Robot Depot

by Russell F. Moran

  Blanche was gracious, even though she just kicked this guy’s ass.

  “Thanks for the compliment, Bob. I did two years at NYU law school, so I know a little bit about the law.”

  “Why didn’t you finish?” Bob asked.

  “Too much bullshit. I’m sorry I bit your head off. I think all of us are on edge with this mess.”

  “You’re not kidding, Blanche,” Jenny said. “Even our car is sick.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The next day, Rick Bellamy surprised me by stopping by the office.

  “You look like hell, my friend,” Bellamy said. “Do you find something bothersome about the whole country bashing you on the head?”

  I told him about the meeting with Bob Gentile the day before.

  “We think that the FBI is totally focused on sabotage, Rick. I know we are, and I’ve decided to stop hiding it and go public with our suspicions. Care to comment?”

  “Mike, you know I can’t comment on that. I’d be giving you legal advice which I’m forbidden to do. But you also know about things that are obvious, so let’s just leave it at that. I have a suggestion, and if you tell anyone I said this I’ll deny it.”

  “So what’s the suggestion, my secretive G-man friend?”

  “Bennie Weinberg,” Rick said.

  “Who, pray tell, is he?”

  “Bennie is a psychiatrist, recently retired from the New York City Police Department, where he was also a detective. Prosecutors worship the guy because he has an uncanny knack for spotting lies on the witness stand. His nickname is ‘Bennie-the-Bullshit Detector.’ Ben wrote a widely read book called How to Spot Lies. He is one smart guy, a graduate of Harvard Medical School no less. Mike, I think you’ll agree that there’s a lot of bullshit in your current circumstances. I suggest you contact this guy.”

  ***

  On Rick Bellamy’s suggestion I called Dr. Benjamin Weinberg. Rick’s right. There is a hell of a lot of lying going on, the most obvious being that guy Livingston from quality control who disappeared suddenly.

  ***

  “Mike, a Dr. Benjamin Weinberg is here to see you. He’s a little early.”

  “Send him in, Dianne.” A little early. I like that.

  A man dressed in an expensive suit walked in, smiled, and extended his hand. He asked me to call him “Bennie.” He’s about 5’10” a bit overweight with a balding head, which he did not try to cover with a comb-over.

  “My wife, Maggie, thinks you’re the most wonderful man in the world, Mike. She works out of our apartment as a writer, and she hates to have cleaning people buzzing about. But she loves her little family of time-saving robots from Robot Depot.”

  “Glad to be of service, Bennie,” I said. It was easy to like this guy, I thought. He had a way about him that puts you at ease.

  “Rick Bellamy is quite fond of you, Mike. I understand that the two of you grew up together. Rick tells me that you need some assistance in separating truth tellers from liars, is that right?”

  “That’s more than right, Bennie. We find ourselves surrounded by liars, people who are out to fuck us, as Rick puts it. He says that your nickname is ‘Bennie-the-Bullshit-Detector.’ And that sounds like the kind of guy I need right now.”

  “Mike, your company is exploding in front of our eyes. Rick Bellamy discussed a few things with me, but most of what I know about Robot Depot’s problems comes from the newspapers and TV news in the last couple of weeks. You’ve gone from a cuddly consumer-friendly business to a mean capitalist monster overnight. You don’t have to be a bullshit detector to know that something terrible is happening. Rick Bellamy’s right. Somebody’s out to fuck you. First we have to figure out why, then we need to figure out who. Then we need to fuck them before they do any more harm.”

  “I love that you’re not just a shrink but a retired cop. You have the instincts that I don’t. I wish I could help point you in the right direction, but for the life of me I have no idea who is doing this shit.”

  “That’s why Rick wanted you to talk to me, Mike. I think I know why and I have a few ideas about who.”

  “You think you know who is behind this?” I said.

