by Lizz Lund
“What’s so different about that?” Bauser asked.
“No, I mean, like right on top of an existing store. Or, say, in the middle of the Susquehanna.”
“Would make for one hell of a fishing department,” Bauser retorted.
“I suppose opening retail stores don’t use a restaurant row concept?” asked Ike.
“Similar, but not exactly,” Norman said. “According to Buy-A-Lots’ market analysis, they don’t want to be the only Buy-A-Lots in a county, but at the same time they certainly don’t want to out-convenience their own convenience. Like building right next to an existing store.”
Trixie’s “Huh?”came out muffled, through a mouthful of Raspberry Brownie sandwich.
“The thing is, Buy-A-Lots ran with the whacky data. And How-weird knew it. They made a lot of corporate decisions – and investments – based on bogus assumptions.”
“Oh. Like Iraq?” asked K. We all nodded at him. He was getting it.
“Then, when we gave the data update, with the real data, that blew their forecasting out of the water. So now How-weird is trying to figure out a way to make the bogus data seem actual, and the actual data seem somewhat bogus. But incrementally, because we have to wean their system off the fake whacky data and onto the real whacky data, but without too many whacky results.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“Because How-weird’s making me do the tweaks. He’s finally realized he can’t shift the blame to the real data, so he’s shifting it to development. And of course, he’d never shift the blame by admitting a mistake, or the truth,” Norman said. “Which means every time I ‘fix’ something, to try to get the actual data to give similar bogus results, I’m meddling with years of research. And development.”
Gack. So that’s why Norman kept getting corralled into weekends. Eeek.
“So that’s why I’ve been running tons of backups. Assuming, once all’s said and done, Howard wants the king’s men to put all the bits and pieces together again.” Norman took another swig of beer. I made another hash mark in my napkin. This might have made three or more whole swigs of beer he had taken. Maybe in his whole entire lifetime.
“Anyway, the system started to get real funky when Norman ran the data re-runs,” Bauser said. “So awhile back I did a concurrent live time monitor while Norman ran a fake run.”
“And?” I asked.
“Someone is monitoring each and every run of Norman’s, but only against the sample data,” Bauser said.
“How can you tell that?” asked Ike.
“Because I put out packet sniffers,” replied Bauser.
“Huh?” we all asked.
Ma clapped a hand to her forehead. “Of course!” I looked at her and winced. Ma and Bauser looked around at the rest of us, and realized we were clueless. “A packet sniffer is a program that is able to go out across a network and tell you who’s sending out what – whether it’s an email or FTPing data. The more sophisticated ones can even tell you who’s packet sniffing you back,” she explained.
Bauser blushed. “Well actually, not more sophisticated – more like modified.”
Ma looked at him like she’d just discovered chocolate. If Bauser kept playing his cards this way, he’d be out of EEJIT and in New Jersey with Ma’s firm before the ink was dry.
“Anyway, we still can’t pinpoint who’s spying on my runs,” Norman explained.
“How come?” asked Vito.
Bauser said, “Too many sales reps logged into EEJIT from too many outside locations.”
“So that’s why I ran concurrent runs against the sample data,” Norman said, with another swig. “I haven’t done that before, mostly because I was afraid it might hang the system while other data runs were going out. But the fire was the perfect opportunity. I figured most everyone was logged out, and mine would be the only programs compiling. I’m hoping the concurrent behavior will get the Watcher to launch multiple tracking. Which is easier to be sloppy with, and maybe give us a clue.”
“Mina, I’m impressed that you work with these guys,” Vito said.
“Work with us? Heck, she just hangs around and gets konked on the noggin,” Bauser joshed. I tossed a breadstick at him. Jim caught it mid-flight.
Suddenly we were all chatting away with different people and different conversations about the same thing: whodunit? When at last we came to a lull, Trixie piped up, as she looked out the window.
“Gee, Vito, I’m surprised you didn’t bring your niece over with you.”
Vito flushed, Aunt Muriel choked on some melted ice cubes and Ma cleared her throat. “Oh, Annie, you mean,” Vito said, smiling and showing off his bridgework. “Oh, well, uh, she had to go back home to, uh, Virginia.”
