Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  The problem was, except for the money—which hadn’t yet materialized—he wasn’t sure he really liked any other aspect of SlowBurn. In fact, he didn’t even drink the stuff that often. It was okay and it did give him a lift, but he’d just as soon have a Coke.

  Greg sighed. “I guess you’re kinda right, Becky. When I worked for Powersports, there were a lot of things I liked doing. I liked planning those big conventions. I liked the travel. I liked meeting people, and I sure liked the boats and the four-wheelers and the jet skis. Got to ride them sometimes too. So, yeah. That was a more fun job.”

  “Then why don’t you do it again?”

  “Because Powersports doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “But aren’t there other companies like that? Why don’t you work for one of them?”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “There aren’t any other ones around here, Becky. I’ve looked.”

  “But isn’t there something you’d like to do, Daddy? There’s gotta be something.”

  Greg stared at his daughter. Yeah, there ought to be something he liked, too, but he wasn’t sure he’d found it yet.

  Chapter 32

  Nicole dumped Nathan’s empty cereal bowl into the sink and sighed as she sank down at the breakfast nook with a second cup of coffee. Thursday morning already and she’d barely looked at the project Lincoln Paddock had given her. She had no way of estimating how long it would take to finish it, but she was sure he’d want it back soon.

  She glanced at the clock. Almost eight. Was it too early to call the Jaspers to see if Tabby could babysit today so she could get some work done? No way was she going to ask Greg. Frankly, she still didn’t want to talk to him.

  Taking a chance, she dialed the Jaspers’ number. To her relief the girl answered, even seemed eager to help out with the kids. “Might as well. Destin has to take Tavis to his basketball camp, so everybody’ll be gone anyway.”

  “Great. Uh, actually, I could probably use you tomorrow too. Do you want to check with your mom?”

  “Mom’s already gone to work, but I’m sure it’s okay. I can probably help Saturday too if you need me.”

  “I just might. Thank you so much, Tabby. Uh, just to let you know, Nate fell off the ladder and hurt his arm yesterday. I had to leave for a few hours to check on my mom, and, uh, Mr. Singer was busy, and it . . . just happened. But I don’t want to leave the kids unsupervised again. You’re a real lifesaver, Tabby. See you when you get here.”

  Nicole no sooner got off the phone with Tabby than it rang. Her mother. “How is Nathan? Is he okay?”

  “He hurt his arm, but it’s not broken. Mostly a bruise. The doctor said he’ll be fine, but this morning he’s having fun with a sling I made for him out of a dishtowel.”

  “My gracious, is it that bad?”

  “Not really. You know how kids are, enjoying the attention. How are you today, Mom?”

  “Oh, fine, fine. Much better than yesterday, thank you.”

  Her mother always said she was “fine,” so that didn’t mean much, but her voice definitely sounded better. “I’m glad, Mom. I’ve got a lot to do today, but if you need me, you call, okay?”

  As soon as she was off the phone, Nathan wandered into the kitchen. “Do I have to wear this thing all day? I can’t do anything with it on.”

  “Of course not, but I thought you wanted to wear it. You said your arm still hurt.”

  “It does . . . a little, but not that bad.”

  She helped Nate take off the dishtowel sling and examined his arm. “Hmm. Well, you’re getting a black and blue mark there, but it should go away in a few days.”

  With his arm free, Nathan ran out into the backyard just as Greg strolled into the kitchen. Nicole tensed. They still hadn’t made up for the spat they’d had over Nathan’s fall, and she was feeling a little defensive that Greg had been right—nothing broken. But she still blamed him for the fall, and now they were facing some big medical bills with no insurance.

  But he had the look on his face that telegraphed a challenge was coming. “I heard the phone ring, which reminds me, you got a call yesterday from Lincoln Paddock. I was busy, so it went to the answering machine.”

  Nicole glanced at the phone. “Light’s not blinking.”

