The Liedeck Revolution Book #2: Endgame

by Jim Stark

  Victor took his pain medication and went back to bed. With any luck, he said to himself, I won't wake up.

  Chapter 40

  SELLING OUT

  Thursday, March 10, 2033—9:30 a.m.

  Lilly woke up in the morning to feel the sun streaming in the window at a steep incline. She figured she must have slept in, and then she remembered where she was—nearer the equator, where the sun got up a lot earlier and rose to heights unknown to Québec, and Canada. She turned over to snuggle with the man who had become her lover a few short hours ago, and found only rumpled sheets and a pillow. Maybe he's making breakfast for me, she thought drowsily.

  The master bedroom was wonderfully unMichaelesque. It was decorated ... playfully, she decided ... with local crafts, bright colors. Becky's hand. She sat up and lifted stray hairs from her face with a curled pinky finger. I hope he leaves it like this, she said to herself before she remembered that she might have a voice in the decor—not now, but maybe some day.

  She walked naked to the window, and backed off alarmedly. An old black gardener was sitting on a verdant knoll about twenty yards from the house, with his pruning tools, taking a toke break. He was looking up to the deck, and he had waved at her, and smiled! “Christ,” she muttered. She put on her blue housecoat, marched back to the window and closed the curtains roughly. She then walked out of the bedroom into the hall, did a quick U-turn, and walked right back in. That was close, she thought. My hair's a mess, and I'm pissed off—two pretty good reasons for sober second thoughts.

  She went into the bathroom. It had two distinct parts, one for the sunken green hot tub ... maybe later ... and a carpeted section with double sinks, a toilet, and ... a bidet! Who uses those things?

  She closed the door, thought about things for a moment, and decided to lock it. The bathroom was almost as big as the living room of her apartment back at Victor-E, and the lights were so bright she knew she'd feel vulnerable to be naked in here, even with the door locked. She lowered the intensity of the lights and hung her housecoat on a hook on the inside of the door. Remnants of anger bubbled in her gut as she washed her face and brushed out her long black hair. I'm angry that the gardener saw me. And ... I'm angry at Michael for not warning me. And I'm angry at the world for not respecting modesty like it used to. And I'm angry ... she hoped the list stopped there, but it didn't. I'm angry at me, she realized. I'm angry at me for being angry for no good reason. That man enjoyed seeing my body, and ... I didn't really mind, in my head.

  With effort, she regrouped emotionally while having a pee—overdue. If there was ever a morning when she should feel totally contented, this had to be it. She went back into the colorful bedroom and slipped out of her housecoat. For a fleeting moment, she considered reopening the curtains ... to let the sun in. She put on some flowery shorts she'd brought along and stood at the mirror, half dressed, wondering whimsically if she had the brass to go to breakfast like that. With my luck, I'll probably run smack into Noel, she figured, before remembering that her “luck” had recently taken a major turn for the better. After some thought, and a good bit of unconscious self-admiration in the mirror, she decided not to wear a bra. She threw on a white halter-top that left a bare midriff below and little to the imagination elsewhere. It would please him, she was sure, and it was one way she had to not be Becky. She couldn't imagine Becky, for all her Human Three liberation, walking around the villa with her bellybutton exposed. She's more a lady than a woman.

  Half way down the stairs, she paused to look through the expansive glass of the cathedral ceiling that arched over the living room at the front of the villa. Michael was outside, waving goodbye at two black limousines as they pulled away. Two other limos were still parked, and a small group of men in dark, unCaribbean suits were shaking hands with Michael, and with each other. Lilly didn't recognize them, but there was one Oriental man who looked like a photo she'd seen of Mr. Wu, Julia's trustee, the man who also handled Victor's money. It had to be him. She was sure she'd seen that face before, in her Netfiles.

  Something was going on. Something good, by all appearances, she said to herself, but why didn't he...

  The anger she had just recently buried seemed to rekindle itself against her will, and she realized she felt deceived. He should have told me this trip was also about business, she thought. She felt like a weekend fling, or like some kind of add-on. Mostly, she felt really stupid to be feeling what she felt. I'm disqualifying everything he's said to me, she realized, everything he's done, including last night.

