by Robert Berke
"It doesn't make any sense." Cruz acknowledged.
Gonzales took a slow sip of his hot coffee. "If it did, I'd still be on my yacht drinking mai tais, son."
"Dead men tell no tales..." Cruz said with one eye closed, pirate-style, venturing a dash of lightheartedness.
Gonzales did not acknowledge the lightheartedness and responded quite seriously, "I have a feeling we may find out otherwise, Mr. Cruz. Somehow, it seems, our dead man is talking."
CHAPTER X.
Smith never liked hearing what he couldn't do. And so he never liked having to ask advice from lawyers. He accepted the fact that lawyers were a necessity, much like health insurance or urination, neither of which were necessities for him in his present condition. SmithCorp employed the best lawyers in the country. The legal team was excellent at telling him what could and could not be done and also at advising him of the potential civil, criminal, and regulatory liabilities of various courses of action. But for those things which his team of experts would tell him couldn't (or shouldn't) be done, he always turned to Sammy Takahashi, if he could find him, or better yet, find him sober.
Sammy's phone was on vibrate. He knew he wouldn't hear it where he was, so he turned it to "meeting" mode and put it in his breast pocket. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and Sammy was three sheets to the wind. There were only three girls on the board and they were taking turns pretending to dance for Sammy and the two or three other non-tipping regulars who hung out at the Moviestar Topless Bar and Lounge on weekday afternoons.
"Hey sweetie, I think your phone's ringing," the girl on the stage, who called herself Kitty, crawled over to Sammy and whispered in his ear.
"Is that what their callin' it these days, doll?" Sammy quipped.
Kitty didn't get it, or at least pretended not to. "No, I mean I can see your phone lighting up in your pocket," she said extracting the phone from Sammy's pocket. The phone vibrated again as she held it, tickling the young woman as it did so. She giggled innocently and the phone fell on the floor. She picked it up and looked at the screen. "Who's Smith?" she asked in a faux little-girl voice that was also tinged with faux curiosity.
"Smitty!?" He said, suddenly sober and reaching for his phone.
"That woke you up, huh?," Kitty asked playfully as she pulled the phone just out of his reach. "He sent you a text message."
"Let me see that," Sammy said reaching again for his phone.
"Not until you tell me who it is, counselor." Kitty said teasingly.
"It's Elijah Smith from SmithCorp." Sammy told the girl matter-of-factly.
"Uh huh, and I'm the Queen of England. Like Elijah Smith is calling you."
"Hey, I wasn't born a nutty old drunk, you know. If you marry me, I'll introduce you some day. We've been friends since grade school."
"Maybe you'd like to meet my grandma, Romeo," she said to remind Sam that her only value to him was to play in his fantasies. Well I don't want you to take me to meet him now," she said looking genuinely sad and sorry. "The text says he's dead." She was sorry she had been mean just before having to deliver this bad news to one of her favorite customers.
She was surprised to see that he was nonplused by this information.
"So who sent the text, genius?" Sammy asked momentarily giving up on getting his phone back and instead fumbling for his reading glasses.
"It just says Smith..." the girl said, "and he wants to talk to you." Recognizing that playtime was over, she simply handed the phone back to a more serious and slightly sobered Sammy Takahashi and returned to her gyrating on the pole.
Even with his reading glasses he had to hold the phone far away to read the tiny print. He began typing a reply.
Sammy was still tic-tacking out his reply as the song on the jukebox ended. Kitty put her bikini-top on, picked up the few dollars that had been put on the stage, and walked over to Sammy. Sammy looked at Kitty over the rim of his reading glasses. "He's coming here."
"Really," Kitty said excitedly, "but I thought he was dead."
"He's fucking with me. I don't know what his game is, but last time I saw him he was so sick he couldn't even lift a finger. I've got no idea how he's going to get here. C'mon, I'll buy you a beer while we're waiting."
"He's coming now?" She asked.
