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possibly up to 60 percent if your mother was terminal and paid low premiums. Then I’d net 10 percent of her settlement. So, if she was worth at least a million bucks dead, I could walk away with sixty grand if I was lucky. I admit I was hoping for this best-case scenario; I was saving up for a new BMW.
    â€œHer policy would pay $250,000,” you said, “but—”
    I cut you off, glancing at the door. “You know I’m not running a charity.”
    â€œMine’s two mil.”
    I paused. “What?”
    You flashed me a triumphant smile. Your teeth were a dentist’s dream—straight, white, clean. “I work in television for one of those reality survival shows. Before I signed up, I made sure I got one hell of a life insurance policy for my family in case I didn’t make it.”
    That explains the teeth, I thought. You proceeded to tell me that in your quest to raise money, your financial adviser informed you that you were sitting on a pot of gold with your policy. You’d never heard of the secondary market for life insurance before, but were fascinated to find out that it was a thriving trade. You could sell it like any other asset for major cash to a buyer who would take over paying the premiums until your death, when that person would receive your benefits. It was morbid, yes, but it was exactly the solution you needed. You were so proud of yourself for figuring it out that I hated to deflate your enthusiasm.
    â€œThere’s just one little problem,” I said, twisting my cigarette stub into my frosted glass ashtray. “You’re not dying.”
    You raised an eyebrow. “As if that’s a bad thing?”
    I sighed. Your innocence was charming, but tedious. I was around fifteen years older than you, but the gap in our levels of cynicism couldn’t have been wider.
    â€œ Every investor wants to make a profit as fast as possible. This is a business of quick turnarounds. But you could live another sixty years.”
    â€œSo you’re saying no one will want it?”
    â€œI’m sure I could find a buyer. But you won’t get the settlement you want.”
    â€œHow much?”
    I shrugged. In truth, you were a terrible client. “At best maybe a hundred and fifty grand.”
    â€œThat’s only half of what I need! You have to do better. Who are these buyers, anyway?”
    â€œHedge funds. A few specialize in buying up old and sick ‘lives’ so their risk is minimized in this shitty economy. These guys are making a killing.” I smirked. “Pun intended.”
    You rolled your eyes without the consolation of a smile.
    â€œThe only guarantees in life—” I started.
    You sighed. “Are death and taxes, I know.”
    â€œAnd the former has no loopholes.”
    â€œVery funny.” Your curled upper lip revealed your disgust. “What’s it like to get such a kick out of other people’s misery?”
    â€œLucrative.” I knew I was being a jerk, but I was so numb then that I didn’t care. “What’s it like to be humorless?”
    â€œUgh.” You stood up, your nostrils flaring. “I’ll find someone decent to help me.”
    â€œI’m the only life settlement broker in the Keys,” I said, lighting another cigarette and drawing a deep puff. “You’re stuck with me.” I coughed on the exhale, failing to cover my mouth because it happened so often I didn’t even notice. At least smoking quashed my appetite and kept me as thin as a gym rat (which I was absolutely not).
    You threw me one last revolted look. “Then I’ll drive to the mainland.”
    Your shoulders slumped as you walked away, and I felt a momentary pang. As tough as you seemed, even you couldn’t hide your pain.
    You grabbed the doorknob.
    â€œWait,” I called. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
    You turned around to glare. Your wispy