  She beat her feelings back into submission, hurried down the carpeted stairs, and hid behind the front door, on the hinge side. After several long minutes, when Michael finally opened the door and sort of backed into the house while waving goodbye to the last of the limos, Lilly jabbed her clawed hands into his sides, from behind, on the ribs, and shouted “Boo!"

  Michael jumped, and yelped, but by the time he had turned around, he was laughing. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said as they embraced.

  Lilly kissed him. “And your point would be...?” she asked.

  Life with her will be fun, thought Michael. “You ready for breakfast?” he asked.

  "You bet,” she said. “For some reason I've got a biiiiig appetite this morning."

  Michael smiled inwardly as they walked hand-in-hand to the back of the villa and out to the deck, now an open-air dining area, where Noel had prepared a setting for their first breakfast together. It's her little way of thanking me again for the lovemaking, he thought as he watched the turquoise ocean lick at the white beach. She likes talking in ... parables and allegories. “Me too,” he said as he pulled a chair out for her.

  "Me too ... what?” she asked.

  "Me want food,” he uttered in a lowered voice, with a Tarzan of the Jungle tone.

  Noel brought out a carafe of fresh-squeezed pineapple juice, a pot of coffee, and two plates of day-starters: eggs, sunny side up, slices of Canadian bacon, toast, and mounds of overdone home fries. “I know it seems ordinary, but I love it,” Michael volunteered as he twisted the pepper mill. “I even had to make a somewhat secret ‘arrangement’ to smuggle in the Canadian bacon, in Noel's suitcase,” he laughed. “That's what it was all about with the Customs agent at the airport. I always get fined a thousand dollars, and I always pay the fine, but they never take the bacon away from me."

  "It's worth a thousand bucks to have illicit bacon?” she asked in amazement. “You capitalist oinker, you!"

  "I make three or four times that much every hour I'm at work,” Michael explained. “I never apologize for my success, and besides,” he added, popping a rasher and giving it a few chews, “it's so damned good, eh?"

  Lilly laughed. “I don't know how come we Americans don't cure our bacon like you do in Canada,” she said, forgetting momentarily that he was Québécois, at least officially. “It is the best in the world,” she conceded, popping a crisp slice into her mouth with her fingers. “So, was that ... about business?” she asked, slanting her head towards the front of the villa.

  "Oh, just a little three-minute signing ceremony,” said Michael. “It was scheduled for New York, this morning, but all those guys were more than happy to meet over here on my dime and get in a round of golf after it was all wrapped up."

  Lilly ate, and waited, and ate some more, and waited some more, but Michael seemed more intent on ogling her nipular areas than in explaining himself. This bears directly on our relationship, she thought fearfully. “So ... I'm supposed to ... not ask?"

  The old black gardener walked by behind a hedge, carrying a shovel and a rake over his shoulder, and apparently struggling with a decision whether or not to say hello.

  "Leon!” said Michael. “How are you, my old friend? Come here for a minute."

  Leon padded slowly over, showing a mouthful of very white teeth and eyes that were wetly pink where the whites were supposed to be. His wide black forehead glistened with new sweat, and sinewy muscles hardened youthfully
on his forearm as he shook hands with “the boss."

  "I'd like you to meet Lilly Petrosian,” said Michael.

  Lilly stood up. Her thin hand seemed to disappear into the calloused catcher's-mitt paw that Leon wore on the end of his wrist.

  "A pleasure, ma'am,” said Leon in a slow drawl. “I hope your stay in our beautiful island will bring you great pleasure."

  "Thank you,” said Lilly at the black and pink eyes that had enjoyed her whole body only minutes before.

  "Regards to the family,” said Michael as Leon turned and wandered away.

  "He's been with you forever, right?” said Lilly.

  "About ten years,” said Michael as he sat down. “I let him and his grandkids use the MIU and the pool table when I'm not here. He's a wise old fellow. He's been into that Human Three bit for the last few years, believe it or not, but frankly I don't notice any difference since he got into that stuff."

