Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  Malcolm noticed Hannah tilt her head.

  They watched another fifteen minutes of news before Hannah decided to go to bed. She and Malcolm were assigned the smaller bedroom at the end of the hallway.

  “I’m turning in too,” Malcolm said.

  Hannah shot him a mixed look, as if she were surprised Malcolm was coming to bed this early, and not sure what his intentions were. Malcolm wasn’t sure, either. When they were inside the room, he offered her a flimsy explanation.

  “I think Ryan’s drinking a little too much.”

  “Hmm,” she replied as she took off her shoes. “And talking a little too much, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hannah didn’t immediately answer. Instead she undressed, but kept her back to Malcolm until she had her long sleeping shirt on. Then she lay on the bed and looked up at him in a slightly seductive manner. Malcolm recognized this routine. It was her way of drawing information out of him.

  “Well for one thing, what did he mean when he called you a multi-millionaire, and said you might end up being neighbors?”

  “Oh. That. Well, I made a lot of money trading at the beginning of the financial crisis, and tried to purchase a piece of land in West Virginia—close to here.”

  “Tried to purchase?”

  “Did purchase, actually, but the sellers backed out of the deal when the dollar crashed. They’re in breach of contract, but I don’t have much recourse.”

  “Oh.” Hannah raised her eyebrows for a moment, but then seemed satisfied with the answer and climbed under the covers. “That was a good dinner. I’m dead tired. Want to get an early start in the morning.”

  “Umm …did you hear the other part, about me making a lot of money trading?”

  “I heard.”

  “Not just a lot, honey. Seven million. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it yet, and, well, since society crashed and money’s become almost worthless, the whole thing is kind of a moot point. What Ryan meant was if the government somehow fixes the currency, who knows? Maybe we’ll end up with a couple million in real money.”

  No answer from Hannah.

  “You don’t find that exciting?” Malcolm asked.

  Hannah turned and faced him from the pillow. “That only means you’ll have a bigger bankroll, and will be making bigger bets. So when you finally hit the bad streak that wipes you out, instead of losing $200,000 you’ll lose two million.”

  “No!” Malcolm shook his head furiously.

  “That’s the way I see it, Malcolm. I think you know that.” She turned back over and vanished under the covers.

  Malcolm knew better than to pursue the argument, tempting as it was. Changing, remember? Getting a second chance and handling things differently? A glass of scotch in the living room was suddenly calling his name.

  The sound of motorcycles came into earshot from the neighbors to the south.

  “Awfully late for motorcycle riding,” Hannah’s voice mumbled.

  “Spence says they’re noisy neighbors.” Malcolm sat on the bed and took his shoes off.

  He didn’t quite know what to do next. Hannah was apparently fine with the sleeping arrangements, both last night and tonight, and wasn’t resistant to Malcolm’s close presence. They hadn’t been physically close in so long it made Malcolm apprehensive. Here they were going through all the motions of an old married couple, but with Malcolm as nervous as if they were on their third date. He wanted to be close, to be intimate again so badly, but the time away from each other had formed a barrier. Malcolm wasn’t sure how to break through it, or if he should even try. Then there was that irritating inference that Malcolm was only a gambler who would lose all his money one day. Malcolm could forgive that under the circumstances. He knew he should be happy for the situation as-is, and not push things. But it was all frustrating.

  The motorcycle engines mellowed, but a loud pop followed, like a car backfiring—or a gunshot. Several seconds later, two more pops sounded.

  They were definitely gunshots.

  Hannah lifted her head back up and gave Malcolm a concerned look.

  “I better ask Spence if that’s a normal sound from that property,” Malcolm said. He left the room and walked down the hall in his socks. Spence and Ryan were sucking the ice cubes from their empty scotch tumblers in the living room.

  “No, that’s not unusual from them,” Spence said. “Gunshots, motorcycles, loud banging, yelling, all manner of ungodly racket at all hours of the day and night. Sorry if it bothers you.”

