PART ONE

(With apologies to Raymond Chandler.)

Redemption. Isn't that a big part of what life is about? Getting a second chance. Making it big. The All-American story. Local boy makes good. Kick your demons in the ass once and for all. Life in suburban backyards, barbecues, ballgames. Who you kidding with that stuff? Wake up and smell the java, man. What world are you living in?

She lived in L.A. She pushed stocks. Growth stocks. Dangerous stocks- very dangerous stocks. Stocks with a risk/reward ratio that would make Paul Wick look like your grandmother, if you know what I mean. She knew all the buzzwords: firewalls, global telecom, connectivity. She played on your emotions. Sell you stocks that on a good day would make you giddy like a schoolboy with a crush, on a bad day make you feel like you slept in your clothes on the couch after 3 or 4 Scotches the night before. Guys couldn't stay away from her. Couldn't keep their money in their wallets where it belonged. Hell, these guys would put their own mothers on hold when word came through she was on the other line. God, she was good. But when she was bad, well that's another story.

Me, I still do the dirty work. Going through other people's dirty underwear the cynics would say. Providing discreet investigatory services I would call it. I hadn't heard from her in quite a while. Not since the Media Vision fiasco a couple years ago. Crashed and burned with me averaging down the whole time. Took a large chunk of my savings and pony winnings down with it. You know the story---they took the elevator down and I got the shaft. I told her I had had it---was quitting the crazy game cold turkey and not to call me anymore. Did I mention that we had a little personal thing for a brief time? Imagine your favorite stock, imagine a red hot IPO soaring out of the gate and you trying to hold on and not let your emotions get in the way. You have a slight idea of what it was like being near her. How can you be expected to think clearly in circumstances like these? Did I also mention she drove a red Porsche?

The phone rang. It was her. "Sky, it's me. What have you been up to?" It threw me for a couple beats. "I thought I asked you not to call me anymore." "I have something. I'm only calling special clients on this one, and for old time's sake I thought I'd give you a try." Just hearing her voice made me start to tremble a little. I needed a drink to calm down but it was only eleven in the morning. "Alexandra," I blurted, "I can't do growth stocks anymore. Can't do it. Can't do microcaps, story stocks, pie in the sky stocks. You know I have a family. I had to buy some Dow stocks, you know the kind that pay dividends. I allocate my assets now. Some in a money market account. Bonds---for God's sake, I even own some bonds now." I could practically hear her chuckle with derision. We used to make fun of people who owned bonds. She never pushed a stock with a PE of below 60. Where do you think the reward comes from, she would ask. The risk. You pick high growth potential companies and when they hit the stocks take off like rockets. Yeah, I knew her pitch as well as I knew my new daughter's cry in the night when she needed a hug from her daddy. Pulling out of my reverie I asked her, "So what have you got this time?" "Are you ready for this? I've got the ultimate killer stock. Nightshade. Symbol (NASD:NOIR). Two words: internet applications." The Internet-- the words started to turn my stomach to jelly. I had avoided the Net stocks like the plague---the next disaster in the making. My mind started spinning.

(TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW)