by Jim CaJacob
The CD was in the player already. Scott clicked it on. The tune began with a low bass note, played with a bow, and congas. The groove was a kind of funk reggae, not strictly within the form, but insistent.
“Is that a B3 or a synth?" Wilton said.
“It’s the real thing, complete with cocktail glass rings and cigarette burns,” Scott said.
“I thought so. You can’t really synthesize the sound of a Hammond tone wheel,” Wilton said.
The groove had gotten busier. Two tenor saxes were improvising together. A male vocalist had begun. They listened to the words. For a “message” piece it was surprisingly down-to-earth and understandable. The music got more and more intense, but didn’t overwhelm the vocals.
When it was over they sat silently for a minute. Jenny, surprisingly, spoke first. “Scott, that was an original experience for me. Before I heard it I would have told you that I didn’t like jazz, didn’t like rap, and didn’t like political art. But that communicated to me.”
Val and Wilton glanced at each other.
“I don’t know what to say,” Scott said.
“Scott, you realize this is as far as this goes,” Val said. “It stops here.”
“I’m cool with that.”
“No, Scott, that’s not good enough. I know about digital technology. I know how easy it is to dupe this session. I know how important it has been for you to communicate your message. I don’t necessarily even disagree with your message that much. But you need to be crystal clear about this. This has to be the last performance of this piece.”
“I understand.”
“I’m still not sure you do. If this piece emerges anywhere, if the bass player kept a dub, if somebody emailed a copy from the studio. You. Will. Go. To. Federal. Prison.”
“Look. I screwed up. Big time. I know that. I didn’t think this through, and what was mostly a joke for me was serious for a lot of people. I realize that people lost a lot of money because of my actions. I know that I’m getting off the hook because the government doesn’t want to be embarrassed. I’m not stupid enough to tempt fate twice. It stops here.”
“There’s a lot you can do, Scott. You have a real gift," Jenny said. This time Val and Wilton exchanged ‘what’s going on?’ looks.
She continued “Just because I come from a different tradition, Oklahoma, not Chinese-American, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of knowing good art when I see it or hear it. Keep it up, Scott, but play fair.”
“What will happen to Josh?" Scott asked.
“It depends on whether he is willing to play ball,” Val said. “The last I heard he was playing innocent. I hope he wises up. Any suggestions?”
“Not really. You know what our real problem is? I mean all of us, everybody who does what we do. Probably you guys too.”
“What’s that?" Val said.
“We all think we’re so goddamned smart. Josh thinks he’s smart enough to get away with this, even now, I guarantee. I hope it’s not too late for him.”
“We all hope that,” Jenny said.
Chapter 38
Estelle almost never took the subway, but at this hour she’d never get downtown in time any other way. It was always pretty safe during busy hours, but she couldn’t handle that stale pee smell.
Hansi had left a message on her home voicemail. He was in town, which was a surprise. She called her girlfriend to tell her that she wouldn’t be at the gym for their regular session, and headed straight to the restaurant in SoHo that Hansi mentioned. She hadn’t heard of it.
The place, Raoul’s, was only about three blocks from the subway station. She was squinting through the window when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Hansi was standing there, with a funny look on his face. “Miss Costello. Hello. There’s been a slight change in plans. Can you please get in?”
A gray Mercedes (an S-Type, Estelle knew her Benz) was at the curb, engine running. Hansi opened the rear passenger’s side door. Some man she had never seen before was driving.
She got in the back and slid over. Hansi sat down and said “Estelle, this is Mr. Schneider.” The driver, a stocky, sandy-haired guy, looked over his right shoulder and nodded. “Mr. Schneider is from the main office in Zurich.”
Estelle didn’t have much time to wonder what was going on. Mr. Schneider pulled the Mercedes out into traffic, and turned uptown. He seemed to know what he was doing in the lurching rush-hour snarl.
She thought the smart thing to do would be to shut up. For once. Hansi looked straight ahead. He was biting his lower lip. Not a good sign. Finally he said “Estelle, Mr. Schneider is with The Bank’s security group. Internal security.”
She waited.
“Mr. Schneider wants to ask us – to ask you actually, some questions.”
Estelle could see Mr. Schneider looking at her in the rear-view mirror. They were headed up Sixth. The traffic, dotted with yellow cabs, snaked on ignoring the lane markers.
“We’re going to a quiet place where it will be easy to talk," Hansi continued.
Estelle was thinking: how much trouble am I in? Hansi’s is obviously nervous as hell. And who is Mr. Schneider? Usually these guys from Zurich wouldn’t shut up as they tried to impress you with how worldly they were. She kept quiet. They drove silently. Estelle noticed that the Benz did a great job of keeping out the noise. They turned into the on-ramp for the 59th Street Bridge. Every time she saw the bridge, including now, that silly Simon and Garfunkel song played in her head. Estelle wondered if Mr. Schneider would tell her that she had the right to remain silent, or something. Or shouldn’t there be an HR person there, wherever ‘there’ was? She had only had one run-in with The Bank. Her first boss, that numbnuts Lankershim, had counseled her about tardiness. She was supposed to be at work from 8:30 to 5 with an hour for lunch, but they all worked crazy hours. She had been a little late – well, actually, fairly late – on quite a few days. One morning when she came in Lankershim walked up to her cube as she was hanging up her coat and motioned for her to follow him. They went to a small conference room where a woman from HR was sitting. She didn’t say a word other than ‘nice to meet you’ and ‘goodbye’. Lankershim did all the talking.
But this was different.
She stared at the rear view mirror. Mr. Schneider glanced back at her about once a minute. It took ten minutes to cross the bridge. Hansi stared forward. He jiggled his knees back and forth nervously.
Mr. Schneider took the first off ramp. He ran a yellow, made two quick turns, and headed into a warehousy district along the river. The neighborhood was dumpy but not scary.
They drove into a warehouse parking lot, past an abandoned guard shack, then around the back of a large building. On this side were twenty or thirty of those truck-loading docks. The lot was completely empty. The walls on this side covered up to a story and a half with graffiti. The graffiti seemed duller to her than it used to.
Mr. Schneider stopped the car halfway out in the middle of the lot. He methodically undid his seat belt, put his arm on the back of the front seat, and turned toward here.
“Miss Burns, what’s going on?”, Mr. Schneider said. He had a pretty thick, sing-song Swiss accent. He said ‘Miss’, not ‘Ms’. Estelle still didn’t say anything. Hansi had turned to face her. He was still biting his lower lip.
“Estelle, Mr. Schneider has already interviewed me," he said. ‘Interviewed?’, she thought. “He knows everything, from my point of view. Now he wants to find out the rest of the story.”
She finally spoke. “What story? What are you guys talking about? I’m the one who wants to know what’s going on?”
“Please, Miss Burns. Let’s not waste time. I need to know everything about your friend Josh and his little plan," Mr. Schneider said.
“Josh Calder?" she said, stalling.
“Miss Burns, I might look to you like a patient man. Or maybe you think because I speak E
nglish with a funny accent that you can trick me or something.” He pronounced it ‘somesing’. “The Bank is spending a lot of money sending me here to New York just so I can understand everything about this plan you and Mr. Calder and Mr. Renggli here have made up. Now Mr. Renggli is going to take this nice automobile and go for a ride. You and I are going to go in that building there and have a chat. When the chat is over I will call Mr. Renggli's little phone with my little phone and he will come back. How long our chat lasts is entirely up to you.”
Estelle realized her heart was pounding. She decided it would be stupid to act innocent. Mr. Schneider said something to Hansi in German, then got out of the car and opened Estelle’s door. He was holding a leather briefcase. Estelle got out.
Mr. Schneider walked with Estelle toward the warehouse. He did not touch her or look at her. Instead he walked a half a step ahead of her, with his head down. Estelle’s heels echoed off the walls of the warehouse.
