Rough Justice

'I can't. The hallway's full of reporters. They got TV, cameras, everything. They're right outside the door, all the way to the elevators. In the lobby downstairs, too.' The guard shook his head. 'It's too chancy.'

'You'll find a way.'

'There is no way. Somebody will see me. Somebody will wonder, why's he goin' in and out? You know how reporters are. They're already sayin' you got special privileges.'

Steere skimmed the front page. 'Don't worry about the reporters. The snow's the big story, not me. It says right here, 'East Coast Hit by Major Snowstorm.' I'm not even above the fold today.'

'I can't do it, I swear. I couldn't get it through the metal detector.'

'You've done it before, Frank.'

'Today is different. Today the jury's out. Everybody's walking around. Watching. Waiting. It's crazy out there.' The guard shifted nervously from one new shoe to another. Orthopedic, they were, three hundred bucks a pair. Orthotics, the doc called them. Frank had never been able to afford them before; they weren't covered on his lousy HMO. 'Believe me, it's nuts.'

Steere turned the page.

'Please.' The guard's lined forehead shone with sweat. 'I got you the newspaper.'

'I think I'm entitled to a newspaper.'

'Sure you are. Don't get me wrong.' The guard kept shifting his feet. Not that they hurt, he could stand forever in these babies. Walk all day, even at the mall with Madeline. Didn't have to wait in the car like a goddamn dog. 'The newspaper was no problem, no problem at all, Mr. Steere. But this is a whole'nother thing. Maybe I could get you a Coke from the machine.'

Steere flipped to the stock quotes and skimmed the columns. 'Good news. Hampden Technologies is up two points.'

'I could get ice, too. From the lounge. Take me five minutes, tops.'

'Uh-oh. Potash is down another point.' Steere cracked the wide paper to straighten out a crease. 'Still holding your potash, Frank?'

'Yeah.'

'Do you think that's wise?'

Frank Devine swallowed hard. He'd started investing small amounts on Steere's say-so when the trial started. Steere was right each time, and Frank made real money. Steere had picked up a tip on potash last month, and Frank socked all he had plus what he could get from his brother-in-law— seventeen grand— on the stock. Consolidating my holdings, he told his Madeline. Big shot, she'd said, scowling. Now his seventeen grand was worth thirty and when he cashed out he'd buy whatever he needed. Two hundred goddamn pair of shoes. Orthotics, whatever.

'Frank? I asked you if you think it's wise to hold potash.'

'I guess it's… wise.' The guard watched Steere scan the quotes, his eyes going up and down the rows, but he couldn't tell anything from Steere's expression. He never could. Steere was like a freak that way. 'Do you think it's wise, Mr. Steere?'

'If you guess so.'

'I'm still ahead of the game,' the guard said. He wasn't stupid, goddamnit. He'd learned a lot about stocks since the Steere trial started. 'It closed at thirty yesterday.'

'What was it this morning? Did it dip?'

'No, sir.' The guard had checked with his brother-in-law, who found out from the computer. Frank didn't know much about computers and felt too old to learn.

Steere kept reading.

'Well, uh, should I sell it, Mr. Steere?'

'I don't know. I guess you should.' Steere's eyes stopped at mid-column. 'Then again, I guess you shouldn't. What do you guess, Frank?'

'I usually guess what you guess,' the guard said, trying to make a joke, though he felt sick inside. It was so quiet he could hear his stomach groan.

Steere turned the page.

Frank shifted his feet.

Steere skimmed the quotes.

'Mr. Steere,' Frank said, 'should I hold potash or sell it?'

Steere's attention never left the newspaper. 'I don't know if I'd hold it. It failed to make a new high. Made an attempt, but failed.'

'How bad is that?' Frank's dentures stuck to his lips. 'I mean, is that bad? It sounds bad.'

'It depends.'

'On what?'

'On how you feel at strike two.'

Frank laughed, but it came out like he was choking.

From behind the paper, Steere said, 'The phone, slugger. Bring me the fucking phone.'