Free No Accident by Dan Webb

crying it flashed a little red light, and it needed his hands on it constantly to give it peace. Sheila had never borne him a child, and now they were splitting up, so Luke’s life basically consisted of his job, more of his job, his mistress and his smartphone. They would have to stand in for the nuclear family he was supposed to have at this stage of his life. Today, each email was mor e exasperating than the last: . . .  Blix needs our answer on the Corcola investment  . . . an accounting clerk we fired in Peru called the compliance hotline, said the manager there is taking kickbacks  . . . the supplier says the drill parts won’t be ready  . . . He paid his people a lot of money. Couldn’t they figure out some of this stuff on their own?
    The first few questions from investors were anodyne requests for clarification about accounting details, asked by research analysts who all sounded about twenty-one years old. Right up Jim’s alley.
    “The next question is from Ray McLean at Vertigo Capital,” the moderator announced in a robotic monotone. Luke’s shoulders tensed, and he saw Jim waving to get his attention. Luke instantly forgot about his email inbox. Vertigo Capital was a notorious activist hedge fund. If they were nosing around on his earnings calls, the next step could be an approach to his board of directors. That could lead to meddling with his strategic plans or worse. These cowboys just love to replace management teams , Luke thought. He wondered what their play would be.
    “Luke, can you provide some color around the impact on revenue of the insurance proceeds that Jim mentioned?”
    “Well, they increased revenue, Ray ,” Luke said. Stupid question. And Luke resented that some asshole he had never met would address him by his first name, but such was the custom.
    “Thanks,” Ray said. “Just one follow-up.”
    Luke made a throat-slashing sign at Jim, but the questioner continued before Jim could react to cut off the questions.
    “Can you tell us how recent distractions in the news have affected management’s focus?”
    What bullshit , Luke thought. “Management is not distracted.”
    With that, Luke stood up and walked out, leaving Jim to handle the rest of the call. He headed to the basement gym to burn off some steam.
    Recent distractions —everyone on the call knew it was an oblique reference to Luke and Sheila’s pending divorce. The couple was active on the philanthropic scene, and because of their wealth and glamour the local tabloids had decided that their personal problems were interesting. Luke didn’t know this little shit Ray McLean, but he knew the type, all right—young, arrogant and richer than he deserved to be. Luke imagined Ray sitting in an office in Manhattan somewhere, grinning as he toyed with Luke on the earnings call, asking questions that seemed innocent but that were meant to send Luke a threatening message. Two can play that little game , Luke thought. He decided he would send Crash Bailey on a trip to New York with a message for Mr. Ray McLean. Crash was good at delivering messages.
    In the gym, Luke looked again at his video feed of Sheila’s office. Still gone. Luke wished she would stay gone. He started jogging on a treadmill. He imagined how good it would feel to fire her; he wouldn’t even do it in person, she’d just show up to work one day and her electronic passcard wouldn’t work anymore and an intern would meet her with a box full of her personal effects —but only half of them. I’d love to get a video feed of that , he thought.
    Then he let go of his little fantasy —as if he could fire her in the middle of divorce proceedings without sparking a legal firestorm. What will it take to get rid of that harpy? Luke wondered.
    He nearly stumbled off the treadmill when he saw his wife on television. She was standing among a swarm of bald children. Their drab scalps bobbed about her waist like a cluster of grounded party balloons. When Luke