Chapter 39
Scott figured Josh would get in touch sooner or later. Josh called Scott at home at 8:30 in the evening.
“Man, I’m scared shitless," Josh said.
“Calm down. What’s wrong? I mean, what specifically is scaring you?”
“I can’t find Estelle," Josh said.
“Estelle? You mean Mona’s friend? Why are you looking for her?”
“Scott, Estelle’s been working with me on this deal. She’s the one that set up the meeting with the Swiss banker. And now she’s been missing from work for two days. Her assistant, who I know, has no idea where she is. I’ve called her apartment like five hundred times and gotten the same fucking perky message. This is bad, man.”
“Did you say Swiss banker?”
“Jesus, Scott, did you think this was all put together by magic? This is a very complicated deal.”
“Where are you now, Josh?”
“I’m not going to say on the telephone, you asshole. I’m still in New York but I’m going to drive down tonight. We need to get together.”
“OK, sure. Why don’t you come here?”
“Your place.”
“Yeah. I’m unlisted, and hardly anybody except you knows where I live. Estelle sure doesn’t.”
“Do you think I can hang out there for a couple days? Until I get this figured out?”
“Sure, Josh, but where’s Mone?”
“Fucking bitch. I get home last night and find this note. ‘A Mr. Renggli called – urgent.” – he’s the Swiss guy – “Hope you’re happy, Scott. Don’t wait up.’ She didn’t come home last night. She’s probably in the Caribbean with some lawyer.”
“Not with a wimp, with a banker.”
“What?”
“That’s what Paul Desmond supposedly said when he saw an ex-girlfriend walking down the street. Never mind. So, are you going back to the Bureau?”
“Scott, you’re not getting it. We are in trouble, man. As in witness fucking protection program.”
“What time will you be here?”
“It might actually be safer during rush hour. More people around.”
“Safer?”
“Yes, Scott, safer. I think Estelle isn’t coming back to work ever. Do you get it? Someone is very very pissed about our little prank.”
“Who? Do you know who?”
“I have an idea, but I’m not sure. We’ll talk about it. Look, I have a plan. I’ll park somewhere close by, a few blocks away. I’ll call you from my cell phone when I’m around the corner. It should be about 8:30 tomorrow morning. You look out your window. I’ll walk by on your side of the street, from left to right as you look out. Watch after I pass and see if anybody is following me. Call me on my cell either way. If it’s clear I’ll walk around the block and buzz twice. Buzz me right in. Did you get all that?”
“Jeez, Josh. Yeah, I got it.”
“Scott, I’m serious. I think there’s some kind of fucking hit man looking for me.”
“Try to get some sleep, Josh.”
“Maybe later. Are you holding?”
“I’m not telling you that over the telephone, Josh.”
“Mr. Comic. 8:30. Be awake.”
“I’ll be awake.”
Josh hung up. Scott went to his terminal and clicked on the keyboard, holding his cordless phone between his chin and his shoulder. He bent over, squinted, and dialed a number.
Chapter 40
It wasn’t easy, but Jenny tried hard to take care of herself on these extended road trips. That involved eating right, not succumbing to the nightly temptation to get drunk, and getting at least some cardiovascular exercise.
Her options to accomplish the latter were limited. She felt too silly to do the in room aerobics with any of the twenty or so daily shows. She preferred bicycling, but that was impractical not to mention dangerous in DC. The hotel exercise room was the best alternative. There was a fairly decent array of stationary bicycles and what she still thought of as Nautilus machines.
She considered herself fairly competent technically but she had never really learned what buttons to press to take advantage of any but the most basic features on one of the bikes. She managed to set it for twenty minutes. The overly loud TV was repeating the hour’s top stories over and over.
Jenny thought about Val. He was a good person. He tried to do the right thing, personally and professionally. He handled the stress pretty well, without taking it out on her or Wilton. He still had trouble communicating without making analogies based on sports, warfare, or both. Examples including “going for the bomb”, “choosing bullets or beans”, “swinging for the fences” and “DEFCON 5”. In his circle it apparently also helped to memorize the dialog of Caddyshack and Top Gun.
