bank might be open since its time zone was one hour earlier than Chicago. His hand was shaking when he sat down in front of his computer and clicked the key to refresh the screen that was already logged into his TopOps account.

     $18,051.00! It was there, all of it.

     Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. “Thank you Jesus! Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

     Now it was time to get to work!

     His stomach still upset from the recent tension, Greg watched the euro/dollar currency graph for several minutes. He needed to be very careful here. This was the day he graduated from dabbler to market player—no not a player but an investor, a shrewd businessman. He would follow his plan with limited bids.

     At 8:36 he placed his first $2,500 “Put,” predicting that in the next minute the dollar would decline relative to the euro. The seconds ticked by with more tension than he’d felt on any previous bid. But when the timer dinged, the dollar had indeed dropped, and Greg was in the money.

     Carefully he recorded his success on a notepad—the time of day, the amount the dollar declined, the value of the euro, and how much he’d won, a cool $1,750 for just one minute of breath-holding tension. Not bad!

     He was certain God was with him this morning, but it wouldn’t hurt to pray. Greg stopped and thanked God for his success and asked for guidance in his next bid. In that moment, he decided he was going to proceed by faith, not by sight. Wasn’t that in the Bible? He scrolled the page up so his balance—now at $19,801—was off the screen where he couldn’t see it. He’d record the details of each individual transaction, but let God handle the final results and reward his faith with buckets of prosperity.

     This time he placed a $2,500 “Call” on the dollar to increase in value over the euro. Even though the day was already warm for the middle of July, Greg’s hands were cold. He wrung them together as he watched the currencies jockey for values. And . . . he won again. And again, he was careful to record the details of his bid and thank God with a brief, heartfelt prayer.

     His next bid lost, but Greg took it in stride. He was a seasoned trader by now and knew disappointments came with the territory. He had faith, and—though he didn’t look at his balance—he knew he was still in the money. After recording the details, he also prayed again.

     After a couple more rounds following this exact routine, Greg chuckled to himself as he took a quick break to make some fresh coffee. He was becoming like those baseball players who followed a precise routine or wore their “winning” pair of socks to increase their luck. Of course, he didn’t consider prayer superstition, but what could it hurt to do everything the exact same way? Maybe he did have God’s attention.

     Fresh coffee in hand, again and again he bid $2,500, recording the results and thanking God whether he won or lost.

     Once he reached twenty bids, he checked the time. Two thirty already! Where had the time gone? He stretched, deciding that to remain disciplined, he should treat this like a job, stop and go get some lunch. He’d keep it short, but a lunch break would be important.

     Returning fifteen minutes later with a grilled cheese sandwich, a dill pickle spear, and a can of SlowBurn, he decided this would be the right time to check his progress. Watching his balance with every bid might not be exercising his faith, but occasional checks would be wise.

     He scrolled down the screen. Wait . . . his balance was down, down to $13,301. How could that be? He thought he’d been winning most of the time—and yet if his balance was correct, he’d been losing. He went over his notes, counting his wins and losses. Exactly ten wins and ten losses. Each win had earned him $1,750, but each loss had cost him $2,125.

     This was terrible! Hadn’t he prayed each time? Thanked God, win or lose? Where was God? He could have done as well by flipping a coin!

     Shoving his chair back, Greg paced around the room, his sandwich forgotten. After a few minutes, he fell to his knees beside the living room couch. “O God, what are you doing to me? I trusted you to prosper me, and now you’re destroying me! Why? Why? Maybe you didn’t realize it, but I was going to tithe all my earnings. You know I’ve been doing that faithfully, so why haven’t you rewarded me? This isn’t fair! And it’s not just me. My family is counting on this too. And you know, God, I’ll do anything for my family.”

     Greg stopped. What would be a proof of his faith?

     He rolled back on his heels, looking over the top of the couch and out the living room window. Was it faith to back out at the first setback? No, he should go forward, no matter what. Getting up, he returned to his seat at the computer.

