“It is.”
She turned to face me. “You have to be careful.”
“Oh really? Of what?”
“If you keep treating me to views like this, you’re going to find it very difficult to get me to leave.”
I took a sip. “And here I thought you were here for me, not the view.”
She pouted. Cute. “You know what I mean.”
I smiled. “I know what you mean.”
We kissed, deeply, and ended up on the strategically-placed rug and throw cushions (also from the realtor). With the lights off, I took her on as many surfaces as I could muster until I couldn’t hold myself back any longer.
Later, while she slept off the workout, I stood on the balcony, enjoying the rest of the champagne, my back to the skyline. Through the glass, I watched her sleeping, shifting effortlessly amongst fifteen pillows. I was too wired. Too many things to think about, uncertain of my feelings for Olivia.
I turned and took in the city. Monochrome steel and glass monoliths were lit up at various intervals. Shades of gray and white and yellow. The city, it appeared, was also unable to find slumber.
The minutes turned to hours. I sleeplessly watched the skyline until the lights went out and the sun rose, signaling the start of the new day.
Chapter 19
Friday—mid-morning. Time to check in. I found a bank of six payphones several blocks from the office. I had promised myself never to use the same phone twice in a row. More paranoia. I trust you know why. The more this kicked in, the more nervous I got. The higher the bank balances went, the more I realized I was forging deep relationships with very bad people. Guilty by association? For all my shortcomings, I still never considered myself a bad person.
The operator answered, and I read out my character code from memory. In return, she gave me the evening game’s location. I made a mental note of it and hung up. I enjoyed the efficiency of the system, the transactional nature of it. You gave something, you got something. Nothing more, nothing less.
Back in the office, I put my weekly research to the test. One morning that week, I decided to invest heavily in a fledgling tech company out of Spain that seemed to be pregnant with potential. The thing is, this little company only had holdings in the thousands, but it was about to release AI. And not some shitty version of AI. Not some dude in a robot outfit, not some toy that followed you around. And certainly not some piece of software that creates memes. I’m talking about full-on intelligence. Think of turning your house into a living, breathing environment, where your house knows everything before you do. Not just climate control, not just lights and temperature. I’m talking about TV, cooking, cleaning.
As I had researched the company, everything connected subconsciously for me. So, I pooled work investments with my personal stash, as well as Talon’s financial injection, into the company, and waited breathlessly for their announcement, which was expected that afternoon.
But there was no announcement. They had scheduled the press conference for three p.m. local time. I watched, waited, and then panicked. As the hour came and went, the more sweat appeared on my forehead, the shorter my breaths became, and the tighter my chest felt. Had I been wrong? Surely not. The research was sound, the intelligence undeniable. You needed three points to draw a straight line, and I didn’t have three—I had seven. Seven seemingly disconnected, almost random pieces of data. On the surface, on their own, they were separate. But in my eyes, together, they created the perfect picture. It was happening. It had to happen.
It was four p.m. Still nothing. As time ticked by, my sleeves became shorter, my tie became looser, my bladder became smaller. Normally, day to day, I wasn’t one to get anxious or panicky. But when my expectations—not of others, but of my own intelligence—aren’t met, then self-doubt creeps in. My initial thoughts of putting all my eggs in one basket, to halve the work required, seemed to be coming back to bite me.
Five p.m. Still nothing. I had sent emails. Sent text messages. Made phone calls. I received a range of responses from various individuals that would have made a politician go weak in the knees. I laid my head on my desk, my beautiful desk in my wonderful office with my tremendous views. Perfectly perfect. It felt like I was sitting on a powder-keg, waiting for the fuse to be lit, and the flame was getting closer to the wick. Teasing. Dance, monkey, dance.
Someone cleared their throat, and the sudden sound in my silent office made me jump in my chair and just about shit my pants. I looked up to see Tealson sitting opposite me. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, his palms together as if praying, his fingers tapping his lips. His right leg bounced on his left. That fatherly, disapproving look in his eyes. Like when a priest catches you masturbating in the confessional.
I ran a hand through my hair, straightened my tie, and rolled down my sleeves. If you can’t play the part, look the part. “Mr. Tealson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Don’t fuck with me, kid. What’s going on?”
I found one of my cufflinks and tried to thread it through my cuff. “What on earth are you talking about?” Sound confident. It’s important.
“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t know?”
He stood. I watched as he moved forward, leaning on the desk, looming over me.
“Know about what?” Play dumb. Nothing is wrong.
He folded his arms. “There’s that same smart-arse shit again. You don’t think I’m watching everything you do. Every transaction, every dollar.” His voice raised an octave with every word. “You dumped a large proportion of our funds into some shit-ball, two-cent company on the verge of sweet fuck-all, and you thought I wouldn’t find out?” His face contorted.
I finished my second cuff. Damn stupid silver fuckers. Magnetic cuffs. Now there’s a billion-dollar idea right there. Every year around the globe, retailers sell about two billion business shirts. Let’s say a quarter require cufflinks, and a quarter of those (initially) are sold with magnets sewn into the fabric. You can pick them up for a few cents in China and then sell them for ten bucks each. Five hundred million times ten dollars is a fuck-ton (technical term) of money. And people will pay an extra ten for a shirt so they didn’t have to fuck around with cufflinks. Shit, maybe I was in the wrong game. Maybe this human stock market idea was complete shit and I should turn my passions instead toward men’s fashion. But I digress.
