by D. L. EVANS
I hunched into the kitchen where a counter separated it from the living room, settled onto one of the stools and watched as she proceeded to pour herself a coffee. She was casually dressed in fitted denim, white sneakers and a skilfully tossed ponytail. If her freckles were allowed to show she could still pass for seventeen. She looked at me with an overtone of concern. “So, you’re finally awake.” (Hand on hip, martyred sigh). I gave her my most charming smile, guaranteed to illicit maternal compassion. “This place is a dump,” she moaned, untouched by my vulnerable condition. God, she was a tough crowd. “Your eyes look poached over those bags. If you shower and shave you can join me for this amazing repast I’ve cooked for us.” She smiled indicating that any comment of gratitude was unnecessary.
What??? No blast about falling asleep drunk on the couch? No cutting remarks about the next book... not in progress? “Who are you?” I demanded of the creature that turned her back to me and continued bashing around in my kitchen, “and what have you done with my sister?”
She looked at me over her shoulder, puzzled. “What? Are you still drunk?”
“OK, now I know you’re an alien,” I insisted, slapping the counter. “My real sister doesn’t cook, and is never nice to me in the morning... so what have you done with the real Lauren?”
She smiled lopsided. “I can fry eggs and toast bread... Am I really that bad? You know,” she continued before I could answer, “it’s time you did something with this apartment... like, unpack.” She glared a challenge. “I’m going to send Louise over to get you organized. Don’t scare her when she shows up. She’s magic with furniture and stuff... and don’t even think about arguing, it’s time this place was in order. The view is fabulous if you could see out the disgusting windows, and you’ve got some terrific prints still in boxes that would be nice on these naked walls. You are planning to stay here, right? I mean you are getting your life back, right?”
I smiled back even though she was acting weird, and made my way to the bathroom. Poached eyes indeed. That was a cooking term. She didn’t know what poached was... My stomach rumbled. Something was up; I could hear her mumbling to herself as I turned on the shower. Why all the concern all of a sudden?
I sat down to lukewarm watery eggs and cold toast, and asked about the ‘damage control’ meeting she’d had with the Stanford sisters at the Gallery after I’d left. She stalled, busied herself by pouring me a mug of coffee while she composed an answer. This was out-of-character for my shoot-from-the-lip sis but I decided to keep quiet and see where she was leading. Her friendship with Alison was apparently still intact and Annie didn’t have much to say, one way or the other. I assumed, since Lauren was avoiding eye contact with me, that Annie had been less than complimentary. Probably wanted to drive a stake through my heart, and here was dearest Lauren, trying to be diplomatic. It was kind of a Hallmark moment. I drank the gritty, warm coffee in gratitude.
The toast was putting a floor under my stomach but I left the partially cooked eggs floating where they were, untouched. Lauren poured her coffee into the sink, opened the fridge and brought a pitcher of orange juice to the table. She left the fridge door open confirming that her mind was somewhere else, since she never misses an opportunity to slam something. I leaned over and closed the door. “OK, you’ve got something to tell me. What is it?”
She announced that Roger had proposed the previous night, over dinner. She wiggled the fingers of her left hand at me, flashing a diamond the size of a robin’s egg that I had somehow overlooked. Probably cost a few times more than my Austin Healy. Actually, I wasn’t too surprised, but she was obviously on some sort of emotional high so I let her ramble on about his virtues and his plans for their future, etcetera. When she stopped to take a breath, I studied her face and said, “Are you in love with him? ... because if you are ... I hadn’t noticed.”
She blinked her large cobalt blue eyes and took a breath. “I... I love him, but I’m not in love with him. Not that crazy, out-of-control love, that you were lucky enough to find with Savannah, but a quiet, warm sort of love. We’re not kids anymore, you know. I’ll be thirty-five soon and Roger is forty-five. Besides, I need a stable, strong balance in my life. It’s time I settled down. I can’t live on a roller coaster forever. We’re good for each other.” Her voice was getting louder and higher.
When she paused for a breath I said, “Y’know, as Bill Shakespeare once said, methinks you explainith too much.” I stared at her but she avoided my eyes again. Steam was rising out of the top of her head. She turned her back to me and jammed some dishes into the cupboard.
“Damn it Adam! I thought you’d be happy for me. Mom’s thrilled. You said you liked him, didn’t you?”
I thought about Mack and the surveillance on Smythe as I put my hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around. “Yes, but that’s not the same as wanting him to marry you... I don’t know Lauren. Maybe this is just a lot to deal with, right now. Maybe, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Of course, I’m happy for you. You deserve the absolute best, really.” Her eyes teared up and she wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my chest, her words muffled by my shirt.
“Thanks Adam.” Her eyes veered away, as if measuring some private thought. She always wore her emotions visibly. No head games, no nightmares, and no casual game playing. What you see is what you get, no strings attached. Roger was a very lucky guy.
“The wedding is set for September,” she said happily, “and that’s only three months from now.