“Really?” Trixie asked, still looking outside.
“Yeah, uh, that boss of hers, he’s got her doing lots of stuff for him,” Vito said. He mopped his brow with a crumpled napkin.
“Gee, does she live close to the Beltway?” Ike asked.
“Huh?”
Now it was Ethel’s turn. “Vito, does your niece live in Northern Virginia?”
“Oh, yeah, sure…”
“Gee, where? We live in Springfield.”
“Where does she work?” toyed Trixie.
“Uh, D.C., I think…”
“Then don’t you think it’s kind of funny that she’s been parked across the street from us for the past two hours?” Trixie asked.
Vito gulped and looked a lot like Vinnie when he’s about to cough up a hairball. I looked over at Trixie. She had a very determined look on her face. I suddenly felt very, very sympathetic for Appletree or any other prospective boyfriend she might have.
Everyone, including Vinnie, Jim and the Ratties, dove to the living room windows to gape at Vito’s niece, Annie, sitting parked across the street from my house. Except for Trixie and Vito. I didn’t move because I couldn’t. My head felt like cement. Besides, K. was using my shoulders for a perch.
“So, what is it?” Trixie asked Vito.
“Hey, Trix,” Vito began.
“You wanna see your little doggie again? I heard what you did from my old boyfriend George at the animal shelter.”
CHAPTER 6
(Tuesday Night)
Vito’s lip quivered and he began to cry. It started out with his back turned then went into a full soaker hose drenching. During the course of which everyone got distracted from the windows.
“Sos I called the animal shelter and says I want to adopt the little fella,” Vito sniffed. “But they says they can’t adopt a dog out what’s not theirs. So I had to turn him in.”
Aunt Muriel exchanged glances with Ma. Ma dove into the kitchen and got the roll of paper towels and handed them to Auntie. Aunt Muriel broke off two towels, handed one to Vito, and they blew in unison. Vito smiled wanly. The rest of us grabbed our napkins and blew.
“So now what?” cried K.
“I gotta leave him there for 72 hours, on account of he could be licensed to someone who might be looking for him. The dumb jerk. Who could let a little fella like Stanley run around, anyways?”
“Stanley?” we all parroted.
“I had to call him something! Besides, it’s a very historical and dignified name.”
“Only if you’re a rabbit,” said K.
“No, that’s Harvey,” Aunt Muriel corrected.
“Do you mean like Stanley the Great, of Poland?” asked Ike.
“Exactly!” Vito smiled. Ethel hung her head.
“Well, he might actually have been lost. It could have just been an accident,” Ike said. Ethel elbowed him.
“So what happens after 72 hours?” Norman asked.
Vito wiped his nose and blew. “I get to go in and get him,” he said. “Unless he does have a previous owner, and he claims him before I do.” He looked at Trixie and sniffed.
“Oh, for Pete’s sakes,” Trixie said. “You already put dib
s on him. You don’t think they want another doggie for their collection, do you?”
“No, no. I guess not.”
“Hey, what time is it?” Trixie asked.
Bauser checked his wristwatch – which has the accuracy of the Hubble Space Telescope – and said it was 10:11:04:0000567 p.m. Since Vito had turned the gnawing Terrier in at a little after 9 a.m., we assured him he was over twelve hours into what was going to eventually be the home stretch. Only 59:49:56:0000033 to go. In layman’s terms, another two and a half days. Another two dinners. Another three bird fluffed lunches. Yikes. I set my shoulders and jaw line into the ready position for the upcoming dyspepsia and associated Swifferings.
“Don’t you think we should invite her in?” asked K. “I mean, after all, she is his niece – she can’t possibly stay out there all night!”
“Who are you talking about?” Norman asked.
“Annie,” he answered.
Vito leapt across the room and stood in front of the door. “NO! NO! NO!” Ma and Muriel shrieked.
“She probably just forgot something. Or maybe she’s counting change,” Vito added.
“You could at least offer her dessert,” Trixie said levelly.
