Last month I was dining at Bar Pitti with Richie Boy, our art dealer friend Starvie, and my landord Pollock. The restaurant on 6th Avenue was packed with stockbrokers thankful to have survived the day’s mayhem. Ferraris, Landrovers, and Mercs weaved through the traffic, each one is more of a hurry to be somewhere else. After appetizers Richie Boy told a story about his diamond exchange being robbed for a million dollars. 17 years later he still thinks I did it, which is why he always hires me back to work for him selling diamonds. He thinks I’ll come up with the box someday.
Our friends laughed at his loss, as I disproved his allegations. The neighboring table was rehashing the meltdown after Sunday’s announcement that two of the largest banks in the world had vanished without a trace. They had opinions.
Collapse. Buy. Sell. The economy is sound. Invest in beer.
Pollock leaned over to me and acknowledged his indiscretion.
“No one knows shit.”
“Certainly not me.” I’d been broke since my arrest in Thailand seven ago. “But I’m willing to make a prediction.”
“Which is?”
“The Dow Jones will hit 9500 by the end of the month.” September had only 15 more days left. The stockbrokers on the other table had stopped speaking to hear my reasoning. “And on what do i base this forecast. A hunch. Nothing more and nothing less.”
Everyone resumed their conversation, except for Richie Boy, who said, “Anyone that knows isn’t saying and anyone that says doesn’t know.”
We all agreed to that.