  “I’m just speculating at this point, Mike, but if I’m correct, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Mustaffa Ali and his friend, Muhammed Shumar, sat having tea in Ali’s apartment in Queens. Ali goes by his “infidel” name Jim Flager, and Shumar is known as Walter Buono. On command from the management at ISIS, terrorists all over the world are hiding their identities so they can do their work in the shadows. Intelligence agencies all over the world refer to this new procedure as The Shadows of Terror.

  “Are we ready to go, Walter?”

  “We’re ready right now, Jim, and by next Friday we blast off. The long range forecast is for perfect weather. That can change, of course, but we aren’t stuck with one date.”

  “How many drones do we have?” asked Jim Flager

  “Two hundred, Jim, a nice even number,” Buono said.

  “Have they all been modified?”

  “Every last one of them. To be cautious, I’ve picked 10 different launch areas. That means only 20 drones will launch from each area. The drones we’re using are the most silent on the market. Robot Depot does a great job with quality control.”

  They both laughed after Buono said that.

  ***

  The Yankees versus the Mets is one of the most popular and well-attended games for New York baseball fans. This year’s “subway series” will consist of three games played over three days from July 14 to July 16. The first game will be held at 7:10 p.m. at Yankee Stadium. Hugo Garcia, a pitching phenomenon the Yanks hired a week before, will take the mound for the Yankees. The crowd on the night of the first game would be a bit over 50,000, just shy of record attendance. The new Yankee Stadium was completed in April of 2009. The House that Ruth Built was replaced by the House That George Built, named after former Yankees owner, the late George Steinbrenner. Some call the new stadium the House that Jeter Built, after the Yankees great short stop and team captain, Derek Jeter.

  ***

  “Hi Mike, it’s Bennie Weinberg. I have three tickets to the Yankees-Mets first game of their series tomorrow night. Maggie’s feeling under the weather and can’t make it, and her sister doesn’t want to go. How about I treat you and Jenny. With the amount of money you’re paying me I can afford it.”

  Both Jen and I are big baseball fans, especially the Mets, so saying yes to Bennie was easy. We had a scheduled meeting with Bennie on Friday, so the three of us would leave from here, with Carly driving us to Yankee Stadium. Carly had her transmission repaired and was driving perfectly.

  Friday, July 14 was a mild evening at about 78 degrees with low humidity, perfect weather to watch a baseball game.

  Hugo Garcia, the new Yankees pitcher from Ecuador, stood on the mound warming up.

  Bennie just returned to his seat with six hot dogs after visiting the food concession.

  “As a doctor, I have to warn you not to eat these because I haven’t the foggiest idea what’s in them. But I simply can’t imagine a ball game without hot dogs.”

  “What’s that sound,” Jenny said. “It’s a low humming sound that’s getting louder.”

  “I hear it,” Bennie said. “It sounds like a bunch of model airplanes.”

  I looked up and saw a massive flight of drones passing over the edge of the stadium.

  “Holy shit,” I yelled, suddenly realizing what was about to happen. “Everybody under the seats” I screamed, “NOW, RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Cover your heads.”

  I had just positioned my chest over Jennie’s head when the explosions began. I saw plenty of combat in the Marines, but I never heard so many explosions at one time. What we heard at Yankee Stadium was louder than anything I’d ever experienced. A wind storm of wood and pieces of metal swept through our seating area. We could hear debris strike the seats over our heads. I hea
rd and felt a large crash just above me, and I didn’t have to look. I knew it was a human body. The explosions continued for another five minutes. The sounds of the blasts were gradually replaced by the horrible sound of people screaming, including children, especially children. The three of us climbed out from under our seats and stood. I looked at the body of a teenage boy who had landed on my seat. He stared through dead eyes. Thank God we were all okay. Jennie reached up with a hanky to wipe blood off my forehead.

  “I suggest that we stay exactly where we are and keep out of the way of the rescue teams,” I said.

  We stood with handkerchiefs over our faces to fend off the wind-carried dust and debris.

  “Do you think those drones were ours, honey?”

