I look at the dollar bill in my hand, studying the serial number. The bill is old and a bit crinkled, George Washington’s face smiling benignly at me as I concentrate.

In front of me, the lights of the computers on the trading floor blink incessantly, flashing prices and contract data across the world.

Help me out here, Georgie-boy; what have they got on their bills, huh? I’ve got a reputation to keep up here; Tom Macaulay never loses at Liar’s Poker.

“Four 7s.”

Next to me, Mike breaks my concentration with a bark of laughter. “I’ve got you this time, man. Challenge; you’ve got to be wrong. Ain’t no way there are four sevens round here.”

I look up. “Anyone else feeling brave, people? C’mon, don’t be shy - like the man says, I’ve got to be wrong.” I pause for a second. “Don’t I?” I let the words hang in the air, and wait.

There’s a hiss of indrawn breath from across the circle of people. Billy Flynn squares his shoulders and looks straight at me. “Challenge.”

That breaks the spell.

“Challenge.”

“Challenge.”

“El Challengo, Señor Tom.”

Fine, then. It’s your money.

I turn my bill over. “Let’s add ‘em up! Mike, how many sevens you got on that nice shiny bill of yours?”

He smiles back. “Not a one, buddy.”

“Nope, me neither.”

“Me neither.”

“I got one. Boss, it is my professional duty to inform you that this time you have screwed yourself, and you owe us all ten thousand bucks each.”

I put on my best innocent face, and turn my bill over. “Well, Billy, that would be the case, if I didn’t have this bill here, with these here three sevens on the serial number. So, unless I’m mistaken, that means you each owe me ten thousand pictures of our great and noble first president. Although I will accept payment in larger bills, tubs of guacamole, or Berkshire Hathaway stock. I’m good like that.”

The chorus of profanity that rises from the assembled team is music to my ears. Bushy eyebrows knitted, Mike folds his dollar bill into a small paper wad. “Liar’s Poker is a stupid Goddamned game, Tom. I don’t know why the hell we play it with you.”

“Michael Mason,” —he hates it when I use his full name— “do not think of this as losing ten grand. Think of it as gaining knowledge, which, ultimately, is the most precious thing in the world.”

“Yeah, right.” Mike scowls theatrically at me. “Hey, boss, I’ve got an idea—why don’t you use your winnings to take your girl to Paris for the weekend? Oh, that’s right, waitaminnit—you don’t HAVE a girl because you’re too damn busy making money. And fleecing your innocent employees.”

I smile beatifically and ignore both of these insults. “Defacing currency is illegal, Mike. Should you really be doing that with that bill? I don’t want to have to report one of my own team to the SEC.”

He flicks the wadded-up bill at me. “Boss, shut the hell up. You are an awful human being, and if you weren’t the best—” Behind him, the huge screen displaying asset prices lights up like a Christmas tree, and Mike’s next words are lost in a rush of noise from the other people on the floor. A video stream of a reporter’s face appears on the screen, huge, dwarfing the stream of numbers and blinking red-and-green arrows. Someone finds the volume control, and the room fills with her voice.

“It’s just been announced that Walters Capital has pulled off another coup; in what some are calling the young firm’s most audacious move yet, more than forty million dollars was made in a matter of sixty minutes just this morning. Analysts say that Walters’ uncanny ability to take contrary positions and keep its rivals guessing is the work of one man; Tom Macaulay, a former college professor turned financial wizard whose team has repeatedly stunned the market over the past six months. Macaulay’s rise to prominence began when—”

Unfortunately, at this point, the reporter’s face is replaced with a still picture of my own. The crowd in front of me whoops and cheers, while I wince. I might be vain, but not even I like looking at a twelve-foot-high picture of my own mug for very long. Billy pumps his fist, and shouts, loud enough to drown out even the video feed.

“TOM! TOM! TOM! TOM!” The chant gets picked up by the crowd, turning to face me with grins on their faces. It continues until I hold up my arms.

“Yeah, okay, shuddup. You assholes seem to forget this is a place of business, not a college football game. Now you’ve gotten this out of your system, let’s all of us get back to work. Please resume your seats and get busy with the differential equations, alright?” Amid a chorus of good-natured grumbling, my team wander back to their seats and sit down one by one. After a few minutes, Mike swivels his chair to face me.

“Tom, that really was an impressive trade you pulled off. It’s no surprise the financial sites have been hassling us for interviews extra-bad this week. I don’t know why you keep refusing them.”

“Mike, it wasn’t me that pulled it off—it was us. The team. I’m not going to go on television and take all the credit for something that we all did together, man. You know I’m as cocky as anyone else in this game, but I won’t support the story that what we’re doing is just about me, and not anyone else.”

He shakes his head. “Man, you know the media wants this whole lone-financial-genius story, right? Ever since the crisis, all this ‘big data’ crap, people are confused, they’re scared. They want someone to show they can master all of this,” he waves a hand at the screen behind him, “someone who can reassure them that human beings are still on top. They want a Mess—”

I interrupt. “Mason, if you call me a financial Messiah, I will roll this chair over there and punch you in the head, I swear to God I will. And then I will fire you. Now, talk to me about something more important: what are we going to do now? You know that trick won’t work twice; that was a one-off deal, and it paid well, but the next time we try it, people are going to see us coming.”

Billy looks up from his desk, and turns around. “Tom’s right. From now on, every time we do something, all the other firms are going to be watching us. The more characteristic it is, the more they’ll see it coming, and the more they’ll kill us.” He makes a face. “The problem with being on top is that everyone is trying to pull you down.”

I stand up and spread my arms, feeling stiffness in my shoulders. Writing notes and typing on a keyboard aren’t very good for you, and I haven’t had time to get to the gym this week. “Gentlemen, if we want to keep winning this game, we need some new ideas. Make me a list of what you’ve got knocking around in those highly-qualified skulls of yours, and let’s meet tomorrow to talk about it. In the meantime, I need to stretch my legs.”

“Did you see the new trainees this morning when you came in? Fresh meat.” Billy makes a Pac-Man hand gesture. “Soon, they’ll be gobbled up by the Walters machine, just like us.”

“Huh. Barbara will knock ‘em into shape soon enough. I watched her give her speech again this very morning. It had the usual effect on them.” Except for that one girl. What was her name?

“Barbara will scare the bejeezus out of them, you mean. That lady frightens me, and I work here. If I were a fresh-faced college grad, I’d wet my pants every time she looked at me. It’s like she knows you’ve done something wrong, and it’s only a matter of time before she finds out what it is.”

“Well, in your case, she’d be right. You have done something wrong, and I sure as hell don’t want to know what it is. But she’s not as severe as you make her out to be.”

“Whatever you say, boss. Enjoy your walk.”