     Slowly, and very deliberately, he placed one more bid for $2,500 . . . and won!

     A smile spread over his face. “Not bad. Thank you, Jesus,” he murmured. “And I will definitely give you all the praise and glory. I’ll call Pastor Hanson this afternoon and tell him it works.” Tears trickled down his cheeks. “Hallelujah! I can feel it, and I believe it! I can feel the presence of the Lord right now! And I’m gonna get my blessing. This is it. This is it. No more waiting!”

     Greg’s balance was at $15,051. TopOps allowed bids as high as twenty grand. Time to go for it. Greg entered $15,000 for his next bid. But which way—up or down? Call or Put? He watched the ticker as it nudged up and then down and then up again. Overall, it’d been rising all day, but would it do so over the sixty seconds of his next bid? Taking a deep breath, he selected Put for the dollar to fall and waited a moment, his finger above the key that would determine his family’s whole fortune.

     “O God, here goes!” And he clicked.

     The instant his finger hit the key, a blue rectangle flashed on the screen with the warning:
“Your Internet connection has been lost.”

     “What? No, no, no!” he yelled. “This can’t be happening!”

Chapter 41

Trying to stem his panic, Greg clicked around on his computer screen without anything changing. He tried refreshing his screen, but the blue rectangular notice remained.
O God,
he groaned. Why, when he’d just made a go-for-broke bid? By now, the sixty seconds of his bid had passed. He’d either won or lost—won an additional $10,500 or lost another $12,750!

     He tried to console himself with the fact that if he lost, he wouldn’t lose everything. But he couldn’t afford to lose 85 percent. Having started the day with over $18,000, he’d be down to a mere twenty-three hundred. The reality of all eighteen thousand being borrowed money struck him like a California earthquake. Whether he’d won or lost, he had to know. And he had to know NOW!

     He called his Internet service provider, and after entering his ID, a recording informed him they were aware of problems in his area. “Our technicians are doing everything possible to restore your service as soon as possible. Please be patient.”

    
Patient
? How could anyone be patient with so much on the line?

     Greg paced back and forth in the living room, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his pockets. He was glad he hadn’t told Nicole yet about the money. Maybe she wouldn’t have to know . . . and then it struck him. He’d been telling himself the home equity money was his to do with as he pleased, but actually it wasn’t. It was borrowed money, a home equity
loan
, secured by his family’s home. If he couldn’t pay it back, they could actually end up losing their house.

     He groaned again. Could this get any worse?

     “Get a grip, Greg,” he muttered to himself. After all, he still had a 50-50 chance that he’d won the bid.

     Every few minutes, he checked his Internet connection or called his ISP, but got the same recorded message . . . until an hour later when the message changed to say they expected the service to be restored within twenty-four hours.

    
Oh great! Just great!
Twenty-four hours of not knowing. He threw his phone across the room and marched through the kitchen, slamming the back door and heading for the alley to walk off his frustration. He gave each garbage can he passed a violent kick and sometimes stopped to pound so hard on their plastic tops with his fists that his hands ached. But just as he got to the end of the alley and was ready to turn the corner that went behind Paddock’s oversized house, he heard someone call his name. He looked back.

     Harry Bentley was coming up the alley behind him with his black dog. Greg felt mortified. His neighbor was far enough along through the alley that he’d obviously seen several of Greg’s tantrums, and now that they’d made eye contact—Harry was giving him a wave—there was no chance to pretend he hadn’t seen the man and slip around the corner. Stuffing his trembling hands deep in his pockets, he strolled slowly back toward the older man, resigned to face whatever music his neighbor chose to play.

     “Hey, how you doin,’ Singer?”

     “Uh, okay, I guess. How ’bout you? You off work today?”

     “Had a late run last night, so I get comp time today.” Harry looked Greg up and down. “But you don’t look so happy.”

     “Oh, I’m good. I’m good.”

     “No kiddin’?” Harry gestured toward his black Lab who was sniffing each garbage can. “Even Corky knows that’s a crock.” As if on cue, Corky trotted over, tail wagging, and gave Greg a sniff. “Be straight with me, man. What’s up, anyway?”

