Connect With Us   Follow SerialTellercom on Twitter Follow SerialTellercom on Twitter
Where Serial Fiction Lives

The Advisor #12: Killer Butterfly Spreads

Jan 9, 2014

 

Tuesday

San Francisco, 6:00 PM

 

“I don’t know what it is, but you sound really hot on the phone.” The voice was young and girlish. She sounded like she was barely out of college.

“Thanks. I do okay, but I was wondering if your mom is around.” Victor Ramirez had attempted to contact Mindy Sessions for several weeks after their first brief telephone call. He stared blankly out of the tiny square window facing him which only revealed a tiny piece of rapidly darkening blue sky.

“She’s a busy lady.” She imagined what Victor looked like. His voice was a hell of a lot more stimulating than the dumb reality show she had been watching. “But I can always help you get her attention.”

“That would be great. How can I ever repay you?” He glanced at his girlfriend’s photograph.

“I’m sure we can find a way. Maybe you can teach me about investing. When my grandma died she left me an inheritance. What’s your best strategy?” She may have been young, but she knew exactly what buttons to push in order to get the fledgling financial advisor’s undivided attention.

“Butterfly spreads. That’s if you want to do options.” He chuckled inwardly as he waited for her reply.

“I love options. How about you meet me after work and I can show you some of my assets?” She couldn’t get her mental picture of the cold caller out of her mind. This guy’s voice was just so incredibly sexy.

Victor ran his fingers over his desktop. His mother had always told him that his voice was a special gift, but he knew she would never have wanted him to cash in it like this. He scanned the top of the filing cabinets and noticed a few new Series 7 binders from failed trainees. More tombstones. “Sure. Sounds like a plan. Meet you tomorrow at eight sharp.”  There were no options. If she had other plans she would cancel them to be with him.

“Absofuckinglutely.” She could help her nervous giggling.

 

Victor bolted up from his wooden swivel chair. It was time to call it a day. Ignatius Rowe felt like a morgue ever since Lucy Mincer’s death. The only upside was that the administration had loosened the screws on the trainees.  But that didn’t last long. He raced to the front lobby to grab an elevator down to street level.  He sensed someone was standing in back of him.

“Heading out for your next cold calling gig?” The voice was self-assured and unfamiliar. Before Victor could turn around to face its speaker, a gun nozzle founds its way into the small of his back.

He knew deep down that taking on the second job might end up biting him in the ass. He just didn’t realize it would kill him.

 

 

© Samuel Rush 2014.  All Rights Reserved.