"That's what he said." Sam replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Oh, I'm so excited." Kitty beamed, "I'm gonna meet a zillionaire. I'm going to go clean up." I'd marry a guy that rich in a heartbeat, she thought, even if he would be old enough to be my grandfather! A few steps away she turned her head back and said over her shoulder, "He's single right?"
Boy is she gonna be surprised, Sammy mused.
As Kitty walked away Sammy sidled up to the bar and motioned to the barmaid. "Hey Frieda, I got an old buddy coming to meet me here. Is there someplace quiet where we can talk."
"Use the lapdance booth. Its not getting any use today."
"Thanks doll. Get me a couple of pitchers too. My friend can really drink."
At the SmithCorp Building, Dr. Bayron was nervously going over protocols with Myra who would be delivering "Smith" to his meeting with Takahashi. Myra was getting impatient already.
"I got it....I got it, Doc. Will you please stop worrying." Myra said, eager to get out of the lab.
"Humor me Myra. I really don't think you understand the stakes here," Bayron insisted.
"Okay, last time though," Myra said with a combination of compliance and defiance. "First, I use this doohicky to sweep a 15 foot radius for bugs and cameras. Then I establish the connection to the private network with this. I wait for these three lights to tell me the connection is established, secure, and untapped. Then, and only then do I call you. You will enter your secret code then I will enter my secret code. If you give me the all clear, then, and only then, can I start the conference."
"All right." Bayron said, sliding a very, very plain looking laptop across the table to her. "Just, please take care of my baby."
Myra thought it was.... well, cute.... the way Bayron was so serious. "Doc, with all of this security, who do you think is even trying to break in?"
"Oh," said Bayron, "no one on the planet could break in. It's who I don't want to break out."
"I don't think you have to worry about Mr. Smith," she responded, her loyalty to her boss still undiminished.
Bayron's intensity broke. He chuckled. "Entertain yourself sometime by contemplating just how dangerous a thing it is that we've done."
It was Myra's turn to be serious. "Dangerous?" She asked.
"Super-dangerous." He replied. "We're not just transmitting data through the air here. We're transmitting sentient data. Data with its own mind. Imagine what you could do if you could shrink yourself down to the size of an atom and jump into the Internet." Bayron's eyes rolled back a little as if he were imagining it right at that moment. When he looked back at Myra, his face was a little paler. His brow was furrowed a little deeper. It was as if he had not quite fully come back from whatever he had just imagined. "On second thought," he said, "maybe don't think about it. It just might make you crazy."
If only he knew where I was going, she thought. But her orders were clear: Bayron was not to be told.
Bayron was a worrier by nature. That made him a good scientist and an even better doctor. He had never intended Smith to be anything other than a closed system, but to keep the system closed, would be to deny Smith his very humanity-- his contact with the outside world, his ability to create and learn, his ability to interact. Bayron was worried about Flat Stanley, the Russian. Did Dr. Petrovsky know something he hadn't told him? If he opened the system, would it be his friend Elijah Smith unleashed on the world, or this unknown entity also occupying Mr. Smith's mind space? Had Smith told him everything he was reading from Flat Stanley's mind? He didn't want to distrust his friend, but he couldn't help it.
When Myra arrived at the Moviestar Topless Takahashi was visibly antsy. Though he was always enthusiastic about s
eeing his old friend, there was a certain air of mystery about this particular get-together that made Takahashi feel apprehensive. Something was up. Last time he saw his old friend, he was clearly on his deathbed. Since that time, he had received numerous e-mails from Smith and knew that Smith's brain preservation plan was well underway and going well. But they both knew there was no way Smith was ever getting out of that bed again. Now he was on his way to the Moviestar Topless? It didn't make sense. Was he going to try to bring his entire hospital bed with all of the tubes and wires and monitors into the seedy bar that Sam treated as his second home?
Seeing Myra walk in surprised him further
Myra spotted Takahashi immediately and approached him at the bar. Takahashi tried hard to read her demeanor and chuckled to himself. He could see that she was trying to pretend that the decadent sights and smells around her were a perfectly normal part of her milieu, and he could see that she was failing miserably.
