Final Option

years!”
    “Go right ahead,” snapped Barton Jr. He looked every bit as angry as the chief of trading operations, but more in control of himself. “Go right ahead, but just go.”
    “You’ll be sorry if I do. The only reason you’re still in business today is because I’m here now. If I walk, all the customers will come with me. This place will be shut down in a week.”
    “I don’t think so,” growled Barton Jr.
    “Oh no? Who the fuck do you think is going to make the trades? Who’s going to decide when to buy and when to sell? Do you think any of those bozos out there have what it takes? Or do you want to take a shot at it yourself, Mr. Wizard? This isn’t some computer simulation. This is a real game played with real money, and you don’t even have the balls to try it.”
    “I’m only interested in the opinions of my employees,” said Barton. “And you are fired.”
    “Bullshit!” shrieked Savage.
    “Fired.Terminated. You have three minutes to remove yourself from the premises before I call the security guards and have you thrown out.”
    “No fucking way!” Savage yelled. Barton Jr. looked at his watch.
    “Two minutes and forty seconds,” he said.
    “Take forty of these, you white-faced, pansy-ass motherfucker!” Savage spat as he threw himself at Barton Jr.
    Instinctively I stepped in between them, bracing myself for impact. “Hit him,” I hissed, “and I'll see to it that you are arrested for felonious assault so fast that your head will still be spinning by the time they throw you in the county lockup.”
    Savage’s reply was a growling sound that came from deep in his throat. But it was Barton Jr. he wanted to hit, and I presented enough of an obstacle that he reconsidered.
    “Just walk out now,” I commanded. “Come to my office on Friday morning, and we’ll formally wrap up your employment.” I reached into my pocket and handed him a business card.
    “Cunt,” he said simply.
    “You can call me whatever you like,” I replied sweetly. “But you have nothing to gain by continuing this confrontation. I’d advise you to leave now.”
    “You’ll be sorry,” Savage countered, wavering in the doorway for one taut minute. Then he stalked out of the office.
     
    “What was that all about?” I asked, my heart pounding. Barton Jr. was sitting in Savage’s chair, looking spent.
    “About an hour ago Carl said he had something to talk to me about. He said he’d received an offer from one of our competitors and if I wanted him to stay at Hexter I was going to have to double his salary and give him ten percent of the company.”
    “Really.”
    “He knows better than anybody what a vulnerable position we’re in. He sure didn’t waste any time trying to take advantage of it. Dad’s not even buried yet, and he’s asking for more money. I told him that I expected loyalty, not avarice, from our employees. He said that was easy for me to say since I’d just become an overnight millionaire. I told him that I wouldn’t even consider granting his demands. By the time you called it was getting ugly and personal. I’m glad you came when you did. If you hadn’t surprised him, he’d have decked me for sure.”
    “Carl’s a bully,” I remarked. “One of the few things that bullies respect is someone doing it right back to them.”
    “That’s a theory that requires a certain amount of nerve to put into practice,” commented Barton appreciatively. “I’m glad it worked. It wouldn’t have done much for my standing with the employees if he’d given me a black eye before he left.”
    “This is a tough time to be losing a key employee like Carl,” I ventured.
    “I know. I feel like I just sawed off the branch I was sitting on.”
    “So who’s going to be making the trading decisions?” I asked as someone began knocking furiously at the door.
    “Come in,” called Barton.
    A young man in a rumpled jacket charged in, frantic, his tie askew. “I have all these fill orders that need to be called down to the floor,” he blurted. “There are a bunch for July beans at thirty or below, and Doug just sent word up that July’s are at twenty-seven and moving up fast. Carl practically knocked me down on his way out,” he continued uncertainly. “When I asked him what to do, he said I’d better ask you.”
    “Give me those,” demanded Barton Jr., taking off his jacket and grabbing the order slips from the clerk’s hand. “What’s the number for the phone clerk in