  “That’s because I listened to it, but I’m telling you, he called.” He pointed at the machine. “Go ahead.” He leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

  Nicole looked at him a moment, feeling defensive before she even knew what it was about. She had to level the playing field. “You should’ve told me.” She went over and pushed the Play button.

  “Nikki, how’s it goin’? Hey, I just wanted to call about the other day when you came over. After you left, I realized it must’ve seemed kinda strange to you to find a woman in my house. But it wasn’t what it looked like. Karen’s my kid sister. She’s headed to graduate school at University of Michigan and had a bunch of things to do here in Chicago. She’s been so busy lately, I hardly get to see her anymore. But I should have introduced you. Uh . . . I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Okay, give me a call when you can.”

  The recording ended with a beep, and Nicole saw Greg’s eyes narrow. She bobbled her head and opened her eyes extra wide. “Thanks a lot for telling me. He’s probably wondering why I haven’t called back.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Didn’t you hear? He said, Give me a call when you can. He probably wants to know when my project’s gonna be done. But with everything going on around here, I’ve barely begun.”

  “Yeah.” Sarcasm bathed Greg’s tone. “And that explains why he needed to reassure you about the woman in his house. What’s going on, Nicole?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing’s going on. The man gave me some work to do. At home. Like you wanted. Good grief! Get a grip, Greg!” She spun around and busied herself at the sink.

  “What I mean is . . .” His voice lowered and became husky. “Are you having an affair with that man?”

  “A what?” Her response came out loud and panicky, but she resisted turning back to look at him. Of course she wasn’t having an affair, but would her eyes betray her fantasies? She gritted her teeth. What if her eyes did betray her? Nothing had happened, and besides, what did Greg expect after acting like such a jerk lately. Oh, yeah, her husband was still a hunk, and anyone would think she’d made a good catch. But after more than ten years of marriage, she knew romance took more than looks. Now Lincoln had good looks and he was attentive, considerate, and not preoccupied with starting an impossible business.

  She turned around, leaned her back against the sink, and glared at her husband. “No, Greg, I am not having an affair, but if I was, you wouldn’t notice unless you got a phone call telling you so. You’re so preoccupied with . . . with your SlowBurn fixation. So just chill out. Okay?”

  He pushed himself away from the doorframe and stood up straight, a threatening glint in his eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  They stared at each other a few moments, then he humphed, turned away, and left.

  * * * *

  Greg returned to his desk, blood pounding in his ears. How did she manage to enrage him so? He had to let it go or he was going to give himself a stroke. Yeah, a stroke at age thirty-six! How would that be? Trying to shake off his foul mood, he checked his email then clicked on the CNN news feed: a 5.4-magnitude earthquake in California, two people still missing from the tourist boat that overturned in the Delaware River, and a Texas woman who’d won the million-dollar lottery—for the fourth time.

  Man! Why couldn’t he have a little luck like that? Maybe he oughta play the lottery—

  No! If God was going to bless him, it’d be through his business. But the tension in his house was so high he couldn’t concentrate. “God, you gotta help me break out of this mess!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  Pushing back his chair, Greg got up and strode through the kitc
hen and out the back door without acknowledging Nicole. He needed to bleed off some of his steam.

  As he descended the steps, his son came trotting across the yard. “Hey, Dad, where you goin’?”

  Greg sighed. “Nowhere. I was just . . .” He put out his hand like a traffic cop. “Sorry. Can’t play right now, buddy.” He turned toward the side of the house.

  “But Dad—”

  “Not this time, son,” he called over his shoulder, heading up the walk. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Emerging in front of the house, he stopped. Instead of going for a walk as he’d intended, he sank down on the front steps. Elbows on knees, head in hands. What was he going to do? For five minutes, maybe ten, he just sat there until he heard someone call his name.

  “Hey, Singer!”

  Greg looked up. Harry Bentley was coming across the street toward him, his black dog trotting at his side.