“Look, I’ve really gotta go. I could bring her a brownie on my way out, and let her know she’s welcome to come in and join you,” Norman said.
After some micro-debate and some more NO-NO-NOing from Vito, Ma and Auntie, K. packaged up a brownie in a tin foil swan a la doggie bag and sent Norman trudging across the street toward Annie’s car. Vito stood by the windows, looking out and sweating a lot. I checked my AC. Yup, it was working. Do senior guys get hot flashes?
Ethel, Ike and K. started cleaning up. Oddly, Aunt Muriel and Ma hovered around Vito’s window watching.
“I thought they gave you today to decide about being on the Plan,” I said, and let Bauser in about Lee and her crew. He shrugged.
“Either I’m on the Plan or I’m out of work,” he said. “But even if I’m out of work, EEJIT still owes me a boat load of back vacation pay,” he finished
“How? I thought they bought you out already? Isn’t that why you bought the wall-to-wall TV?”
“They bought me out some, not all. Part of my strategy for job security, with the corporate takeover. I figured they would hate parting with a full payout.” I nodded. I had to hand it to Bauser: he was pretty smart.
There came the sound of squealing tires, and a car sped away from the curb. Vito looked out the window. “See, she was probably just counting change, after all,” he said. “She’s got a long drive ahead of her, don’t forget.” He sat down and mopped his brow.
A firecracker went off outside. Then some cursing and shouting in Vietnamese went off. The doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw Mrs. Phang. “This yours,” she snarled and pointed.
“What?” I asked.
“Man in driveway!” she huffed at me.
I went down the front path and saw Norman sitting at the bottom of the driveway at the curb, holding his forehead in his hands and bleeding. Apparently, Norman got shot.
After some shrieking and more shouting in Vietnamese and various regional American accents, we got Norman inside while Trixie cleaned him up and gave him the once over.
“You’re lucky; it just grazed you,” she said, cleaning his wound with vodka and making him wince. Ma and Aunt Muriel winced, too, but I had a feeling that was more about Trixie using their Absolut. Bauser came back into the house with Norman’s towel, and held it out to him. Norman slung it over his shoulder, and pressed a cold beer to his forehead.
“Well this is just ridiculous!” K. pronounced, hands on hips. “I mean, really, what is this neighborhood coming to?”
Vito tsk-tsked him. “Hey, this neighborhood’s good. This shooting is a very unusual happenstance,” he said.
“I think we should call the police,” Trixie said, getting all slitty eyed.
“No!” Vito and I shouted, and looked at each other. Clearly, we both had very different reasons for wanting Trixie to never call the police.
Trixie pouted. “He did get shot at, you know. And it wasn’t exactly a hunting accident.”
“You make too much big deal,” Mrs. Phang said.
“Over a gunshot wound?” Ike asked. If his voice rose any higher, Ethel would have to pull him down off the ceiling.
“Just accident. I miss.” Mrs. Phang shrugged.
“YOU SHOT ME?” Norman asked.
“NO ON PURPOSE! NO ON PURPOSE!” Mrs. Phang screamed. “MAKE MISTAKE! YOU NO HURT!”
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Norman began, after taking an enormous swig of his new beer – which had been opened by Bauser, this time – “but I have to ask: if you weren’t aiming at me, who were you trying to shoot?”
Mrs. Phang threw her arms up in the air, and sat down. She looked at Vito. Vito shrugged and sat down next to her, and patted her on the shoulder. We all winced and thought him brave.
“The least you could do is offer me a drink, Muriel,” she said in perfect, unaccented English. “It’s pretty much over, anyway.” Vito and Ma nodded.
Aunt Muriel whipped up a drink, and the rest of us made ourselves ready for a good story. K. dug out the brownies and cheesecakes. Vinnie snuffled peacefully in the corner. The dogs all sat pretty.
“A few years ago, my husband wanted to retire and move to Lancaster, to be near his sister,” Mrs. Phang said.
Trixie yelled, “Your husband?” She was the only one of us ballsy enough to ask what we all thought: Mrs. Phang was just too mean to have a husband. She was the type that probably killed her husband immediately after mating, just like a praying mantis.