Myra, for her part, noticed that Takahashi was looking past her. Looking for Smith, no doubt. She was also amused by this and tried to think of a clever way to approach Takahashi with her weird news.
Takahashi, always the gentleman (a skill derived from years of womanizing), spoke first. "Hello, dear," He said rising from his seat and grasping her hand gently before pulling out a chair for her. "Where is my old friend?"
"In here," Myra said pointing to her briefcase.
"So he's not coming?" Takahashi asked.
"He'll be here soon," she said, hoping to keep the mystery and tension going on long enough to set up the modified laptop, "but I have to make some preparations before he gets here. Is there an office or something here we can use?"
"Yeah," Takahashi said, "I've arranged to use the lapdance booth. Its very private and quiet, and its actually quite comfortable."
Takahashi led the dark-haired Myra to the little lap-dance booth in the back of the club. Her professional demeanor, styled hair, and grey pinstriped pantsuit were like the lines and arrows on a police photograph. They emphasized each aspect of Myra that did not fit-in at the Moviestar Topless and drew the attention of everyone else in the club. She knew that everyone in that place, male and female alike, were sizing her up, checking her out, and rating her on their own individual scales. She liked that feeling. She knew she looked good. A guilty thought crossed her mind: I could give these guys a show they'd never forget.
The lap dance room was small, comfortable and clean as promised. But, every detail in the room suggested seedy, seemy sexuality. There were two small sofas, covered in well-worn red velour, with a small table between them. Framed prints of lingerie clad woman, one with a schoolgirl theme, one vaguely dominatrix-like, adorned the walls. A heavy velvet curtain separated the booth from the rest of the club, a small chandelier with three tealight bulbs, each obscured with a red shade, provided the only light. The music, which had been blaringly loud in the main lounge was subdued in the little lap dance room, perhaps because of the heavy velvet curtain. The mechanical drumbeats and electronic melodies of oldies from the 1980's were audible, but not so loud as to interfere with a conversation. Usually the conversations in the room did not involve business, at least not this kind of business. Bringing Myra into this room embarrassed Sam. Myra noticed that.
Myra proceeded to sweep the room with the handheld device as instructed by Dr. Bayron. After satisfying herself that the lap-dance booth at the Moviestar Topless Bar and Lounge was not bugged, she pulled out the laptop and flipped it on. The laptop hummed and whirred. Sylvia, the barmaid, called from outside the velvet curtain, "Sammy, can I come in with your beer?" Sam opened the curtain and let her in. She put the two pitchers of beer she was carrying next to the computer on the little table between the sofas. "I'll be right back with the mugs."
Some people disappear, Zelig-like, within their surroundings, easily adopting the tone and color of whatever scene they find themselves in. Others cause their surroundings to adapt to them. It was clear to Sam that Myra had the latter effect on the Moviestar Bar. After all, as far as he could remember, Sylvia had never asked to enter the booth before.
The three lights on the laptop lit and burned steady. This was Myra's cue to call Bayron for him to establish the connection. She dialed his cell-phone.
"Bayron," the voice on the other end answered.
"Hi, doc, its Myra. I've got the three lights."
"Okay, Myra, put your code and I'll put mine." Myra typed a short phrase into the computer. The screen lit up. "All clear Myra. The conference will start in three... two... one..."
The laptop's speakers cackled a bit and then clear as a bell, Smith's computer generated voice came through, "Hello? Hello?"
"Mr. Smith, can you hear me? This is Myra."
"Loud and clear Myra."
Myra addressed her cell phone, "Okay doc, we've got the connection. I'm going to hang up on you."
"Bye. And be careful, please." Bayron hung up first.
The computer voice spoke again. Smith had gotten skilled at manipulating the computerized voice and the intended warmth in his tone was successfully conveyed. "Sam, you son of a bitch. Why the fuck are you still alive?"
"Clean living, old man, clean living," Takahashi said as he reached to pour himself a beer.
"Pour one of those for me too, you booze hound." The computer voiced.
"So you can see me, but I can't see you? That's hardly fair, Smitty."
"Oh, but you're mistaken, Sammy. You are seeing me. This is all there is."
