The Misplaced Detective ~8

A Story by JD Major

The Curious Case of Mr. Consistently Wrong

Short-short Story, Fiction, 1600 words ...

The Curious Case of Mr. Consistently Wrong

Stanley Stokes, Wall Street’s Mr. Consistently Wrong, messengered me a request to come see him on a confidential matter of urgent importance.

Forty minutes later I was sipping coffee with him in his spacious 77^th floor leather and cherrywood office, overlooking the East River. I put him in his mid sixties. His small-jawed, bright-eyed looks and red suspenders put me in mind of the late talk show host, Larry King. He was seated behind his wide desk; I was in a comfy armchair facing him.

He asked, “What do you know about me, McQuinn?”

“Only what my pal, Cabbie Casey, told me on the way over, Mr. Stokes, that you’re a stock analyst, a legend here on Wall Street for being consistently wrong, and that despite this, your weekly subscription newsletter makes a bucketload of money for a bucketload of rich folks. … And, you never wear socks.”

He smiled. “Like most stiffs on the Street, I have my pet superstitions. As a young trader at the now defunct Lehman Brothers, I happened to be soaking my tired feet in Epson salts when I made my bones--my first hundred-grand score. I haven’t worn a pair of socks since.” He pushed his swivel chair back and raised a foot to his desktop. Bare skin showed between his loafers and his cuffs.

I chuckled. “There’s a sight I didn’t expect to see.”

“My wife, Louise, has been after me for forty years to open my socks drawer and get civilized.” He lowered his leg and lifted his coffee mug. Gazing into it, he said, “I’ve lost my MoJo, McQuinn, and I’m hoping beyond hope that you might recover it for me.”

I set my coffee on a side table. “Wouldn’t that be a job better suited to, say, a psychologist, Mr. Stokes. I wouldn’t have the foggiest as to how to help you get it back.”

He leaned forward. “Are you thinking my MoJo is my magic power, my mind-spell, my Winner, winner, chicken dinner as gamblers often call it?”

I nodded. “Yes, of course … what else?”

“Actually, it’s my slide rule, a gift from my Grade 12 math teacher, Miss Maureen Jones, who we affectionately called Miss MoJo.”

“What’s a slide rule?” I asked.

“A handheld mathematical tool that predates the modern computer," he said. "It's a rectangular ruler divided into three parts. The middle section slides back and forth across logarithmic scales and allows the user to do advanced calculations. Slide rules put a man on the moon.”

“Okay, so why not just go get yourself another one?”

“No other slide rule would sustain my consistent record of always being wrong.”

“ … Say again?”

“My MoJo was reconfigured thirty-seven years ago, in a fit of fortuitous fury.”

“ … Reconfigured?” I asked.

“When Lehman’s fired me for refusing to retire it when they brought in computers, I angrily whacked it against a file cabinet. The impact somehow--and it baffles me to this day exactly how--reconfigured it to output my buy-sell-formula inputs with diametrically-opposite precision.”

I took off my fedora and scratched my head. “Frankly, Mr. Stokes, that’s what baffles me. How is it that you’ve made your subscribers, and hence yourself, wealthy, by always being wrong?”

“Consistency is the Street’s holy grail, McQuinn. My subscribers--the vast majority being day traders--habitually buy when I recommend they sell, and sell when I recommend they buy. Me now using a computer, and being all-of-a-sudden right, after more than three decades of being 100 percent wrong, would wipe them out. I don’t dare publish another newsletter until I get my MoJo back. And in the meantime I stand to lose millions in cancelled subscriptions."

I asked, "So why don't you just advise your subscribers that buy now means buy, and sell means sell?"

"On the Street, an analyst is only as good as his last call. Going from wrong to right would put my call-average in the neighborhood of 50 percent, no better than flipping a coin, hence absolutely worthless to a trader."

Okay, then why not publish the opposite of what your computer now spits out, so nobody's confused?"

"Because my new-rightness is only 83 percent right, making its opposite only 83 percent wrong. My reputation as Number One would be destroyed."

" ... Yes, I see what you mean." I sat back in my chair. “Where do you keep your MoJo? When did you last see it?”