“Yes, yes, my husband. Cong Phang. We were married for thirty-five years,” she said. Her face softened. She looked down and spotted Trixie’s handbag, and her Swank’s. She looked around. “May I?” she asked.
“Sure,” Trixie said, handing her the cancer sticks. Mrs. Phang moved to sit near the screen door. Ma made her tight lipped face; she hates smoking. But she hates missing a good story more.
Mrs. Phang lit the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke outside. She smiled. “First one in twenty years.” Then she continued with her story: “My husband owned a small hardware store in Hackensack. I worked in the hospital. I helped patients sort out their medical billing crises after they got through their health crises.
“Cong wanted to retire. The store had made a decent profit, I’d been working steadily, and we didn’t have kids. We couldn’t.” Vito nodded his head in sympathy. “Besides, another Buy-A-Lots was opening up, and it was getting harder and harder for him to compete with the big box stores.
“So I retired from Tri-County Hospital. Cong sold the store and we sold the house. Cong moved here ahead of me, to scout out the area while staying with his sister and her family. Less than a month later, he died of a heart attack.”
“Oh jeez,” Trixie said, and helped herself to one of her own cigarettes.
“It gets worse,” Mrs. Phang continued. “You see, Cong stayed with his sister to help her and her husband out with their business. It was failing.” Mrs. Phang let out another puff. “After the funeral, I found out he’d let his life insurance lapse. I also found out he’d ‘helped his sister out’ by investing the sale of the hardware store, and our house, into Lickety-Split Laundry.”
“Oh dear,” Aunt Muriel said, and found her way to the kitchen and the Absolut.
“With Cong gone, my brother-in-law, Fu, had a lot more stress, with all the workload back on him. That’s why my sister-in-law, Fen, thinks he drove off Route 283 in the delivery van. He must have fallen asleep at the wheel,” she finished.
“But why the phony accent?” I asked, and added, “And why all the yelling?”
“It was easier getting legitimate customers in and out quickly that way. I’m not really retail-oriented.” She shrugged. “So there I was, stuck with no real home and no job. I wen
t back to the hospital, but they’d already hired for my old position. And since I’d removed myself from the pecking order, if I started back there again, it would be almost like starting all over. Complete with getting 4 weeks vacation whacked back down to 1.”
“Ouch,” Bauser said sympathetically.
“My sister-in-law was in similar straits, and we talked about living together. But we couldn’t figure out if it would be better for her to sell the business and move up with me, while I hopped back on the bottom rung at the hospital, or for me to move here and try to help her out.”
“Well, you’re here… so things worked out, right?” Ma asked.
“For the most part, now. But in the beginning it was pretty tough. Especially while I was trying to figure things out, and stuck with the apartment in Hasbrouck Heights,” she said.
“Hasbrouck Heights?” Ma and Aunt Muriel asked.
“It was a 6-month rental, after we sold the house, while Cong was looking for a place here. But when all those plans went kaflooey, I needed some kind of income, just to pay the rent and eat until I could think.” Mrs. Phang stubbed out her cigarette. “That’s when I started working at the Bagels ‘n’ Borscht.”
Ma and Aunt Muriel looked at Mrs. Phang with pity and awe. Ethel and I nodded. Ike was still trying to wrap his head around bagels, much less borscht.
“It wasn’t so bad. And it turned out to be a good thing. I used to get my lunch there a lot when I worked at the hospital. The Bagels ‘n’ Borscht was right across the street,” she explained. “Anyway, I wandered in for lunch one day and told my tale of woe to Rachael, the gal who worked there, and it turned out they were hiring. So there I was.”
“So Lickety-Split Laundry must be a success, right?” K. asked nicely.
“It’s getting there. But when we were bleeding all the cash Cong invested, along with most of the income, it was pretty frustrating.”
“Start-up costs?” Norman asked.
Mrs. Phang shook her head. “Gambling debts. It turned out that Fen, my naïve sister-in-law, was paying off my nephew’s online gambling debts with the investment monies. And our income.”