They had had fun in Columbus. She admitted that having a few beers made it easier to loosen up a little. Val wasn’t exactly a good dancer, but he managed a fairly decent rendition of the Frug, which he told her he first saw as a junior high schooler hurrying home to watch American Bandstand. He said something about before it moved from Philly to L.A., which made no sense to her.
It was obvious Val was attracted by her – and not just in the way that most men were. She wasn’t sure exactly how she felt, but she remained open to possibilities.
The last thing they had done at the office was discuss Wilton’s latest finding. After the discovery of Scott’s code, Val had suggested that Jenny and Wilton complete at least a cursory examination of the rest of the programs.
This morning Wilton had reported to her that he was a little suspicious about a couple of other modules. The thing was, Josh or Scott had not yet touched these modules. In fact, they had not been modified at all for over three years.
Val had been more skeptical than usual when presented with these findings. Wilton hadn’t had time to find out exactly what was going on. Val told them to research the issue and decide one way or another as soon as possible. They couldn’t afford more loose ends.
Chapter 41
The club was surprisingly crowded for a Thursday night. It had retained its fernless fifties Formica feel. The cigarette machine was stationed proudly between the Men’s and Women’s. There was a "no blended drinks during the set" policy.
Josh sat in a corner, trying to act inconspicuous. The crowd was about fifty-fifty black and white. He counted on the fact that weirdoes liked jazz, because he sure wasn’t dressed for success. He had on a black stocking cap, dark wrap around shades, a black North Face ski jacket, jeans and a sweater.
The band took a break. The jukebox immediately resumed a Nat Cole song – not that Josh knew that. The waitress, a no-nonsense black woman, asked if he wanted another. He did.
Ernest was walking around the club, schmoozing and shaking hands with people he knew. Josh figured he’d wander close enough for Josh to get his attention sooner or later. He did.
“Hey, Ernest.”
Ernest looked over his granny glasses at Jos
h.
“Hello. Do I know you?”
“It’s me. Josh. Josh Calder. I’m a friend of Scott’s.”
Ernest squinted. “Oh yeah. Josh. Computers, right? Y2K shit.”
“Right. I work with Scott. Hey, you guys sound great.”
“Thanks. Glad you’re enjoying it. Where’s Scott?”
“He can’t be here. But, Ernest, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“What’s up, Josh Calder?”
“I mean, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“Why outside?”
“This is very private.”
There was no one in the parking lot, although two people were seated in a large seventies vintage sedan with its lights off.
“Don’t worry about them, man. That’s just my drummer and my bass player adjusting their respective attitudes. Part of the great tradition of jazz. We call it ‘checking the lights’. What can I do for you?”
“I feel weird asking you this. But. . . I need a gun.”
“A gun? You going duck hunting in the morning?”
“A handgun, Ernest. I need a handgun.”
“Well, all I carry in my sax case is one of those Al Capone machine guns with the round thing in front. I only pack hand guns when I play bar mitzvahs.”
“Ernest, I know this is weird. I have a big problem. I need protection, right away. I don’t have the slightest idea how to get a gun. Don’t bust my balls, OK?”
“I don’t want to know. Scott in on this? Is he in trouble too?”
“He is, but he doesn’t know he is. I’ve been trying to reach him to tell him.”
“Listen, Josh Calder. I am choosing to ignore the fact that you are engaging in a blatant racial stereotype at the moment. You need a gun, talk to a black man. I don’t own one, and I try to avoid people who do.”
Josh stood with his head down, biting his lip.
“You got cash on you? Several hundred, like maybe six hundred?”
“Yes. Almost two large. That’s two thousand, right?”
“My man. OK, listen, just because I don’t carry doesn’t mean that the shit isn’t everywhere on the street. I don’t know what your problem is and I don’t want to know. But if you go to Cool Papa’s, on Adams, they’ll be able to help.”
“On Adams? By that bowling alley, right?”