“It’s always with me, in my inside pocket. Last time was when Jimmy Leung and I went to Bizzy Bob’s Cleaners for our monthly brandy and cigar.”

“Who’s Jimmy Leung?" I asked. “… Why to the dry cleaner’s for brandy?”

“Jimmy’s my buddy, also my rival. He’s right, most of the time. Going to Bizzy Bob’s is a superstition tradition. Years ago, we both hit a thousand subscribers on the same day we bumped into each other there. After our brandy and cigar ritual with Bob we change into our backup suits, then leave the ones we brought, including the ones we wore in, and each head home.”

“What are your backup suits?”

“We keep them at Bizzy Bob’s. Mine’s a beige now-frayed-at-the-collar-and-sleeves number I was wearing that first day I bumped into Jimmy. His is a similar blue number. I always return mine the next day when I pick up my cleaned suits.”

“Did you transfer your MoJo into the backup’s inside pocket?”

“I transfer it habitually, like breathing, whenever I change my clothes. Evidently, I forgot this one time, which seems impossible to me after decades of never forgetting. Must be age creeping up.”

“Did you call Bizzy Bob when you discovered your MoJo missing, to see if it was in the suit you had been wearing?”

“Yes, of course, and he was a tad too quick in saying No.”

“So, you suspect he has it?”

“No, I suspect Bob is in league with Jimmy, and it’s Jimmy who has it now.”

“ … What would motivate your buddies to do such a thing?”

“Old Bob will do anything for a buck, and Jimmy is, as I said, my rival. I suspect he is growing damn weary of always being second-place to my first. My 100 percent wrong record is, after all, more valuable to a day trader in the know, than his 89 percent right.”

“Have you confronted Jimmy?” I asked.

“Yes. He vehemently denies it.” Stokes slapped a palm on his desk. “So, those are your suspects, McQuinn--Jimmy and Bob. Tail ‘em, surveil ‘em, grill ‘em, do whatever it is you do, to get my sweet Mojo back for me.” He pushed a check across his desk. “This should get you started.”

It was made out for $5,000. “Thanks, Mr. Stokes,” I said, taking it. “but first, I have a little theory about aging I’d like to bounce off you.”

His desk phone rang.
He raised a shushing finger. “Hold that thought, McQuinn, I gotta take it, it’s my wife.” He picked up.

“Hello, Louise dear,” he said. “What’s up?”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - .”

“No, I won’t forget to pick up the cherry-swirl ice cream you like on my way home.”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - .”

“Yes, dear, and those nice crunchy waffle cones too.”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -.”

“And chocolate sauce too? Yes, of course.”

“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - .”

I got up and tapped his shoulder. “May I speak to Louise, please, Stanley?”

“Hold a moment, dear,” he said, gazing me a puzzle-browed look. “ … I’ve a Mr. Quinn here, an investigator I’ve retained. He wishes to speak to you.” He handed me the phone.

“Hi, Mrs. Stokes, would you mind checking your husband’s backup suit’s inside pocket for me, to see if his MoJo fell through it into the jacket’s lining?”

“Don’t need to, Mr. Quinn. I already retrieved it. Tell Stan it’s in his bottom drawer on top of his socks?”

“You put it in his socks drawer, ma’am, the one drawer I’m guessing he never opens?”

“Yes! It serves that scallywag right! Maybe sweating bullets about his precious missing MoJo will teach him to put on a pair of socks once in a while!” She hung up.

Handing the phone back to my client I burst out in a laugh. I couldn’t help it. “Seems you owe Jimmy an apology, Mr. Stokes.”

He bounced a palm off his forehead. “That woman’ll be the death of me!”

I offered him his check back.

“Keep it McQuinn. You earned It. … But how did you know?”

“Suits age, just like people, Mr. Stokes. I’ve had plenty I wore well-past their prime, frayed at the collar and sleeves, as you described your backup, and with every one of them there came a day I had to search around inside the lining for my keys, which I habitually keep in my inside pocket, and eventually wear a hole through it.”

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Check out The Misplaced Detective series ~1 thru 7 :)

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