Overview

On the screen of the TV there was a steel door to a bank vault. The door was polished steel, massive and solid as a monument. The dial on the vault began to spin. There was a loud click. The door inched open, the room inside came slowly into view. The view was tantalizing. Whoa! This was an amazing room. Burnished mahogany shelves. Deep, rich carpeting. Golden wall sconces and the cut glass of a chandelier. The room did not look like the inside of a vault except in one respect: The vault was filled with money. Stuffed, crammed, packed, jammed full of money. Prologue Money on the shelves. In stacks on the floor. And as the door opened wider it became clear that the vault was big. Cavernous. Now the television camera moved into in the vault and the camera was slowly panning the contours of this big and deep room. Oh what a room! A room that went on forever. And everywhere there was money! Loot. Lucre. Moolah, Bucks. Dough, endless dough. Dough, dough, dough. Do-re-mi. Everywhere. And then the camera turned a corner and there was an amazing scene. Right in the middle of the bank vault, right in the midst of the endless cash, there was a large stone fireplace and a deep rich wing chair. Oriental rugs. Tapestries. Brandy in a decanter. And a burning fire in the stone fireplace, casting a rich golden light on the scene. As if the most handsome private library in all of Oxford had been recreated inside a bank vault: a library not for books but for money. And there, sitting in the endless deep luxury of the chair, was an impeccably dressed man. Rich and elegant. Imperial. Cheekbones high, forehead broad. Black hair curly and tight to his head. He wore a black dinner jacket with a white pique shirt and a deep maroon bow tie. There was no mistaking who he was. He did not wear a crown but this man was clearly royalty. A king surrounded by his cash. The camera continued to circle, moving gradually closer and closer to the man. But he looked into the distance. He was not concerned with the camera. He was involved in his vision. Regal. An impeccably dressed and powerful man, alone in a room with his massive wealth. And then the man slowly turned toward the camera. His eyes looked straight into the camera. Even on the TV screen the look was penetrating. Direct. Deep. The man spoke. His voice was as deep and rich as the room. My name is Nine Digits. he said, and then there was a long pause, Welcome to my domain. And then the screen went dark....

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9781938101793

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Jay is a San Francisco based writer and illustrator. He has written hundreds of stories. You can read some at www.jayduret.com. Nine Digits is Jay's first novel.

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