The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 8
Chapter 8 — The Trader
The office building sat three blocks
off the financial district like it’s trying not to be noticed. No logo on the
door. No receptionist. Just a brushed steel plaque that read E. L. Kessler –
Risk Advisory in letters so modest they almost apologize for existing.
People who deal in probabilities don’t
advertise. They wait.
The hallway smelled faintly of printer
toner and old ledgers. I knocked once and the door opened before my knuckles
hit it a second time. The man inside looked exactly like what happens when a
calculator grows a spine. Mid-fifties. Trim beard. Blue shirt pressed so
precisely it could cut paper. The office behind him was immaculate—desk clear
except for a single monitor displaying a field of numbers that crawl across the
screen like disciplined ants. No family photos or diplomas displayed. Only
framed spreadsheets and graphs.
“You must be Mr. Sharp,” he said, confirming
a scheduled arrival in the ledger of his day.
“You must be the man who doesn’t
believe in volatility,” I said.
He smiled politely, the way a banker
smiles when you ask if pennies still matter.
“I believe in volatility very much,” he
replied. “I simply prefer not to experience it personally.”
He gestured to the chair across from
his desk. I sit. The chair was comfortable in the way that suggested someone
calculated the optimal angle for lumbar support.
“You were an actuary,” I said, pulling
out my handy-dandy notebook.
“Once.” He walked to his own chair
behind the desk.
“For insurance companies, right?” I readied
my pen to jot some notes.
“Several.”
“And now you trade.” I wrote something
down.
“Privately.”
“Betting on the future.” I kept writing
even though E.L. Kessler wasn’t given me much to work with.
He tilts his head slightly.
“No,” he said. “Betting on likelihoods.”
The numbers on his screen flicker and
reorganized themselves. Charts. Lines. Probabilities. It looked less like
finance and more like a weather radar for fate.
“You ever consult for influencers?” I
asked, still taking notes.
He folded his hands.
“I consult for anyone who wishes to
reduce exposure.”
“Exposure to what?”
“Uncertainty.”
I nodded toward the screen.
“Looks like you’re doing pretty well
with that,” I said.
“For the moment,” he said with a shrug.
I leaned back and offered a name, not
as a question but a prompt.
“Avery Bloom.”
He watched me for a few seconds with a
expressionless face. Just calculation happening somewhere behind the eyes like I’m
a statistical anomaly requiring analysis.
Finally he said, “You spoke with
Marcy.”
“Yes.”
He nodded again, almost approvingly.
“That explains the timing,” he said,
standing and looking out the windows.
“The timing of what?” I asked.
He gestures lightly toward the door.
“Your arrival.”
I frown.
“You expecting someone else?” I asked
“No,” he said calmly.
“I was expecting you.”
That declaration sat in the room for a
second. I looked around again at the immaculate desk, walls, and decor. Even
the air was immaculate. So clean I craved a cigarette. Then, it struck me. E.L.
Kessler was a man who didn’t like surprises.
“How’d you know I was coming?” I asked.
Kessler studied me the way a
statistician studies a coin before flipping it. Then he said something that made
the room feel slightly smaller.
“Because,” he said, “once someone
starts running the tape, the probabilities narrow very quickly.”
He turned the computer monitor slightly
toward me. On the screen was a chart. A branching model of outcomes. It was one
of those high definition monitors so the colors were brilliant and alive;
probably more alive than I’ve ever felt as a human being.
Dozens of possible paths were charted. And
one of them—highlighted in pale blue like a summer sky—ended with a tiny line
of text.
SILAS SHARP – CONTACT EVENT
Kessler looked back at me.
“I assumed it would be today.”
I looked at my notes to make sense of
what this Kessler character was trying to get at. My gut knotted and my heart banged
against my chest like a landlord demanding three months back rent. Two thoughts
struck me hard. First, I’m three months late on my office rent. Second, I had
taken no notes. All I had written was the name Dr. Calico Verde about fifty times.
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