  Lilly decided to wait, to see if Michael would use the interruption as a convenient way to avoid the question she'd asked before Leon's arrival.

  "No,” he said, and his blue eyes betrayed a mischievous intent.

  His habit of trying to confuse her was “cute,” Lilly had decided ... but it could get tiresome. “No ... what?” she asked.

  "No ... you're not supposed to not ask about my business dealings,” he said. “I ... I wanted to tell you about the meeting last night, but it would have raised all the questions we're facing now, and I just wanted last night to be ... special ... unencumbered."

  "It was both,” said Lilly as she wiped her mouth with a serviette and then sat back in the chair, her glass of pineapple juice parked in her hand. Her heart was starting to thump beneath the thin halter-top as the memories flooded back.

  "It was a—uh—pre-emptive strike,” said Michael. “WebNet International has been trying to buy controlling interest in Whiteside Tech for several years, but the price was never right, never even close to what I wanted. Two days ago, they upped their offer by twenty percent. I couldn't believe it. So ... I sold."

  "Jesus carumba!” said Lilly. “So .. you're not ... the president of the company any more?"

  "Well, I still am for a little while,” said Michael. “The money for the sale has to stay in trust with the lawyers for a couple of weeks for technical reasons ... so WebNet can do their ‘due diligence,’ it's called. They have to look at the books, check all of the Minutes, review all of our contractual stuff—you know, that sort of thing."

  "But ... I thought you didn't own the controlling interest."

  "The family does,” said Michael. “Almost. We included Venice's small bit, plus Randy's one-point-seven percent, and some friends of the family are in on the deal too. Mother and Julia and I owned just over forty-three percent, so..."

  "How come Randy went in?” she asked. “I thought you were grooming him to take your place as president."

  Michael finished chewing his mouthful of home fries, swallowed, and wondered if he could or should explain this to Lilly. She was still with the WDA, but that wasn't going to be true for much longer, he figured. And besides, if this new relationship was to last, it had to be built on openness and trust.

  "If the LieDeck were unbanned,” he started, lifting a stray crumb from his mouth with a finger, “we'd have to bump production up by a factor of ten, and we'd make a boatful of dough—there's no doubt about that. Randy is involved with USLUC, as you know, but he doesn't really believe the LieDeck will be unbanned any time soon—although I guess WebNet believes it will. If Randy did think that USLUC could get what it wants, he'd hold onto all his shares and do whatever he could to buy more ... that's how I know that he doesn't really believe it. I ... just don't see it happening either, so I had no reason not to sell."

  "You never asked my opinion on that ... whether I had any insight into the unbanning situation,” said Lilly.

  Michael remembered a short discussion they'd had of that issue, but she was probably right—he hadn't actually asked her opinion—nor should he have done. “So, do you?” he asked as he stirred sugar into his coffee.

  "No,” she said, “and I'll get my LieDeck if you—"

  "Don't do that any more, okay?” asked Michael irritably. “It's a done deal anyway, and I trust you."

  Lilly was astonished. Michael had just taken a monumental decision, and he wasn't scared of finding out it was a mistake or elated with the prospect of selling his shares at a high price. “Can I ask how much you got?"

  "You can ask,” said Michael, “but I can't tell you until I tell the Board of Directors at five o'clock. It just wouldn't be proper, and that has absolutely nothing to do with your—uh—employment situation."

  Lilly said no to coffee, and then asked the key question that kept rumbling around in her mind. “Did anything I said to you before ... influence your decision?” she asked.

  "Yes,” said Michael, “but only to confirm what I'd already suspected. Our exclusive contract to produce LieDecks for the WDA comes up for review annually, and if I were the head of the WDA, I'd see a growing list of reasons not to renew it this year, reasons to let other companies in on the action. It's no secret that a lot of other companies have been squawking about our monopoly for a decade. Plus I've been getting nowhere fast in negotiations to get in on the new World Identity Bank deal. Plus ... well, I'm sure Julia's lifestyle is of no concern, but Becky's flirtation with—uh—this so-called Human Three Consciousness is a piss-off for the WDA. Randy's involvement with USLUC is another irritant for the WDA, and he's a lot more interested in golf than business anyway. And I felt it was wise to clear my agenda of corporate responsibilities if I'm going to...” He looked into her deep brown eyes with as little expression as he could manage, to see if she'd get it.

