What's The Worst That Could Happen?

9

Max’s eyes glittered under the porch lights as he watched the sparkly police car move away down the brightly illuminated asphalt and on past the gateposts to the outer darkness, bearing off that hapless burglar with the hangdog look. And without his ring. Find a job you’re better suited to, my friend, that’s my advice.

Was there a better feeling than this? Not only to have won, but to have rubbed your enemy’s nose in his defeat. The ring twinkled on Max’s finger, still warm from the burglar’s hand.

This was why he was a winner, a winner against all the odds, and always would be. Luck followed the bold. And look what it had brought him this time.

When he’d first decided to take the ring, Max hadn’t as yet looked closely at it, hadn’t realized it actually did belong to him, in an odd and delightful way. The taking had been merely an amusing fillip to an already enjoyable evening; to cap it all by robbing the robber. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

And now it turned out it was his, had been spiritually his all along. What a surprise, when the police officer had handed him the ring and he’d turned it over, to see it there: TUI.

The ring itself was nothing, an undistinguished plain cheap band, except for that symbol on its face. The broken line above two solid lines: Tui, his own personal trigram. He’d even named his umbrella corporation for that symbol, once he’d become wealthy enough to need an umbrella corporation. Trans-Global represented the broken line at the top, while Universal and Industries were the two solid lines, and the initials on the Big Board are TUI. That’s me. This ring is mine, I was more right than I knew.

He even showed it to the rather slow-witted policeman, though the fellow could have had no idea what he was talking about: “There you are, you see? The symbol of Tui. I based my whole corporation on this.”

Have to throw the coins, very soon. But first, time to rid oneself of the woman. And protect oneself from whatever danger might grow out of this breach of the bankruptcy court order. “Dear,” Max said, as he stepped back into the house, switching off most of those exterior lights, “in the kitchen.”

She looked alert, and still fetching, in the terry cloth: “Yes?”

“Next to the phone, you’ll find the number of a local car service. Give them a call, dear.”

She looked prettily confused: “We’re leaving the car?”

Meaning the Lamborghini they’d driven out here in, at the moment in the multicar garage attached to the house. “I’ll have to stay on a bit longer,” Max explained. “Because of this incident.”

She didn’t like it, but what was she to do? Off she went to make the call, while Max hurried upstairs to dress. Soon she joined him, making a few perfunctory little seductive moves while changing into her own street clothes, but he had no interest any more. Partly, she was now a known quantity—no; a known quality—but mostly he just wanted to be alone, with his new ring.

Soon, they made their way downstairs, while their terry-cloth robes remained behind, crumpled in wanton embrace in the hamper. Out front, a dark blue Lincoln town car purred discreetly on the drive. Max absently kissed Miss September’s cheek and patted her other cheek, and sent her on her way. Then he moved briskly through the house, switching off lights as he went.

The library. Deep tan leather armchairs, green glass globed reading lamps, books bought by a decorator by the yard. But among them, The Book, and on the marble mantel over the seldom-used fireplace a small Wedgwood mustard pot containing three shiny pennies.

So. There was time to throw the coins only once before he’d have to vacate these premises, and they gave him a seven, a nine, an eight, and three consecutive sevens, producing:

Fantastic. The Creative above, and his own trigram, Tui, the Joyous, below. But only one moving line, the nine in the second place.

Max flipped the pages of The Book. Hexagram number ten: “Treading (Conduct).” The Judgment: “Treading upon the tail of the tiger. It does not bite the man. Success.”

Yes, yes, yes. Wasn’t that true? Wasn’t that his entire life story? Treading on the tail of the tiger, getting away with it, and finding success through his rashness.

Which was just what he’d done tonight, seeing the ring, suddenly wanting it, seeing the joke, seeing the triumph, thinking what’s the worst that could happen? and saying, “That’s my ring!”

Nine in the second place: “Treading a smooth, level course. The perseverance of a dark man brings good fortune.”

That’s me. The dark man, overflowing with good fortune. Max smiled as he put away the pennies and The Book.

Soon the house itself was dark again, and Max was at the wheel of the black Lamborghini, driving the empty Southern State Parkway toward the city. The ring glinted on his finger in the dashboard lights, and Max smiled on it from time to time. I love this ring, he thought. My lucky ring.