  “It’s all right. Thanks.” Malcolm went back to the bedroom.

  “Spence says that’s normal.”

  “Mmm,” Hannah responded from under the covers. She didn’t move.

  Malcolm stripped down to his underwear and slipped into bed with her. Hannah lay sideways, facing away from him.

  Malcolm scooted closer to her. No reaction. But these last eight inches separating them were formidable. How does a couple who is no longer a couple become a couple again? Can you simply pick up where you left off and pretend the estrangement never happened? Or do you need to start over with a brand new courtship? If so, what are the rules?

  Back in the day, when Hannah would lie in this position, Malcolm would sometimes come up against her and wrap his arm in front of her. He could then tell by her bodily reaction if she was resistant to his advances. If she was receptive, she would keep lying still and allow him to proceed with his caressing. If not, she would change positions slightly, angling herself away from him, and Malcolm would know to back off.

  Malcolm decided to go for it. He wriggled himself up against her, gently at first, but then pressed firmly. His arm went around her front side, and hand rested on her sternum.

  She didn’t move.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  “Your black Chevy turned into a blue GMC at sunrise,” Garth said glancing at Joseph.

  “Of all the stupid-ass mistakes,” Duncan muttered. “Going to the wrong damn address.”

  Joseph knew this was a time to keep his mouth shut. Let Duncan rant and get it out of his system. There was nothing to be gained by pointing out the fact that street addresses weren’t always visible on these rural homes, and especially difficult to spot at night. The navy blue Yukon was the GMC equivalent of a Chevy Tahoe, and looked identical in the dark. Joseph wasn’t the only one who was confident they came to the right house last night; they all had been. But Joseph would be the one to take the blame. He was used to it.

  Besides, they were now in a pretty good position to finish the job. Duncan obviously wasn’t averse to a little home invasion every now and again. So far, this one appeared to be worthwhile. Killing one of the homeowners was perhaps unfortunate, but honestly—who really cares at this point? They all had ample blood on their hands already.

  If Chad was to be satisfied, there would be more.

  “Hey!” Garth said. Duncan and Joseph turned to him. He pointed out the kitchen window. “That might be your fed car now! Headed towards town.”

  The three of them ran to the living room window in time to see the black SUV fade in a cloud of dust up the road.

  “That’s her,” Joseph said quietly.

  “Yeah right,” Duncan snarled. “As if you know anything. You were sure that Yukon out front was it last night, too.”

  “That’s her,” Joseph repeated. “I can feel it.”

  “You’re gonna feel something slam into your face if you don’t shut up.”

  “I agree with Joseph,” Garth said. “I think that’s her.”

  “Are our bikes out of view?” Duncan asked.

  Garth nodded. “They should be. I put them on the back side of the barn, near where we dragged the body. Not that it likely matters much. If the real house is the one next door, I’m sure they heard us come in last night. No doubt they heard the shots, too.”

  “Well, she’s leaving.” Duncan looked back to the road. “She isn’t suspicious enough—or dumb enough—to stop by on he
r way out. Shame. Would have made things easy.”

  “The house next door isn’t the one,” Joseph said.

  Duncan scowled at him. Joseph knew he better give an acceptable explanation, fast.

  “The address we want is an odd number. This side of the street is even.”

  Duncan slowly nodded.

  “There’s Chad,” Garth said, still looking out the window. “Jogging up the driveway. He must have seen the fed car. Hope she didn’t see him.”

  Twenty seconds later, Chad stood in the kitchen with Joseph, Duncan, and Garth. The other body lay on the floor next to them. This one was still moving—at least until Duncan kicked it.

  “I don’t think she saw me,” Chad said. “We missed her by one house. It’s the one next door.”

  Duncan raised his eyebrows and turned to Joseph.

  Joseph shook his head. “No, it can’t be. We want an odd number address. This side of the street is even. And her husband referred to it as his friend’s ‘land,’ like it was undeveloped.”

  “I’m telling you,” Chad said still catching his breath, “she came out the driveway next door.”

  “Did you get a good look at her?” Duncan asked.

  “Oh yeah. It’s definitely her. I ducked behind the trees before she pulled onto the road. Probably going back out to spend another day asking fools if they’ve seen us. We’ll have to wait for her to come home tonight. Maybe we should take the house now, so we can ambush her.”

  “Something’s not right,” Joseph said.

  “That’s for sure.” Duncan formed his hand into a fist. “What’s not right is your ears, or, more likely, what lies between them.”

  “Why don’t we ask him?” Garth said, pointing to the still-alive resident—who promptly started squirming again.

  Chad bent down. “Good idea.” In one motion he tore the piece of duct tape off the man’s face. The rest of the roll had been used to bind his hands and feet together.

  “Go to hell you assholes!” he yelled between breaths.

  Chad responded by inserting the barrel of his pistol in the man’s nostril. He had a wide nose, so it fit without much effort. The man’s bloodshot eyes widened.

  “Who lives next door?” Chad asked.

  “Fuck you!” was the response in a nasally tone. “You killed my cousin!”

  Chad replied calmly. “If you don’t want to immediately join him, you’ll answer my question.”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway, so get bent!”

  Duncan squatted next to Chad. “That’s not necessarily true. We snooped around in your barn, and discovered your little meth lab. Which is good for you. We’re here by mistake. A bit of bad luck for both of us. But you obviously aren’t someone who can call the cops for help, so we don’t have to kill you. Assuming you cooperate and tell us what we need to know.”

  The prisoner stopped struggling.

  “Good,” Duncan said. “Now tell us about your neighbor.”

  * * *

  Federal Reserve Chair Jill Younger had a stomach ache. It wasn’t there an hour ago. But the more she listened to Senator Selman talk, the more she needed an antacid.

  Senator Selman, Chairman of the Senate Banking Committee, wasn’t at his best today. A noticeable lack of confidence impaired his presentation. Other committee members could be seen shifting nervously as he spoke. Some made little effort to conceal their disapproval of the proposal, especially the minority party members. Jill was usually unsympathetic of their woes, herself being a majority party member. But not today. It was obvious this plan sucked.

  Finally, Senator Selman sat down. His voice cracked during his final statement, which Jill found to be a fitting testament.

  Now it was Jill’s turn to react.

  She knew what was expected of her. It was supposed to be a routine task on her part. She should express appreciation for the hard work that went into forming the proposal, and promise to discuss it with the Secretary of the Treasury before blessing it and sending it to the President for final approval. That’s how changes in monetary policy got done in Washington these days, even measures as radical as this. Which was probably a good thing. If these kinds of issues had to be voted upon in both houses of congress, they would be shredded to bits. It would take months for any kind of action to emerge. The country couldn’t afford that. They needed an immediate solution.

  But not this solution. Jill waited for what must have seemed an eternity before responding, hoping her stomach ache would subside. It only got worse.

  Jill finally cleared her throat into the microphone.

  “Thank you, Senator. If I understand correctly, your committee is proposing what is essentially a reenactment of the 1934 Gold Reserve Act, outlawing the private possession of substantial amounts of gold. American citizens holding surplus amounts will be forced to sell it to the U.S. Treasury at a fixed price in exchange for a currency which is, at the time being, perceived as worthless in the eyes or our citizens.”

  A great mumbling in the room erupted as Senator Selman stood back up.

  “That’s …not exactly correct, Chair Younger.”

  “What part do I have wrong?”

  Senator Selman fumbled with his notes for a second. “We do not wish to reenact the 1934 Gold Reserve Act. This new measure is titled the Dollar Guarantee Provision.”

  “A rose by any other name, Senator—”

  “And the U.S. Dollar is not to be perceived as worthless!” the senator shouted. The room suddenly quieted.

