Con Academy by Joe Schreiber Read Free Book Online

TO G LOBAL R ISK . I’m expecting a boring classroom full of half-asleep students guzzling energy drinks while some fossil in his sixties drones on about world markets.
    Then I step inside.
    The room is massive and packed with big TV screens and kids moving in all directions, shouting and talking and staring up at a mission-control center of gigantic wall-mounted monitors scrolling real-time stock quotes and financial data. Half of them are on their phones while the others are keying in trades. It’s the Wall Street of the Great North Woods, and for a second I just stand there taking it all in, trying to figure out where I should go.
    â€œExcuse me.” I tap one of the students on the shoulder. “I’m new here and—”
    â€œHang on,” the kid says, not taking his eyes off a screen. Thirty seconds later, he throws one hand into the air. “Yes. Yes!” He pumps both fists, throws his arms around me, and slaps me on the back so hard that I almost cough up my eggs. “Okay, bro, what are you looking for?”
    â€œMr. Dalton,” I say, glancing down at my course schedule. “Is he around?”
    He steers me through the mob and points out my instructor, Mr. Dalton, who looks about five years older than I am and turns out to be a former day trader and master of the universe whose name even I recognize—mainly from a semi-successful SEC investigation that very nearly shut down his investment firm. He’s talking to Brandt Rush, leaning over his shoulder, coaching Brandt’s every move.
    Not that Brandt needs it. He seems to be completely in his element, trading commodities and raking in piles of virtual cash with the ease and confidence of a born conquistador. Every buy, every short sale, is accompanied by a fist-bump or a high-five with one of a half-dozen sycophants surrounding him. The fact is, I’ve never seen anybody so utterly in control of a situation. After the end of one particularly complex trade, Mr. Dalton himself actually gives Brandt a chest-bump.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal?” I ask the kid who brought me to the scene.
    â€œWe’re all trading with virtual funds,” the kid says. “Brandt’s the only one whose parents let him use actual cash. He just cleared three million dollars short-selling this biotech start-up.”
    â€œThree million
actual
dollars?”
    â€œYeah.”
    At one point during class, while I’m sitting in front of a massive six-screen Bloomberg Terminal and trying to learn which of the yellow hot keys represent which market sectors, I look up and see Brandt himself staring at me. For a second I know how a field mouse must feel when the shadow of a hawk passes over him. After a moment Brandt makes his way over, all swagger and sneer.
    â€œYo. Missionary kid.”
    I don’t take my eyes off the screens in front of me. He taps me on the shoulder.
    â€œI think you’re in the wrong class,” he says, leaning in close. “Why don’t you go get me a coffee or something?”
    Now I look at him. For the moment, he seems to have lost interest in all the money changing hands, temporarily distracted by the opportunity for a little midday cruelty.
    â€œYou heard me,” he says. “Lots of cream, lots of sugar.”
    As I stand up, something snags me around the ankle and I go sprawling forward. I catch myself in time and see Brandt giving me the slightest smirk as he turns back around to the overhead monitors.
    â€œBetter watch your step,” the kid whom I’d been talking to earlier says. “He’s the king of the jungle in here.”
    â€œRight,” I say. “Thanks.” I make my way out into the hallway, heading for the exit. It’s cold outside but I don’t mind. I’ve got English Lit in twenty minutes, and I could use the cooldown time.
    Now more than ever, I know that we’ve picked the right mark.
    Â 
    Andrea doesn’t look