Swindlers by D.W. Buffa

exist. They had to believe that
it was only because they controlled the financial system that this
was the wealthiest country in the world. They did not have the
courage, the strength of will, to look things in the face and admit
that they were only doing it for themselves. They needed a country
to believe in, a country gullible and greedy enough to believe in
them, a country dumb enough to let them think themselves heroes,
admired and envied and respected for what they did. That’s why St.
James was so successful, more successful than any of them: he knew
it was all a lie. He doesn’t believe in anything: that’s the key to
his success. He’ll take advantage of anyone and never give it a
second thought. He’ll do anything, and that’s what makes him so
dangerous, and, in a certain way, admirable.”
    I nearly fell off my chair. Admirable would
have been the last thing I would have expected him to say about the
man he had just described.
    “I mean it,” he assured me. “St. James
doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. He doesn’t
make excuses or insist that he’s only doing what everyone else is
doing. You’ll never hear him talk about the system, and how much
depends on people like him; he gives none of those chamber of
commerce speeches about the virtues of the free market. I said he
doesn’t believe in anything. I meant any of the things that act as
a restraint on how far we’re willing to go to get what we want. He
believes in money, that the only thing that’s important is that you
have it and that you keep getting more. Those others, the ones that
always talk about how much they’ve done for the prosperity of the
country – St. James doesn’t have a country, he has that ship of
his. Everyone talks about a global economy – what better place to
run it than a ship that can go anywhere in the world?”
    I remembered what one of the other guests
aboard Blue Zephyr had said.
    “Where the government can never reach him. We
had an interesting conversation,” I explained. “He made a curious
point, how so many of the people who get indicted, men with more
than enough money to go off to some country without an extradition
treaty, just stayed and went quietly to prison.”
    With a knowing look, Tommy gestured
emphatically with his hand.
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Most of
them are too respectable to think about getting away. They go to
trial, or take a plea, and go off to jail without a protest.
Someone charged with murder – they’d run like hell if they had the
chance, wouldn’t they? They know they’re criminals; they don’t feel
any obligation to do what’s expected. St. James is like that. He’s
an outlaw in the classic sense, someone who rejects the rules, who
won’t do anything he doesn’t want. There’s a certain strength of
character in that. When he finally goes to court, when he’s finally
convicted, you won’t hear him say he’s sorry. And you sure as hell
won’t hear him asking anyone to forgive him for what he did.”
    We finished dinner, but there was still wine
to drink and so we stayed and talked some more, a rambling
conversation that moved in fits and starts from one subject to
another, one of us suddenly remembering something we had wanted to
say. Tommy had become quieter, more introspective, but at the same
time less guarded in the way he expressed himself. He was the best
friend, perhaps the only real friend, I had, but we had not seen
each other in a while and there had been some major changes in his
life.
    “What I said about… that look of
disappointment in her eyes; that wasn’t really fair. I think she
was more disappointed for me. I liked all the attention, I liked
the crowd; I was used to it, all the cheering, the way that
everyone looked at you when you walked across campus, the way
everyone waited for you after the game. I wanted a pro career. I
did not want it to stop. I went to law school because I didn’t know
what else to