A Dead Man's Tale Read Online Free Page B

Not a few of his envious peers are convinced that D-W-D has access to insider information. Perhaps. But is it the usual kind? Those SEC investigators who have tried to untangle some clue from Reed’s activities have noted something odd. For longish periods of time, Do-Wah-Diddy is virtually inactive. For more than a month of Mondays, only a few thousand dollars’ worth of stocks and bonds are bought or sold. Perhaps a dozen bets are placed. During the hiatus, D-W-D may make a modest profit, or dip into the red. Then, for no apparent reason, Samuel Reed will suddenly begin working like a demented beaver, which is when he sleeps over in his in-town office bedroom and prepares all his meals in the well-stocked kitchen. Just as suddenly, the feverish activity will cease. The office will remain quiet until the next frenzied session begins. During these lengthy downtimes, Sam Reed will catch up on Physics Today, read fabulous tales about lusty mountain men and crafty Indians, sing frequently and loudly with the local barbershop quartet, and polish his impressive mandolin skills.
    On this morning, Sam Reed is gearing up for the first day of an extended buying-selling, bet-placing session. If he appears not to be enjoying his work with the usual gusto of a man who believes that life is The Game and the player’s bank balance is his score, it is understandable. The entrepreneur is somewhat distracted from the pleasure of his sport by the knowledge that Death is waiting.
    The Countdown
    The digital clock that Samuel Reed had programmed on his laptop was refreshed every ten seconds on the upper-left-hand corner of the screen:
    31 Days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, 50 seconds
31 Days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, 40 seconds
    And so on.
    After signing off from the Las Vegas Online connection, Reed blinked at the readout, which was ticking his life away.
    31 Days, 14 hours, 20 minutes, 10 seconds
    Suppressing a cold shudder, he pushed himself up from the cushioned chair and approached the north window. The fact that he had made a profit in the pleasant neighborhood of thirty-six thousand dollars in less than thirty minutes did little to cheer the investor. He could have made three times as much, but Sam Reed was one smart cookie and he knew that if a man in his line of work was too successful, the Securities and Exchange Commission might take an intense interest in his activities. Not to mention those hard-eyed, coldhearted characters who ran the casinos. Unlike the SEC attorneys, the gaming kingpins who had mob connections neither launched formal investigations nor sought indictments. Mess with those bad boys and they dispatched Guido the Knuckle Dragger to stop your clock permanently. Which was why—to balance his sure-thing wins—Reed always placed a bet or two that would lose. Likewise, in hope of keeping the SEC off guard, he would buy a couple of stocks that would take a dive tomorrow.
    Sam Reed watched a chill breeze whip the budding trees. With the comfy satisfaction of one who is snug inside, he enjoyed the out-of-doors entertainment. Pedestrians holding on to skirts and hats. Vehicular traffic buzzing along this way and that.
    A raven settled expertly on a nearby maple branch and cocked her head. The rakish creature looked Reed straight in the eye and made a rude gaaawwwking croak. As if to say, “Your number’s about up, bub.”
    Samuel Reed smiled at his morbid feathered friend. “Perhaps.” While he had been buying, selling, and placing wagers, Reed’s subconscious had been hard at work on the urgent issue of how to keep body and soul together. This subliminal effort had not been wasted. The owner of Do-Wah-Diddy Investments, Ltd., was a man with a plan.
    He addressed the wind-ruffled raven thusly: “I shall approach the authorities and request their assistance in protecting my life.”
    The blue-black bird cracked her horny beak and made a series of cackling sounds. The imaginative entrepreneur interpreted this response as a