  “Ah, man. Am I glad to see you.” The older man took out a big handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. “You got a few minutes? I don’t know what happened, but for some reason the fans in Corky’s transport kennel were running all night, and it wore down the battery in my SUV. Can’t get the engine started, and I’ve gotta get to work. Need to catch the Texas Eagle down to St. Louis at one-forty-five. Could you give me a jump?”

  Greg pushed himself up and came down the steps. “Sure, no problem.” It was a relief to have something to do that he could actually do.

  “If Estelle was home, I could jump it off our RAV-4, but she’s at Manna House.”

  “Let me get the Cherokee. Where’re you parked?”

  “Around back, in my garage. I’ll open the alley door. Just pull in. Should be able to get close enough.”

  Ten minutes later, Harry’s car was running and they were rolling up the jumper cables and closing the engine hoods. “Thanks so much, man. You’re a real Godsend.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “Hey, shut off your engine and come on up for a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do. Or . . . do you only drink that energy stuff you’re sellin’?”

  “No, I like coffee. But aren’t you in a hurry?”

  “I’m good. Got a few minutes now that my battery’s charging. I was just worried that I’d have to call a tow truck or somethin’. No tellin’ how long it’d take for them to get here. But thanks to you, it’s all copacetic.” Harry chuckled as he closed the overhead door to the alley, leaving the side door to the yard open since his car was running.

  Seated around the kitchen table a few minutes later with steaming cups of coffee in their hands, Harry shook his head. “Wow! Must’ve been the Lord movin’ my feet. Can’t even recall why I went out to the garage, but as soon as I opened the car door, I noticed the dome light didn’t come on, knew something was wrong.”

  Greg sipped his coffee in silence as Harry made small talk for a few minutes. Harry seemed to give God credit for every little thing. Didn’t feel like he had that much to be thankful for himself—

  “So how’s it goin’ for you, Greg? Your business takin’ off?”

  Harry’s question pulled him back to the Bentley kitchen. “Ah, not really.” Greg was surprised at himself. Why had he admitted that? He usually put on a good face, projected success for success, and all that. But somehow the tone of sincerity in Harry’s question had taken him off guard. “What I mean, is, you know, working at home . . .” Greg clinched his fists in front of his chest and moved them from side to side like a tug of war. “A little tension with the missus. But it’ll pass.”

  Harry nodded thoughtfully, staring at him with a calm gaze. “Sorry to hear that.” Greg felt as though the man could see right through him, but there was no judgment there.

  Still, he wasn’t ready to go into his suspicions about Nicole and Lincoln Paddock. “Oh, say, good thing you asked Josh Baxter to come over and help me with the new water heater. He made some modifications to get the pipes connected. Would’ve taken me twice the time, even if I could’ve figured it out by myself.”

  “Yeah, he’s a good kid.” Harry glanced down at his watch. “Uh-oh. Now I do have to go. Sorry ’bout that.” He stood up, and Corky jumped up, too, wagging her tail eagerly.

  “Yeah, I gotta get back to work myself.” Greg followed Harry and the dog down the outside back stairs and started around the house toward the street when Harry called him back.

  “Hey, where you goin’ so fast? Your car’s still in my garage!” Harry laughed as Greg sheepishly came back. “Thought I had myself a new Jeep there. Besides, man, I want to say one more thing . . .” He laid a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “I was out of work for a long time, too, and I know it’s tough. But it’s gotta be just as tough on your wife. Be sure you pray together about the frustrations you’re feeling and decisions you gotta make. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  Greg nodded politely as he got into the Cherokee and backed out of the Bentleys’ garage. But . . . pray together? He and Nicole weren’t even speaking right now.

  * * * *

  To Greg’s relief, Nicole was holed up in the basement working on Paddock’s project when he got back, and the kids were out with Tabby at the park or somewhere. Greg didn’t try to keep up with their whereabouts. Right now, his domestic concerns involved his wife and Paddock, but he didn’t know what to do. He had no proof of anything actually wrong happening, just a feeling in his gut. He either needed proof or he needed to put aside his suspicions.