I stood. “And what makes you think this won’t pay off?”
“Has it paid off?” He asked, cracking his knuckles, projecting superiority.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I didn’t know what to say, other than, “Have I ever been wrong before?”
“There’s always a first time, kid. Always a first time. And fuck it, if it’s not this time, it will be eventually.”
“Well then, why the fuck did you put me in this job in the first place?”
Tealson cracked his neck. “Because I thought you had some talent. But even the well-respected and all-powerful like me get it wrong sometimes. You fly a little close to the sun, and you’re going to get a little burnt, kid. But trust me when I say, I’m not going down in flames with you. I’ll use your skin as a parachute and your lifeless corpse as a cushion.”
He raised his hand back, ready to launch it into my face. He was going to hit me with a back hander across the cheek. It would sting and hurt like fuck. But then the pain would subside, and I would have learned a valuable lesson.
I closed my eyes and waited for the impact. My mind raced forward. What would happen after the impact? An apology? Would he make it up to me? Give me a pay raise? Would I cry? Whimper? Apologize for my actions? All I could think about was what would happen afterward.
After what felt like a tense eternity, a ding rang from my computer.
Still on edge, I opened my eyes and looked up. Tealson was gone. I stared around my empty office. I was alone.
I looked down at my computer and saw the company had made the announcement and their stock price was already rising. Invest
ors from all over were seeing the unlimited potential of the technology. It would be in every home in every country. But none of them had picked up the stock like we did.
“Have I ever failed you before?” I asked to the empty room. “No. No, I fucking haven’t.”
And yet Tealson’s words still echoed in my head.
You fly a little close to the sun, and you’re going to get a little burnt, kid.
Chapter 20
I walked the last few blocks. It was a clear night, the moon looming large in the dark sky. A thin layer of moisture covered every surface. I skipped over a few puddles, my hands deep in my coat pockets, gripping the stack of notes I had amassed. A limo drove past me, windows impossibly black against its even darker paint job, its silver wheels spinning beyond comprehension, mesmerizing. And then another. And then another. It was a parade of chauffeur-driven automobiles, each more prestigious than the last, as if they were trying to outdo each other.
At the next corner, a big guy in a big coat asked to see my membership card. I obliged. As he spoke, he looked like a bulldog chewing on a bumblebee. If he wasn’t working security, he could have been playing football. Hell, he might’ve even played football. I just knew he probably had some type of semi-automatic gun slung over his shoulder, hidden under his coat. He waved me through, telling me to walk around to the back.
The building stood starkly in the night. It was the Fulton Fish Market—a massive structure, the second largest of its kind in the world, handling millions of pounds of seafood every day. It was known as the New York Stock Exchange of Seafood. But tonight, it wasn’t about the crustaceans or shellfish. It was about the game and, more importantly, the launch. Dark cars continued to drive past me toward the rear of the building as I continued my trek to the southeast corner, a hell of a journey over the four hundred thousand square foot facility. I didn’t mind—it gave me time to think.
Several other security guards lined the building walls, checking the cars to make sure the people arriving were the ones who were supposed to be there. Compared to the locations of the other underground games, this seemed like a public display. I think more than anything, Talon was putting on a show, flashing his weight to his special guests.
A guard directed me through a large entryway, which was normally used for loading trucks and trailers, where another guard pointed to my right. The smell of seafood clung to me, blending in with the smells of the concrete and steel interior. The occupants had turned on a few indoor lights, which cast large, sprawling shadows on the walls. My footfalls echoed with the others in the space who had come before and after me. Crates, boxes, and machinery lined the walls, and not a single employee was in sight.
I walked up a set of steel steps and through a doorway. Tessa was sitting there at a desk, a nearby lamp giving her wrinkled face an ominous glow. She was smoking a cigarette. Suitcases lined the walls behind her, and a guy wielding a shotgun stood there, guarding them. He looked German. Don’t ask me why I thought that; he just did. He had a square face, with just as much brown, wavy hair below his mouth as above his eyes.
I approached. “Tessa, my beautiful, how are you this fine evening?”
She didn’t flinch. “And how much tonight, kid?”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” I said, pulling out a stack of notes from my jacket pocket and placing the stack on the desk. “A bit more to play with tonight.”
She huffed and looked at me. “See those suitcases behind me?”
I looked again but didn’t need to.
“Imagine thirteen more stacks of bills.”
“I see,” I replied.
Tessa ignored me and arranged the appropriate number of chips into a chestnut box that had my ten-character sequence on the front and slid it across the desk. I guess my previous buy-in wasn’t big enough to warrant my own box. Although, I had a feeling my container would be decidedly empty compared to others who brought with them briefcases full of cash.
“Big night tonight, kid. Lots of big, important players. Best you don’t fuck this up, because if you do, a bullet in your mouth will be the least of your problems. Have you ever had your balls in a vice, young man? Enough pressure to make them pop? Makes for a fucking sound, that does.”