  "You're ... you're going to accept the Liberal leadership!” squealed Lilly.

  Chapter 41

  THOROUGHLY ENGAGED

  Sunday, March 13, 2033—3:30 p.m.

  Randy stood quietly, fiddling occasionally with his pork-pie hat. He was on the fringe of the very large seventeenth green—what he and his buddies called the frog-hair—staring at an impossible thirty-foot putt. It was, in reality, a nine-meter putt, but the game of golf was one of two Luddites (the other being the USA) that still resisted metrification. Randy didn't care how the hell it was measured: it was long and tricky, and the stakes were too high. He was one-up in his match with Howie Pilaster, his friend normally, his opponent today. The Florida sun blasted down relentlessly, at a slant that seemed far too vertical to a Québécois. This putt was for birdie, the result of a ho-hum third shot he had just made from the greenside bunker of the par-five, ocean-bordered hole.

  Howie had marked his ball a mere foot from the cup before Randy had conceded the par putt. Basically, Randy had made him bend down twice, once to spot the ball with a dime, and once to pick up the dime after the shot was conceded. They really were good friends, and they'd joked often about the mean-spirited head-games that could be played on a golf course, but that was in a classroom, in a bar, or in a locker room. This was real life here, one of the last term-paper showdowns that could make and break not only an academic scorecard, but a guy's career! With only a half-hour off for lunch, this day had been a grueling ten-hour, thirty-six-hole, no-holds-barred, one-on-one joust, and while Randy's position would be favorable if he went to the last hole one-up, this putt could win it for him “two-and-one"—two holes up with only one more hole to play.

  Randy had never felt quite this alone. There were no caddies allowed in this test. This was the semi-finals of the 2033 Interscholastic Knockout Tournament. This contest was match play, where you won, lost or tied every hole; not medal play, where each stroke on each hole was counted up. Win this hole, and he had the match. Win this match, then one more, and Randy would have established a firm foundation upon which to launch his pro career. Unlike all the other competitors, Randy's problem was not sponsorships, it was confidence. His knees shook. His stomach felt as if he'd gotten
falling-down polluted in some beer-joint last night. Adrenalin could only stand in for insufficient sleep for so long, and Randy was terrified that he would wallop a skanky duck-hook into the Atlantic if he had to haul his driver out of the bag one more time.

  A small and quivering hitch caught the right side of his mouth as he studied the putt and remembered the gratuitous advice he'd received from the wiseacre WDA agent who had elbowed her way into the manor on some bogus pretext. Don't look up until you've counted to three after impact, and pretend that the soul of Ben Crenshaw is controlling the swing, he reviewed. He continued to visualize the putt, as he'd been taught, while his putter swung like a pendulum, hung from the spine, back and forth on wrists of steel, just shy of the ball. Allow for a seven-inch drift right to left, and give it just enough speed, he thought, and that sucker will crawl into the gut of the hole like a drugged-up rat. Never mind that the green is slick as wet linoleum.

  From behind, and out of sight, Howie Pilaster cleared his throat, and Randy's anger flared invisibly. He had already addressed the ball, so he backed off and walked away to look over the putt from a different angle. I heard nothing, he told himself firmly as he walked back to his ball, took a down-the-line look and settled his feet. The act of lying to yourself in your own mind was beyond the reach of the WDA and their LieDecks ... and it worked, sometimes. My name is Ben Crenshaw, he told himself as he re-set his stance and executed two butter-smooth practice swings. He stepped a few inches closer to the ball, made one last visual check, imagined the curvature of the roll, validated the amount of borrow, and looked straight down. He tapped the ground minutely with the putter-head, to make sure the blade wouldn't hit the big green ball instead of the little white one, then he took a relaxed final breath and stroked the ball with the tenderness of an uxorious lover.