     “Ah, it ain’t nothing.”

     “Of course not. That’s why—being such a little thing—you can tell me all of it. Now bleed!”

     Greg choked out a laugh, feeling like if he said one more word, he’d end up blubbering like a schoolboy.

     “Come on, now.” Harry put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “We’re just a couple of brothers with different mothers. You can talk to me.”

     That broke Greg. The idea that a black man would count him as a brother, that their relationship in Christ was greater than history, broke down all his efforts to hide. “I . . . I’m afraid I really screwed up.”

     “Yeah, we all got a tendency to do that from time to time.”

     “Ha, not like this, I hope.”

     “Oh yeah? What?

     Greg blurted out a sketchy summary of how he’d worked so hard to make a killing with his bidding, how his wife had walked out on him, and how he just might’ve dug himself into an impossible pit of debt. Harry listened as the two men slowly strolled around behind Paddock’s place, and down the other alley to Bentley’s two-flat.

     “So you have no idea whether you won or lost, huh?”

     Greg shook his head.

     “Well, doesn’t sound like there’s anything you can do about it at the moment. Why don’t you come on up for a cup of coffee?”

     “Ah nah, I gotta get back, and—”

     “And what? You said the Internet’s down. Your wife and kids aren’t home. Ain’t nothin’ you can do but pray, and we can do that together—you know, ‘where two or three are gathered together’? Besides I got the air on, and it’s too hot to stand out here.”

     Upstairs, sitting at Bentley’s kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had turned bitter from sitting in the pot too long, Greg began to shake his head. “I just don’t understand it. Don’t understand where God is in all this.”

     “Oh, I reckon he’s around, but what’d you have in mind?”

     Greg found himself telling Harry how inspiring Pastor Hanson’s Sunday messages had been over the last few months, especially since he’d lost his job with Powersports Expos. They’d convinced him a crisis was just an opportunity for God to bless him financially, not just to meet his needs, but to give him an abundance. He recounted several examples Pastor Hanson had offered, including the pastor’s own luxurious lifestyle. “If others can end up so outrageously rich, I don’t know why I can’t make it work for me. But now . . .” Greg’s shoulders slumped. Recounting the story aloud to another person made him realize that everything he’d tried since Powersports had been an utter failure.

     “Humph!” Harry muttered. “When I was comin’ up, they used to say those kind of preachers were fleecin’ the flock.”

     “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Harry’s comment riled Greg. “There are some very wealthy people in that congregation who testify that their prosperity came by applying the very methods the pastor preaches.”

     Harry shrugged. “And yet, look what it’s done for you. You think there might be other people in your same fix?” He leaned forward. “Look, I’m not against wealth honestly earned. God gives each of us different gifts. But it’s also possible to manipulate a group of people, even a congregation of poor people, to make a preacher wealthy.”

     They sat silently for a while. Greg had an uneasy feeling Harry might be right. Sometimes even he’d chaffed under Pastor Hanson’s arm-twisting for people to give more and more to the ministry. But he’d always dismissed it because of the promise that God would pay him back many times over. But it hadn’t happened.

     He finally shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “So what’d I miss? What’d I do wrong?”

     For a long moment, Harry still didn’t say anything. Then the older man straightened himself up in his chair. “I want you to know that I do believe in a miracle-working God. He can move mountains or calm storms or make the blind see. That’s actually a very personal one for me since I lost my sight awhile back—but that’s a story for another day.” He waved a dismissive hand. “And because he’s a miracle-working God, I know he can take care of you. I’ve never been to your church, but from the way you describe what your pastor’s been teaching, I’ve seen some of those preachers on TV. And they’re right about
some
things. God’s a big God. Nothing’s too hard for him. He loves us and wants the very best for us. He has a perfect plan for our lives. Also, they’re right in saying we can’t outgive God. God will provide our every need for the work He’s called us to do. But—”