Takahashi took a long draw from his mug. "You son of a bitch. You really did it."
"My body died days ago. The whole damn thing. Brain and all. But I'm still alive, goddammit. I'm still human."
"This is fucking incredible," Takahashi stammered.
Smith let out a series of ha-has. "Always the poet, eh, Sammy. I've just revealed to you that I have become immortal. That I hold the key to becoming God and all you can say is, 'fucking incredible'. But listen, I want you to organize the press conference announcing my death. We're going to let the obituary writers break the story of the century. Just get some writers who can do better than, 'fucking incredible', okay?"
"Even from the grave you still have to fuck with people."
"Beyond the grave, my ass. I'm as alive as you are."
"Then why the funeral announcement."
"Because I still have to fuck with people. Its just not from beyond the grave. But Sammy, that's all just for fun. I have to discuss something far more serious with you. Myra, would you excuse us please?"
Myra left the room and Smith continued. "I'm going to e-mail you three names. I need to find out who these people are and what they could possibly have to do with me. Dr. Bayron won't let me access the internet. I can only communicate by e-mail, so I can't do this research on my own. I do not trust everyone on my team right now. I have an anonymous address [email protected]. Make an e-mail address at an anonymous remailer and send me a verification so we'll only communicate about this through the remailer, okay."
"Hhgttg, I still remember that." Takahashi smiled.
"I know it's a little silly to say, but I don't think all this secrecy is overkill. I genuinely have a sense that I, or people close to me, are in danger. Myra has a briefcase in her car with $100,000 cash as a down payment on your retainer. She is going to set you up with a second SmithCorp expense account. As far as she knows, this is only about the press-conference and the legal issues it may raise. Neither she nor anyone else on my team is to know anything of the names I am asking you to research. Can I count on you?"
"You're an ass for even asking me that."
"When I was flesh and blood, I never had a doubt. Now that I am something else, I wasn't sure you would still regard me as a blood brother. I don't have blood anymore."
"Your blood has run in my veins ever since we cut our palms and shook on it what, fifty years ago? Don't say you don't have flesh and blood. I'm your flesh and blood."
"Sam, you're still the on
ly person on the planet I trust. So, if you're my flesh and blood lets have another beer and... hey, get me a lapdance."
Sam poured another beer and pulled back the velvet curtain. With the curtain open the music suddenly got much louder in the lapdance room. "Kitty!" He yelled into the bar, "get over here and give my friend a lap-dance."
"Wait for the next song!" Kitty yelled back.
Shortly thereafter, Kitty entered the booth and looked around. Not seeing anyone besides Sam confused her for a moment. She noticed the little camera on the laptop computer and looked at Sam quizzically. Sam nodded. Kitty bent down and looked into the camera. "Hey, gorgeous," she heard the laptop say.
"Are you really Elijah Smith?" She asked, still looking at the camera.
The computer chirped, "you bet I am, darlin'. Now get over here an give me a little dance."
Kitty began to do a slow, suggestive dance in front of the camera in time to the music. "Do you like that, Mr. Smith?" She asked the computer through pouted lips.
"Oh yeah, I do." Smith said to Kitty. "Sam, how ‘bout you give us a little privacy? I'm getting a god damn lapdance here. Having you looking on isn't making it any sexier."
Takahashi's face was already red from the alcohol he had consumed that day, but it took on an even redder tone when he realized that he was, in fact, sitting and watching his friend get a lapdance. "Sorry, Elly." He said, "you've just got admit that this isn't the kind of thing you get to see everyday."
"Yeah, yeah," the computer voice said as Takahashi clumsily parted the curtains to leave the booth. "And send Myra in when this song is over, okay?"
A moment later, Sam had left the lapdance room and rejoined Myra in the main lounge. Myra had ordered a diet Coke and seated herself at the bar. She and Sylvia were talking and appeared to be enjoying each other's company.
"What's going on in there?" Myra asked, when she saw Sam coming toward her.
"Uh...guy stuff," Takahashi answered. "You wouldn't understand.