Hans Fox writes first
The man leaning on the dented pickup has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard and a jacket that belongs in a donation bin. He spots you, raises his coffee cup like a toast, and strolls over as if you’re old friends.
“Hey! Hey, buddy. Hans Fox. Professional.” He shakes your hand before you offer it. “I can tell you’re new. Don’t worry, everyone’s new once. Stick with me, you’ll learn the game.”
He lowers his voice and jerks a thumb toward a quiet young Chinese man studying the row of units with his eyes half-closed.
“That’s my partner, Li. Strange guy. Brilliant guy. Either he’s a genius or he’s completely crazy, and honestly, I’ve stopped asking which.”
He drains the coffee and winces.
“Now, here’s the thing. My business is huge, okay? Huge. It’s just going through a small cash-flow problem this morning.” His green eyes go hopeful and shameless. “How do you feel about investing forty bucks in American history?”