For the Love of Money by Sam Polk

care about Duc. But I wouldn’t back down. I hadn’t backed down from a fight since I beat up Jorge at Camp Fox ten years earlier. I left the room without a word.
    I went downstairs to the ATM and got $80, then bought a coffee with a twenty and took the change and put it in my pocket with the three remaining twenties. I summoned the girls to the conference room.
    â€œHere’s your money,” I said when they arrived. “I would’ve paid you if you’d asked. I’m only giving you seventy-nine dollars. I’m keeping one dollar. I want you to tell your boyfriend. If he’s unhappy with that, he can come here and talk to me about it.”
    I walked out.
    I felt like I’d regained some power. But I couldn’t stand the thought of Kylie and Eunice laughing with Duc about how quickly I’d paid up. I went back to my desk and typed out an e-mail:
    I don’t know who you think you are, but don’t ever send me threatening e-mails, especially to my work address. I didn’t realize that I owed the girls money, and as soon as I found out I paid them. But because of the way you handled this, I kept $1 so you would know that I wasn’t going to be pushed around. If you want the $1, you can come down here to get it.
    Furious, I hit Send. In five minutes I got a reply:
    I’ll be there at 4 p.m.
    It was like I could see it all happening again—the downward spiral—but couldn’t stop it. I was an adult, a businessman on the verge of his big break; I was also that bullied boy who’d had enough. At 3:45 p.m. I went into an empty conference room and stared out the window. I didn’t want to lose my job. And I was scared, trembling. But I had a trigger; Duc had pulled it.
    I took the elevator down to the ground floor. I walked past the security desk and into the daylight and noise of Market Street. I put two quarters into a newspaper machine and pulled out a Chronicle and stood there pretending to read it. A corporate warrior on a coffee break. My heart pounded in my chest.
    I felt him before I saw him. He was a muscular Asian in a black, puffy jacket, and by the time I saw him he was already in my face. His eyes were two inches from mine.
    â€œGive me my fucking dollar,” he said.
    I stepped back and put my hands up, placating. “Whoa, guy,” I said. “Whoa. Not here. We need to go somewhere we can talk.”
    â€œGive me my fucking money,” he repeated, pushing into me. “You should have just given them the money. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with me.”
    â€œI’m looking forward to dealing with you,” I growled. “Come with me.”
    I turned heel and walked into the building. He followed. I walked up to the security desk and quickly wrote down the name Duc on the sign-in sheet. I nodded to the security guard and pointed to the furious gangster next to me as if to say, This gentleman is with me. I strode to the elevator and pushed the button.
    â€œGive me my fucking money,” Duc said loudly. While I tried to shush him two other office workers came up behind us, waiting for the elevator. I kept my eyes trained on the doors, trying to will Duc not to make a scene. The doors opened. The four of us filed into the elevator. Duc and I stood closest to the door. I pushed 2.
    Duc, losing it, turned toward me as the doors shut. “What the fuck?” he said.
    I didn’t even turn as I spat out, “Not now—wait.” When the doors opened, I stepped out quickly, half expecting him to take a swing at me right there. He didn’t.
    I strode down the hall to the new ON24 offices. They were renovating the space, which was now gutted and empty. Duc followed. I took keys out of my pocket and opened the lock. We stepped through the door into a cavernous room, the skeleton of an office. Massive concrete columns military pressedthe ceiling. There were piles of lumber and drywall. The dirty windowpanes