The Parking Lot Attendant Who Controlled the Stock Market

chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Man Behind the Money

I got to the garage at eleven thirty.

The morning shift guy was already there. His name was Carlos. He was old and tired and he never talked to me unless he had to. Today he looked at my face and saw the dried blood on my cheek and did not say a word. Some people know better than to ask questions.

I went to the back corner where the abandoned cars sat. The blue sedan was still there with its door open from two nights ago. I sat in the driver seat and waited.

The coin was warm in my pocket.

I thought about the old man who gave it to me. Where was he now? Dead maybe. Or dying somewhere alone. He said he used the coin too much and his time ran out. I wondered how many times was too many. Ten? A hundred? A thousand?

I decided not to think about it.

At eleven forty five I heard a car pull into the garage. Not Derek. Not the accountant. Something bigger. An engine that cost more than my whole life.

I got out of the blue sedan and walked toward the sound.

The car was a black Rolls Royce. The kind of car you see in movies. It parked in the VIP section like it owned the place. The driver got out first. Big guy. Suit. No smile. He opened the back door and out stepped a man who looked like money.

He was maybe fifty years old. Gray hair cut perfect. A suit that fit him like skin. His shoes were so shiny I could see my own dirty face in them. He looked at the garage like it was a zoo and he was a visitor.

The accountant got out of the passenger seat. Same gray suit. Same glasses. Same briefcase. But today he was not holding a gun. He was holding a folder.

The rich man looked at me. Up and down. Slow. Like he was reading a book he did not want to read.

"You are the parking attendant," he said. Not a question. A statement.

"I am Felix," I said.

He did not offer his name. Rich people do not introduce themselves to poor people. They wait for you to ask. Then they decide if you are worth answering.

I did not ask.

The accountant opened the folder. "You said you had the money. Two hundred thousand dollars. Plus interest. Derek's debt is now two hundred thirty thousand."

I pulled out Derek's phone and showed them the screen. One point two million dollars. Cash. Sitting in the account like a sleeping dog.

The rich man raised one eyebrow. That was the only reaction he gave. But it was enough. I saw it. He was surprised. He just did not want me to know.

"Not bad for a parking attendant," he said.

"Not bad for anyone," I said.

The accountant reached for the phone. I pulled it back.

"First," I said. "I want to know your name."

The rich man smiled. It was a small smile. Dangerous. "My name is Victor Kensington."

I felt my stomach drop. Kensington. Like Kensington Holdings. The fake company. The stock that crashed this morning. The man standing in front of me was the one who made it all happen.

"You are the one who stole from those investors," I said.

Victor Kensington laughed. It was a soft sound. Polite. "I did not steal. I transferred. There is a difference. Stealing is messy. Transferring is art."

"You are a crook."

He shrugged. "And you are a parking attendant who just made a million dollars betting against my company. What does that make you?"

I did not have an answer for that.

Victor took a step closer. His driver tensed up but Victor waved his hand like it was nothing. He wanted to look at me up close. Maybe he wanted to see if I would flinch.

I did not flinch.

"You are interesting," he said. "Most people who find money run away and hide. They buy a house. They buy a car. They disappear. But you? You called me. You asked to meet. You want something more than money."

"Everyone wants something more than money," I said. "Money is just the way to get it."

Victor nodded. Respect. Or something like it. "What do you want, Felix the parking attendant?"

I looked at the coin in my pocket. Then I looked at Victor Kensington's shiny shoes and his perfect suit and his soft dangerous smile.

"I want to work for you."

The accountant dropped his pen.

Victor did not move. His face stayed the same. But his eyes got smaller. He was thinking. Calculating. Trying to figure out my angle.

"You want to work for a criminal," he said.

"I want to work for a winner," I said. "I do not care what you call yourself. I care about what you can do. You move money. You know people. You have power. I have something you do not have."

"And what is that?"

I held up Derek's phone. The trading account. The one point two million dollars.

"I have luck," I said. "And luck is better than skill. Skill you can learn. Luck you are born with. Or you find in a dead man's car."

Victor stared at me for a long time. Ten seconds. Twenty. The garage was quiet except for the sound of cars passing by on the street outside.

Then he laughed. A real laugh. Loud and honest.

"You are crazy," he said. "But I like crazy. Crazy people do stupid things. And sometimes stupid things make money."

He nodded at the accountant. The accountant pulled a card out of his briefcase. Black. Gold letters. A phone number.

"Call this number tomorrow," Victor said. "I will have a job for you. A small one. If you do well, we talk again. If you fail, I take Derek's debt back and I add yours to it. Understood?"

I took the card. "Understood."

Victor turned and walked back to his Rolls Royce. The driver opened the door for him. Before he got in, he looked at me one more time.

"That stock you shorted this morning. The one that made you rich. That was my company. My plan. My art. You bet against me and you won."

He smiled.

"Do not let it go to your head. Beginners luck runs out."

The door closed. The Rolls Royce drove away. The accountant gave me one last look and then followed in his own car.

I stood alone in the garage with a black card in my hand and a million dollars in my pocket and a coin that could see the future.

Carlos came out of the parking booth. He looked at me. Then he looked at the black card. Then he looked back at me.

"You are not wearing your vest," he said.

I had forgotten. I took it off sometime this morning. It was probably still on the floor of the library.

"I am not a parking attendant anymore," I said.

Carlos nodded. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. "What are you then?"

I thought about it. What was I? Not rich. Not yet. Not powerful. Not yet. Not dangerous. Not yet.

But I was getting there.

"I am Victor Kensington's new problem," I said. "And he does not know it yet."

Carlos laughed and walked back to the booth.

I looked at the black card and flipped the coin one more time.

Three seconds.

I saw myself tomorrow. Sitting in a fancy office. Wearing a borrowed suit. Talking to a man with a gun in his drawer.

And I saw myself walking out alive.

I put the coin away and left the garage for the last time.

I did not look back.