  “Far from it,” he continued in a calmer tone. “By assigning gold a modern value of $500 per ounce in USD, we make American currency instantly attractive again to foreign investors. An ounce of gold currently costs more than fourteen hundred Euros, or forty-nine hundred Yen. As soon as gold is available to purchase for five hundred dollars an ounce, billions will immediately be converted back into U.S. Dollars, re-stabilizing our currency. Prices on all other goods and services should adjust accordingly, and faith in the currency will be restored. That’s the currency our citizens will be asked to exchange their gold for—one where $500 always buys an ounce of gold.”

  Murmurs in the assembly, including some expressing approval. The senator’s voice was still a little less than confident, though, despite its increase in volume. Jill decided to test it further. She leaned forward again to her microphone.

  “Who goes first?”

  Senator Selman looked confused. “Pardon me, Chair Younger?”

  “I said who goes first? Do we require the American public to surrender their gold holdings in exchange for what is, at least for the moment, a worthless currency? Or do we open the doors of the United States Treasury and have the U.S. Government take the first leap of faith, offering to sell all our gold reserves for $500 an ounce to any and all foreign interests?”

  “I… ” Senator Selman took a quick look around the room. When he saw the TV cameras he turned back to face Jill. “It is proposed that both would happen simultaneously. But we concede that whatever the Secretary of the Treasury feels would be the correct procedure on this matter is probably best, as long as the desired effect is achieved. Neither did we mean to imply that every foreign interest should be accommodated in the sale of U.S. gold reserves. We leave such decisions on foreign policy up to the President.”

  Jill knew she had to be careful with her next objection. She was, after all, one of the privileged few aware of the actual amount of gold still physically housed in Fort Knox. When the room regained a reasonable level of quietness, she spoke again.

  “Let me tell you what I think would happen if this Dollar Guarantee Provision was activated, Senator. You are no doubt familiar with the term run on the bank. If the U.S. Treasury were to make all its gold reserves available to the rest of the world at $500 per ounce in USD, there would indeed be a mad rush of funds converted back into our currency from abroad. And then most, if not all, of our gold reserves would quickly be shipped off to foreign interests. As a result, any recov
ery in the U.S. Dollar would last about as long as our gold reserves lasted. After that we would have no recourse left, once our nation becomes depleted of gold.”

  “The proposed course of action is a proven one,” the senator replied.

  “In 1934,” Jill said. “The world was a very different place then. Foreign currencies were unstable, and the dollar was the international benchmark. The Gold Reserve Act worked then because it allowed the United States to corner the world gold market, and our citizens were cooperative out of a sense of patriotic duty. We ended up buying gold from other nations, not selling it. In the current environment, our currency has become one of the world’s least stable. The resulting international banking flurry from such an action today would, many of us feel, have quite the opposite effect as you suppose. Have you read much about riots and widespread civil unrest during the great depression?”

  “No,” Senator Selman replied. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Neither have I. I suspect that may be because there were no such incidents, at least not enough to speak of—and certainly nothing comparable to what we are experiencing today. Who’s going to be in charge of acquiring all the gold from our citizens? Local police and county sheriffs? Can we really ask them to do this? Senator Selman, how would you like to go knocking on doors in Texas and inform whoever answers that you’re there to take their gold away?”

  Senator Selman stared back as the committee members mumbled, many of them in agreement. Finally he said, “Does the Federal Reserve happen to have an alternative suggestion?”

  Jill smiled for the first time today.

  “Funny you should ask that.” She clicked the mouse button on her laptop, causing an image to display on the giant screen behind her. She turned and looked up to make sure it was there before continuing.

  “What I’m showing you is artwork for a bill design. It was created seventeen years ago, by the same Austrian banker who designed the Euro banknotes. After he won the Euro design competition, the United States Treasury secretly commissioned him to create a possible alternative currency for our country. This was mostly done in response to growing concerns over the counterfeiting trade here. The designs are complete and printing plates have even been created for denominations in one, five, ten, twenty, fifty, and one hundred dollar bills, same as what is currently in use today.