Roger wants to have the ceremony in his home...it’s a fabulous place in Rosedale... with the reception on the grounds by the pool. He made it sound so wonderful Adam. Tents and an orchestra... Mom was so excited on the ‘phone when we told her. She’s flying up from Marathon a few weeks ahead of time to give me a hand. I wish Dad…. well... you know.” She tilted her head up and looked at me. “Will you give me away?”
My stomach twitched and it wasn’t from the hangover. “Are you kidding? I can’t wait! I’ve been waiting to do just that since puberty. Now you can beat Roger up and nag him to death. Poor fool. Does he know that your elbows are registered lethal weapons?”
She laughed, unhugged me and started to clear the table. She had visibly relaxed. I guessed that my approval was more important than I’d thought. “You know who will be crushed when he hears this news?”
“Who?” She was puzzled.
"Mack Mackenzie," I laughed. "Don’t pretend you don’t remember my old partner. He’s been declaring his undying love for you for years. You met him a few times at the house when I was researching the book. You didn’t exactly hit it off as I recall.”
Ignoring the dishwasher, she piled the dishes haphazardly in the sink and proceeded to slip on her jacket. “That Irish chauvinist pig who’s vocabulary often rhymes with duck? How could I forget.”?
“That’s him.” I laughed. “Well, more accurately, it used to be him. You probably wouldn’t recognize him now. Ever since the book was published, he seems to have taken on the personality of my main character, Mason Greene and has become quite the gentleman. He’s a big fan of your show and hinted the other day that he wanted to take you out for a drink." Noting the look of panic on her face, I started to laugh. "Relax, I told him about Roger. No need to torture the guy with false hope. Of course, he thinks Mr. Smythe isn’t good enough for you.”
“Adam,” she looked into my eyes, with both hands on her hip. “Try to imagine how much I care what Mack Mackenzie thinks about anything!” Acid dripped from the words.
“Point taken. ...I just thought you should know, I answered philosophically. “Can Roger cook?”
Chapter Fifteen
ROGER SMYTHE:
The poker game had been running for almost three years. Three years of decisions, profits and ultimately, control. Roger smiled; contemplating how enormous trees can grow even in the most unpromising wrinkle of rock. The 'wrinkle' was Gabe Smith and his little magic bug. Gabe was a gift; a brilliant mind in a s
mall, painfully shy container and best of all, devoid of ego. If he had any sense, he could be rich; richer than all of them, but money didn't interest Gabe (thank God). Like most super-geeks he was happiest tucked away in his sterile laboratory, usually unaware whether it was day or night, building extremely sensitive devices for the government or whatever client provided the challenge, and only came up for air when his gizmos were ready for testing. An absolute gift. He toiled loyally for Bill Harmon of Harmon Electronics, whom Roger had known for years. Bill was OK if one ignored the occasional sleight of hand at poker. What the hell, he thought. What's a little cheating between friends? The prick probably cheated at solitaire.
The poker game involved only hundreds of dollars but covered for the millions they were making on the Stock Market. Three years ago, Roger had been looking for investors for a state-of-the-art communications satellite that he had an option buy a piece of, and Harmon hearing about the opportunity and had proposed his little deal. His resident electronics genius (enter Gabe Smith) had come up with a super bug. At least ten years ahead of the techno-curve, according to Harmon, this tiny macro chip could pick up 'phone conversations from fifty miles up in space. He hadn’t elaborated on exactly how it had come into existence and Roger had known better than to ask. Whatever Gabe had been working on when he invented the bug would never be discussed. Roger assumed that the Harmon Laboratories were not as ‘spotless’ as they appeared, despite the much-touted completely sterile, dust free environment. However, cleanliness was not his concern. Bill Harmon would handle Gabe as he always did. (Basically leaving him alone without disturbing the creative juices, he said. Besides, the mouse preferred his cage.) Thus had begun a mutually beneficial business enterprise that jelled around a monthly poker game.
Phil Myers and John Churnak had been invited in, initiation fees (what's a few million between friends) constituted one quarter of the hard cost of their ear-in-the-sky. Four players, four investors, headed by Smythe, watched the successful launch of the satellite a year later. It was the best day of his life. Aboard was the undetectable stowaway that started listening on carefully selected lines, occasionally picking up valuable insider information.
Thousands of conversations were recorded, compressed into short electronic bursts and retrieved at Harmon Labs. Tons of data were sifted through for each nugget that surfaced. Harmon's private computer division, with secure rooms and personnel, downloaded the coded transmissions from the satellites in a sub-basement located under a legitimate surveillance business.
It wasn't long before top-secret company negotiations in several large corporations surfaced. Information that affected stock market values, information that they could be arrested just for knowing, let alone using. The four players delighted with the initial results of Gabe’s invention, planned investment strategies over the regular card games. Profits grew.
