Mockey
Jones was one of the one percenters – actually one of the one-tenth of
one-tenth percenters – and, while he hadn’t actually earned a dime of his
money, it didn’t matter because money was money and it was better to have it
and not have it, and better to have a lot of it than only some. And Mockey Jones had a lot of it.
Mockey Jones was forty-nine and had left three wives and as many children scattered in his wake – he gave
a little bow as he proceeded down the street in homage to them – but now he was
unattached and totally irresponsible, with nothing to do but ski, eat, drink,
screw, and yell at his investment advisors.
(from White Fire by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child)
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