  “Yes, they were ours. Our drones have a distinctive sound to them.”

  The scene of devastation in front of us was sickening. Hundreds of broken bodies lay across the baseball field. Many of the bodies were in uniform. What was once the press box looked like it took a direct hit. It tilted sharply toward one side like an old car with a flat tire, poised to topple to the ground below. I could see players from both teams fanned out across the field helping the wounded. Hugo Garcia, the Yankees’ newly acquired pitching ace, would never throw a pitch in a major league game. He lay dead on the mound.

  “I’m an internist besides being a shrink,” Bennie said as he dusted off his shirt. “I’m going down there to that first aid tent to help.”

  “We’re right with you, Bennie,” I said.

  I spoke for Jen because I knew I didn’t have to ask her if she wanted to help. Jenny’s not one to wilt in front of danger, as I recalled her saving my life in Afghanistan. We followed Bennie to the first aid tent.

  “I’m Doctor Ben Weinberg, and these are my friends. Where do you need us?”

  What began as a night of fun turned into the ugliest evening of our lives. For hours the screaming never stopped. The cries of anguish came not only from wounded men, women, and children. The worst screams came from people whose kids were killed.

  Seeing a dead body is a gruesome sight. But for some reason seeing body parts strewn about is even worse. I knew, as did everybody, that a few minutes ago, those arms, legs, and heads belonged to living human beings.

  A sound truck pulled to the center of the field. The microphone was manned by somebody from the Red Cross, as best I could tell. Whoever it was had obvious experience and training for scenes of devastation like this. The person in charge of the first aid station asked Jen and me to help lead dazed but ambulatory people to the tent. One medivac helicopter after another landed to pick up the wounded to take them to area hospitals. As gratifying as it was to see the efficiency of the first responders, the rotor wash from the helicopters created a constant wind storm of debris.

  By 1 a.m. all of the wounded had been evacuated, and the grim task of the body handlers continued. The three of us changed from our blood-stained clothes into clean garments provided by the Red Cross. We walked to the parking lot, and there was Carly, having escaped damage.

  “I was a combat physician with the 82nd Airborne in the First Gulf War,” Bennie said as we walked to the car. “I saw a lot of nasty shit, but nothing like I saw tonight. Mike, Jen, we’ve got to find the fuckers who are turning Robot Depot into a weapons factory.”

  “How, who?” Jen said.

  “We need to sleep, obviously, but tomorrow I want to hunker down with you guys. I have some ideas about who may be creating this shit storm.”

  We dropped Bennie at his apartment on East 79th Street, and then told Carly to take us to our brownstone on East 86th. We planned to pick up Bennie and head out to Robot Depot headquarters in Hauppauge the following morning.

  The three of us, all combat veterans, would later agree that the scene at Yankee Stadium was the worst horror any of us had ever experienced. Bennie couldn’t stop talking about a little girl, maybe 10 years old, who died in his lap from a loss of blood, her arm having been ripped off. He also couldn’t stop crying.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  “Mike, it’s Blanche. Dear God, I just found out that you and Jen were at the game last night. Are you two okay?”

  “Our ears are still ringing from the explosions, but otherwise we’re fine. We’re in Carly heading to the office. We have a friend with us, Dr. Ben Weinberg, the guy I told you about. I know it’s Saturday but can you meet with us later around two?”

  “Of course, Mike. Hey, listen up. You may need to pull over for a TV interview on your cell phone. Shepard Smith from Fox News wants to interview you about the latest shit.”

  “You know something, Blanche, why don’t you do the interview? I’ve seen you on TV before and I think you’re great. We’re all on the same page, so let the world hear from somebody other than Mike Bateman.”

  “You got it, Mike,” Blanche said. “Your face is becoming associated with explosions. Somebody else should represent Robot Depot from time to time. I’m feeling composed, which I always am when I’m furious about something. I got to get ready for the interview. See you later.”

  “We’ll be watching you on my iPad, Blanche,” Jenny said.