  But by Friday, nothing had changed with SlowBurn, and he felt frozen. Didn’t know how to move forward. Didn’t know whether to throw in the towel. And not knowing what to do, he realized he’d been frittering more and more of his time away on the computer, running down rabbit trails that had nothing to do with his business. Already, he’d whiled away most of the morning.

  This was becoming a crisis!

  Crisis . . . the last time he’d thought of his life in those terms had been after being released—fired—from Powersports. That was when Pastor Hanson’s teaching had brought him hope: The two Chinese characters making up the word for “crisis” meant danger and opportunity. Well, he was there again. But what could he do about it?

  His mind looped back to Nicole, and he typed “Watkins, Ellis, and Katz” into Google search and came up with the firm’s familiar website. Maybe this time he would learn something new. It certainly was a big firm, and Paddock was named as a junior partner. He clicked on the tab describing the firm’s services.

  A refined descriptive page came up, and then a gaudy popup ad. How did that happen? He had his popup blocker turned on, but he knew an ad sometimes got through anyway. He clicked on the X to delete it, but it popped right back up. Who was doing this?

  Couldn’t miss the bold, golden words on a black background for the Big Returns website: “Make up to 81 percent on your investment in less than 60 seconds by trading binary options.”

  What? He’d never heard of binary options. Eighty-one percent? Unbelievable. But he kept staring at the words. Were they danger and opportunity or just a scam?

  Almost without realizing he was doing it, he clicked on Learn More.

  Chapter 33

  Danger and opportunity . . .

  The Learn More link took him to the Big Returns’ website. It looked like a casino, and he nearly clicked out of it, except for the box titled, “A No-Risk Way to Earn Big Returns.” He leaned closer to read the smaller print, which explained that anyone could participate in trading binary options without special training, licensing, or experience . . . and there were no fees. “You’re in total control of how much you invest or how long you participate. You can withdraw any time.”

  Greg frowned at the screen. But what exactly was binary trading? He’d never heard of it. Apparently, other people were just as unfamiliar, because the website offered an answer at the top of the page: “A binary option is simply making a prediction on the direction a stock, commodity, index, or foreign currency will move within a designated period of time, from as litt
le as 60 seconds to 24 hours.” Below was a trading simulator, inviting anyone to try it out without investing a single cent.

  Greg murmured, “Thanks,” when Nicole put a plate with a sandwich and an apple on the edge of his desk along with a tall glass of iced tea, but he was relieved when she left without trying to claim any more of his attention. Should he try the trading simulator? Why not? Just as a matter of curiosity. He might learn something.

  When he clicked, the simulator asked him to enter his first name. Greg hesitated . . . but then it was only his first name. The instructions explained that the simulator offered options on the US dollar against the euro. In the next sixty seconds, did “Greg”—ah, that’s why they wanted his first name, to make it more personal—think the dollar would increase or decrease in comparison to the euro? A real-time chart was displayed showing how the dollar had moved over the last few hours. So far that Friday morning, it had increased in a saw-tooth incline, but the repeated down jags showed that during many sixty-second periods, it had lost value even though the overall trend was up. The challenge was, what would it do in the time period Greg chose?

  It looked like a gamble, but so what, he didn’t have to risk anything to try the simulator. He selected one hundred dollars as his pretend investment, and clicked the up button. He watched the graph, and just after the value had clicked down for a few seconds, he hit start, presuming it would soon reverse its loss and continue increasing in value. The hand of the onscreen stopwatch swept around while the dollar value continued declining. At 20 seconds, its graph line was still headed down. Nearly halfway through the time period, Greg saw a momentary blip upward, but it didn’t survive. More loss continued until 38 seconds into the minute when the line finally began a steady climb. But would it be enough? Greg held his breath. And then just as the bell sounded, the border of the graph flashed green, indicating that the final value of the US dollar had ticked fractionally above Greg’s starting point.