II

He arrived in no time. He parked his van in front of his mother's house and opened the back doors. He took just one of the bags there.

Swindle took out the keys his mom gave him some years ago and opened the door. The house was exactly as Swindle remembered—too small—except for one small detail: his brothers—John, Paul and George—his mother—Molly Jones—and someone Swindle had never seen before were gathering in the living room. That strange person was a bald, overweighed and middle-aged man that, judging for his hugo ross suit, his durberry tie, his kartier ring made of white gold and diamonds, his rulex watch, and his haughty and defiant look, clearly seemed like bad news.

"Oh, Ringo," Molly said absently. "This is Dale. He works at the stock market."

"Nice to meet cha," Dale stood up, and offered Swindle his hand. "Dale Van Hole."

Swindle shook Dale's hand and showed him a smile as fake and hypocrite as the one Dale was showing him.

"Nice to meet you, Fake. I'm Ringo," he said and headed to the only free seat in the table, the one fartherst away from Dale.

"He's a broker," Paul, who was sitting at Swindle's side, said.

"Of course he is," Swindle thought.

"Well, yeah, I'm technically a broker, but I'm also one of the main partners of one of the most important brokerage firms in the country, and I have a PhD in Financial Sciences."

"A PhD, eh?" Swindle stood up and approached Dale. With a quick and precise movement, he took the rivas cheagal 25 bottle that obviously Dale have brought and headed to the kitchen. There he took a glass, filled it with ice, and then filled it with rivas. "Sounds very impressive and all, but it's actually pretty easy to get one of those in this day and age. In fact, I have a PhD too," and it was true (see the short story The bigger scam.)

Swindle got out of the kitchen, gave the bottle back to a not-so-happy Dale, and got back to his seat.

"Ah, yeah?" Dale asked mockingly. "Well, I can tell you really struggled to get it, because you haven't even had time to visit your poor mother."

"He got you," said John proudly.

But Swindle totally ignored him.

"Hey, Gully," Swindle always called his mother this way—short for gullible. "Why's a broker here?"

"Well, Ringo, you're always helping us, so you know our finances aren't that great thanks to three good-for-nothings," Gully glared at her other three sons, who, in response, looked away. "So Dale's been helping us with that."

"Ah, yeah?" Swindle asked mockingly. "I didn't know brokers also dedicated to charity."

Dale laughed cold and fakely.

"My job is to give them my advice when they want to buy stocks or any other investment instruments. And I only do it, of course, for a small commission. But, judging by the earning you could make in the stock market, we could say I'm basically doing charity.

"Ah, yeah?" Swindle asked mockingly again. "And how are the investments, Gully?"

"Well, you can't win them all, but…"

"Ah," Swindle grinned. "So, it's like a casino, then."

Dale laughed ccondescendingly and shook his head.

"You know, boy? If I had one dollar every time I hear someone saying that, I wouldn't be working anymore. Or maybe I would: we have to make money work for us, and not the other way around. But, anyway, point is I've been on the business for more than 20 years, and I can assure you the stock market isn't like a casino of any sort. Believe me; I have a PhD in Financial Sciences. I know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe, but you know nothing about casinos."