  “That’s one tough PR lady you have there, Mike,” Bennie said.

  “You should hear her when she really gets worked up,” I said.

  “Mike, I’m surprised that you’re letting Blanche handle this,” Jenny said. “She’s good, but I was sure you’d want to be heard yourself.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and not just this morning. I’m becoming known as Mr. Death, CEO of the Robot Depot. You heard Blanche. She thought the same thing. Let the public know there’s more to Robot Depot than me.”

  ***

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, Shepard Smith reporting for Fox News. The toll of mayhem and the body count continues to mount. In just the past two weeks, we’ve seen five houses destroyed by exploding robotic floor cleaners, a giant skyscraper brought to the ground in Chicago, a cruise ship turned into a scene of floating chaos, and last night, the horrible drone attack on Yankee Stadium. Hundreds died and hundreds more are in hospitals, some not expected to live. What has law enforcement stumped, and the press as well, is that the common denominator in all of these robotic incidents is one company, Robot Depot, a business that happily calls itself, ‘Your bot people.’ We have with us, broadcasting from Robot Depot headquarters in Hauppauge, Long Island, a spokesperson for the company, Blanche Whiteacre.”

  Fox had sent a sound truck to Robot Depot. The cameraman and his assistance focused on Blanche, sitting in our main conference room.

  “Blanche, can you help us out with any thoughts or opinions about what the heck is going on?” Smith said. “As you well know, and whether it’s fair or not I don’t have an opinion, but a lot of people are accusing Robot Depot of criminally negligent homicide or worse. Some are even saying that Robot Depot is complicit in terrorism. Please give us your thoughts.”

  “Shepard, it’s inappropriate for me to say bullshit on live television, but that’s the only word in the English language that covers the subject. Bullshit.”

  “Nobody has to tell Blanche how to kick ass,” Jenny said, as we watched the interview on her iPad.

  Smith, as well as the three of us in the car, laughed.

  “Well thank you, Blanche, for waking up the guy on the delay button in our control booth. Rather than ask you to clean up your language, because I understand how upset you are, I’ll ask you to express yourself as you feel natural, and our delay button guy will just get an ulcer.”

  Smith, a veteran reporter, had a visceral feeling for good TV. He figured he’d let Blanche hold forth, knowing that the network execs would never fire him for putting on a good show.

  “The reason I used that word, Shepard, is because all facts point toward that conclusion” Blanche said. “Robot Depot is one of the most successful companies in manufacturing and retail, and there are assholes [delay button] out there who actually believe that we’ve
turned into an evil monster. Law enforcement, including the FBI, are investigating these events, and a word that we keep hearing is ‘sabotage,’ That’s right, some group is using Robot Depot to commit horrible crimes, and we have reason to believe that some of the activity may have been done by in-house traitors. That’s right traitors, not just to Robot Depot, but traitors to the country itself. These shitheads [delay button] don’t know who they’re dealing with. When the scumbags [delay button] are finally arrested and brought to justice, I would love to see you interview them, Shepard.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Blanche used the words ‘Assholes, shitheads, scumbags.’ Hey Jenny, have you been giving Blanche speech lessons?”

  “I don’t think she needs instructions,” Jen said. “She’s great, and I actually think Shepard Smith is getting a kick out of her vocabulary.”

  “So, Blanche, you’re bringing us shocking news,” Shepard Smith continued. “You’re saying that the horrible crimes of the past few days are caused by saboteurs, not loyal Robot Depot employees.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what I’m saying. What we don’t know is why and who, and that’s why we’re working closely with law enforcement.”

  “There you have it, ladies and gentleman, straight from Robot Depot’s able spokesperson Blanche Whiteacre. Blanche, we hope to have you on again in the near future, but could you sprinkle your language with a few ‘hecks,’ ‘darns,’ and ‘gee whizzes’?”

  “No problem, Shepard, you can fuc… I mean friggin count on it.” Blanche said.