Little Black Book

It had to mean something. These were not just random numbers next to jumbles of letters. There was too much order in these pages for it to be nonsense. Something of incredible value was obscured in here, but the last two nights ended with nothing revealed and the book stuffed under the bed for another day. Tonight, though, the black leather-bound book sailed through the room and slapped against the wall.

Niladri looked down at his ink stained fingers before running them through his thick, black hair. Obsessing over this drivel was taking its toll, hours that should have been spent studying for the looming exam. Gripping tight to his scalp, he nearly pulled everything out in frustration, but then the pain brought a sense of clarity. If he had learned anything in his first dozen credit hours of statistics, it was that he could find a pattern in anything.

After the two steps it took to cross his room, Niladri retrieved the book and breathed deep to compose himself. He brought it back to his "desk," what most people might call an end table, and fired up his laptop. The labor of transposing each page onto the computer took no less than three energy drinks, but this was not his first all-nighter. The sun had broke over the skyline and peeked into his window as the last entry was typed; satisfied Niladri laid his head down for just a minute.

The growl of his stomach was enough to shake Niladri awake. Although it was still light outside, the sun no longer beamed in through the cracked shades of his window.

"Who needs electives, anyway?" he spoke to no one, dragging his bare feet to the small freezer tucked in a corner with a grimy microwave balanced on top. Ninety seconds to instant curry.

With the warmth in his belly, Niladri took to the spreadsheets with analytic fury. That he had not done this from the start was a blunder. Here it was just data, free to break down, manipulate, and explore. This was homework, nothing more. In what felt like minutes, the lock was shattered; everything laid bare.

Dates. Accounts. Transactions.

Dozens of names.

Hundreds of crimes.

Millions of dollars.

More time went into preparing his next phone call than had been spent in total on the notebook. Contingencies had to be in place and the script had to be perfect. If this worked, Niladri and his family back home would be set for life.

He dialed. The phone rang once, then was redirected to a generic voicemail.

He dialed again.

"Who is this?" a man asked with subdued anger.

"I have your ledger," Niladri replied with steel in his voice.

Silence reigned for a minute.

Niladri looked down at his script and channeled every movie badass he was familiar with, "The fact that I have this number should be proof enough that I was able to decrypt the ledger. I know what it is worth. I know what it will cost you if it becomes public. To prevent that from happening, I have only two demands."

Niladri had readied himself for a slew of threats and vulgarities delivered at high volume, but instead, he was given a broken, "How much do you want?"

This was not like the movies.

"Twenty thousand," he squeaked, having calculated a percentage that would seem a trivial maintenance fee, "every month. I will text you the account number to make the deposits."

"Fine. What else?"

"I want to know," unable to keep the smirk off his face, Niladri turned over the notebook in his hands, stroking the soft leather, "where did you get this excellent notebook?"

The line disconnected with audible disgust.