Roger Smythe entered his office, the walls and carpet in matte white, crossed the large open area and checked his e-mail. He wore an immaculate conservative grey suit, the working uniform of the successful power broker. Across the room from his desk a built-in console linked his computer to the secret master system. The same console also displayed stock exchange information in real time and several additional screens displayed the various programs being video-taped in the building. A coded message on his computer screen instructed him to immediately telephone Bill Harmon, using the private line with the scrambler.
As he dialled, an icy hand gripped his stomach. Harmon wasn’t due to call 'till three o'clock the next afternoon and in three years there had never been an unscheduled call. They always kept their contact to prearranged times.
Bill Harmon wasted no time on idle conversation. “We have a serious problem. Y'better sit down.” He took an audible breath and continued. “A courier package just arrived, hand delivered to me personally. It contains a complete file on all of us involved in the poker game, complete with computer printouts of our stock activity and photos covering the past couple of years. It’s disturbingly complete and literally hangs all four of us.”
Roger’s world shifted on its axis. “What? How.... who...?”
Harmon said “Let me finish, it’s signed ‘Zephyr’, spelled like the wind, and he wants twenty five million dollars from each of us, transfer instructions enclosed, or a copy of the file will go to the press and the RCMP."
"Twenty five million Roger, that's a twenty five followed by six zeros... Are you there?" Harmon asked.
“Yeah, I’m still here” Roger almost whispered. “Jesus. How could this happen?” It crossed Roger’s mind for an instant that this could be a shakedown engineered by 'good buddy Bill' but he dismissed it immediately. There was too much at stake. "How the fuck can this happen? Do we have any idea who he is? What about your employee Gabe Smith? Have you checked him out?” Roger realized his palms were clammy and his mouth was dry. Twenty five million was uncomfortably close to the exact amount of profit they had each salted away, earned from the proceeds of their illicit activities since the poker game had started.
"Gabe is neck deep with a team of engineers building a state of the art security system for the military. It's so hush hush he can't take a crap without someone checking him in and out. We have more security here than Fort Knox. Besides, he's a moron when it comes to the real world. All my geniuses are on a short leash Rog, you know that. It's the nature of my business. Hell, I'm the only one who knows what's going on in the different departments most of the time. The project teams almost never interact. They don't need to."
Roger dismissed Harmon’s protestations. "It has to be one of yours, Bill. How many are collecting and translating from the satellite?" He continued rambling, not waiting for an answer, "Could be any one of them... Fuck!"
Bill waited a long moment before replying to Roger’s outburst. “I knew you'd jump that way. Listen you arrogant shit, compared to me you don't know anything about computers and I'm bloody illiterate compared to my employees, but nothing... absolutely nothing goes on here that I don't know about. What comes down from the sky is in code, piggy-backed on legitimate signals, gibberish to anyone who might pick it up. I've been over all this before. I'm personally in charge of the decoded conversations. I decide what's important and bring it to the game for discussion. There's never been a fucking problem with the procedure before and if there's a leak, it's not from this end."
"OK Bill, keep your God damn shirt on.” Roger Said. “I have to think. If it’s not you or me, it must be one of our other two partners. Where did the courier package originate from?”
“Are you still sitting down? that’s why I called you first.” Harmon said. “The package was sent from your own office building.”
“What? That’s impossible! Jesus Christ!” The room whirled around Roger like a cheap carnival ride. He sat down hard and wiped his forehead. “By God, Bill, it wasn’t me!”
"Relax, it's just a head game. I already figured you’re not the source. It can't be any of us; we've each got too much to lose. I have to tell Myers and Churnak right away. Everyone has to triple check their security."
“Shit. We better cancel the Friday game. This freak might have everything wired.”
"I've shut down the data link for now. We'll just let things cool down for a while until we can figure out how to catch this bastard and eliminate him."
Roger poured himself a glass of water but it didn’t relieve his dry throat, it just left a bitter aftertaste of fear. God this was a nightmare. How could they be so vulnerable? Roger said, "Bill, he can ruin everything."
“Not if we pay him, Roger. That'll at least buy us a little time. Got to go for now. Have a nice day,” he growled.
As the line went dead, Roger hung up and pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Katherine, come in here please.” Barely three seconds passed before his efficient secretary walked in and seated herself in eloquent silence before his desk. She was tall, and painfully plain looking with jet-black hair pulled severely back into an intr
icate bun. Not much got past her, so Roger asked,
“Katherine, was anyone hanging around the office yesterday? Someone who didn’t have an appointment?”
“No sir. Is anything wrong?” Her eyes narrowed. She could tell from Roger's stiff body language that he was under stress for some reason.
He forced his voice to sound casual, “What about maintenance or repair men, window washers, anyone like that? He saw her agitation and sank back casually into his two thousand dollar ergonomically designed chair. He deliberately reached into the gold box on the desk, selected a cigarette and lit it from the matching gold lighter, looking at her questioningly.
“No sir...” Katherine answered stiffly. “There was a man in the hall on a ladder fixing the elevator when I arrived... um... let’s see, the day before yesterday. Is that what you mean?”