“Most people are lemmings,” the businessman continued. “That’s why they fail. They behave like suicidal rodents.”

“But you’re a higher level of rodent?” Tucker Case said with a smart-ass grin. He was thirty, just under six foot, with neatly trimmed blond hair and blue eyes. He wore navy slacks, sneakers, and a white shirt with blue-and-gold epaulets. His captain’s hat sat on the bar next to a gin and tonic. He was more interested in the girl at the end of the bar than in the businessman’s conversation, but

he didn’t know how to move without being obvious.

“No, but I’ve kept my lemming behavior limited to my personal relationships. Three wives.” The businessman waved a swizzle stick under Tucker’s nose. “Success in America doesn’t require any special talent or any kind of extra effort. You just have to be consistent and not fuck up. That’s how most people fail. They can’t stand the pressure of getting what they want, so when they see that they are getting close, they engineer some sort of fuckup to undermine their success.”

The lemming litany was making Tucker uncomfortable. He’d been on a roll for the last four years, going from bartending to flying corporate jets. He said, “Maybe some people just don’t know what they want. Maybe they only look like lemmings.”

“Everyone knows what they want. You know what you want, don’t you?”

“Sure, I know,” Tucker said. What he wanted right now was to get out of this conversation and get to know the girl at the end of the bar before closing time. She’d been staring at him for five minutes.

“What?” The businessman wanted an answer. He waited.

“I just want to keep doing what I’m doing. I’m happy.”

The businessman shook his head. “I’m sorry, son, but I don’t buy it. You’re going over the cliff with the rest of the lemmings.”

“You should be a motivational speaker,” Tuck said, his attention drawn by the girl, who was getting up, putting money on the bar, picking up her cigarettes, and putting them into her purse.