I smiled weakly and picked up my box.
She pointed to the room next door. “You’d better get in there. Not long before we start. Trust you make a good impression.”
“I always—”
“Table four,” she barked, waving me away. She had no time for my bullshit.
The room next door was twice as large as the rooms in which I had previously played the game. A makeshift bar straddled one wall. Booze sat on steel shelves; glasses still nestled in cardboard boxes until required use. It gave the place a funky industrial vibe. People milled around, some wearing expensive suits, others in long dresses, tumblers with various shades of liquid alternating with cigars and cigarettes.
If I were to hazard a guess, I would say the collective standing in that room were responsible for hundreds of deaths, trillions of laundered funds, corruption to the highest powers—and not a single day spent in jail for any of it. Perhaps crime does pay. It also made me incredibly nervous. These people didn’t fear the law; they feared each other. One thing kept the peace when it came to things like this: respect.
I weaved through the traffic to get to the bar and nestled between two other players to order a drink. Over the cacophony, I shouted my command, and a girl in a tight, white business shirt, which was unbuttoned to her belly button, obliged. Her hair was blonde, her eyes blue. She sported a Celtic knot tattoo in her unrestrained cleavage. I wanted her. I would have her later, after all the madness had died down, after all these underground bosses and dark figures were worshipping my brilliance.
Just then—a scoff. “You!”
I turned. Next to me was Alan. He held a drink in his bandaged hand, which had a stump where his pinky finger used to be. I’ll admit—I stared. I was curious! What can I say?
“In for a big game tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said. Then he spun off his stool and walked away.
The rest of the patrons followed suit and cleared out of the bar. I looked left, then looked right. I was now the only one waiting for a drink, which was strange, because I hadn’t heard the call to begin. I could recognize Tessa’s low-pitched holler, which wafted through the air like a police siren on a clear winter’s night. My drink arrived, and the gorgeous bartender disappeared just as quickly.
I picked up the heavy glass. Then I heard a cough, a clearing of a throat. I turned. At first, I saw nothing other than the entire room looking at me. But I realized it wasn’t me they were looking at. It was the person standing in front of me, who was hidden from my view because of his height. I looked down.
“Do you know who I am, motherfucker?”
I took a sip from my drink, trying not to piss my pants.
“I would be a fool if I didn’t. You’re ‘The Devil,’ if I’m not mistaken.”
He smirked. “You are not mistaken.”
The Devil was four foot nothing, but he wasn’t one to fuck with. His reputation preceded him in my professional circles. Deep pockets, a thirst for anything up and coming, likes to diversify. All of this while having a strangle hold on the city, slowly choking it through organized crime. Rumor has it he didn’t have any links to the traditional families, so he started his own and elbowed his way to the top. There’s quite a bit to admire about him.
His black face was smooth, almost innocent, but his dark eyes portrayed something more sinister. He wore a plaid bow tie and a checkered dinner jacket. I so badly wanted to rub his shiny, bald head. I wanted to breathe on it and shine it with my sleeve. I wanted to grab his cheeks and shake them. Fuck, that would be funny. So funny. It would also be a death wish. And that death would come slowly.
“I wanted to come and introduce myself personally,” he said, his hardened drawl emanating from his fat lips.
I noticed a deep knife attack scar running along the side of his neck. The guy who did it—a hitman—well, let’s just say he didn’t enjoy the remaining six months of his life. Not just physically either, but mentally. That’s right. Mr. Devil here liked to fuck you from all angles.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“I’m looking forward to later on,” he said. “But I must say, you’d better not be wasting my time.”
Three loud claps echoed from the doorway, prompting an immediate hush.
Tessa stepped forward. “Dignitaries, honored guests, members of the police, ladies and gentlemen...”
My heart skipped a beat. Did she say police?
“Please prepare and take your seats at your designated tables. Let the games begin.”
Chapter 21
My table featured usual suspects alongside me: Nate, Olessa, Sean, Alan (minus one finger), and Jean. But there was something different about Jean that night—it took me a full minute to figure out what it was. The patch over her eye. Shit! Don’t know how I missed it, to tell you the truth. Talon had plucked her left eye out! I hoped to fuck he left my name out of his conversation with her.
My morbid curiosity took over. I found myself imagining how it had been done. Maybe with her knees rubbing against the rough concrete, as she looked up at him in despair. Maybe he stood over her, one hand on the back of her head to keep her steady, her hair running through his fingers. Perhaps his other hand held a knife, his arm pulled back, ready to plow in. She might have pleaded, begged, bartered, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it. Once he sets his mind on something, it’s a given. Her screams must have echoed around the room. Justice served. Balance maintained.
Made me sick thinking about it. I shook my head, tried to dissolve the daydream and focus on the game.
All the players nodded to each other in recognition, but everyone avoided eye contact with me. I didn’t know whether they feared me after what happened to Alan, or if I just hadn’t yet earned their respect. I wondered how the other players viewed Aston, the guy I replaced. Was it all slaps on the backs and high fives, or the same cold shoulder I received?
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