Page 69 of Man of the Year

“Whatever. Let’s go,” I say, determined. Now I really need to hear what he has to say. A public place is perfect. “What do you mean by fraud? How’s Rosenberg a fraud?” I ask as I pull out of the gas station and onto the street.

“Go, go, go,” he hurries me, looking around like he’s being followed. “They might be watching.”

Again, I have no idea who “they” are, but I’m determined to find out.

FIFTY-THREE

NATALIE

Paranoid is an understatement. I already know that Rosenberg doesn’t have anything on his phone. Not just any work info but anything any normal individual has, so that’s suspicious. This stalker guy acts like a classic psycho, but his words start making sense.

“Go to Central and Manhattan Avenue. There’s a Colombian coffee shop on the corner,” he says, typing away on his phone while I’m driving. “My name is Rich, by the way.”

Rich doesn’t look quite like a crazy man, though he might be dangerous. But let me tell you something about Jersey City—it’s hard to get kidnapped when the heavy traffic doesn’t let you move faster than one mile per hour and there are cameras on every intersection and business building.

From time to time, Rich glances up from his phone, and when we approach the destination, he points at the empty parking spot. “Here is good.”

Inside the café, he orders a cappuccino, I order an espresso, and we take seats at a table by the window. While he’s typing away on his phone, I study his shaggy black hair under the baseball hat, his several-day stubble, and his worn-out clothes—he’s just an average guy in the city.

He finally sets the phone aside, looks over his shoulder, out the window, then returns his cocky stare to me.

“So…?” I prompt. “I didn’t come here for coffee.”

He leans forward with his elbows on the table. “So, your boss is a thief,” he says with a satisfied smug face.

“And you know that how?”

“The asshole owes me money but avoids me like the plague.”

“Rosenberg?” I chuckle. “Owesyou?”

“Uh-huh.” His expression gets even more arrogant.

I give him a backward nod. “Owes you for what?”

“Gambling debt.”

I snort. “That’s ridiculous. He has more money than god. Why would he owe for gambling?”

“That’s the problem. He knows that, but I can’t seem to get ahold of him. He’s like a weasel. That gig got into his head.”

“A gig?”

I should probably walk out right now, considering this psycho calls the crypto millionaire’s career agig, but Rich continues.

“He won’t talk to me. Won’t see me. Won’t pay me back. Except now, his debt has grown interest.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“It’s not a matter of how much he owes me, but how much I’m asking for.”

“And that is?”

“Twenty million.”

I choke in shock. “Holy crap!”

Rich smirks and leans back in his chair.

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