Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Welcome to Centaur team,” Andy said. “It’s messy ’cause we kick out the cleaners when we’re on a deadline.” They worked without a set schedule, some staying all night, sleeping all day, others arriving at dawn, leaving at four in the afternoon. The key men, like Andy, were there at least twenty hours of the day’s twenty-four. And they were all men. Boys really, living in a barracks. Gene, I knew, had spent most of his waking life since college in this hellhole, or another just like it: the windows closed to preserve the machines from dust and changes of temperature, the Venetian blinds shutting out the sun and the moon, presumably to thwart industrial spies armed with binoculars, but really to block out the temptation of daytime or the desolation of night. They exchanged colds, they shared a deathly pallor, they addressed each other with the rude, exasperated familiarity of siblings. That last quality of their lives was illustrated immediately.

  As we neared his office, Andy was accosted by a fat, prematurely balding man I later learned was named Tim. Dirty blond hair draped from the hairless center of his head in tangled clumps. His torn stretched jeans hung well below his navel, the distended hole appearing quizzically whenever he raised his arms. “What did you do to the IO board?” he demanded. “It’s fucked.”

  Andy ignored him, going into his cheerless office. Tim followed him so closely, I was cut off and entered last. Gene’s old work place was medium-sized, furnished with another of those metal tables. It was covered by a jumble of circuit boards and wires in no apparent order, as if someone had dropped a computer from the ceiling and we were looking at the smashed result. There were no files, no cabinets, no posters, no photographs, no personal possessions, except for an expensive chess set, lying on the once white linoleum floor, the pieces in a complicated position that I recognized as arising from a dynamic line of the Sicilian Defense. A terminal connected to Black Dragon stood in the corner under the covered window.

  Andy mumbled a reply to Tim’s complaint. Tim answered in incomprehensible computer talk, working himself up into a scary rage, his fair skin reddening. His blue and white rugby shirt climbed higher with the gesticulation of his thick arms, until it settled on a ridge above his ballooning stomach and he appeared to be a comical belly dancer in male drag. While Tim ranted, Andy looked down at the dissected computer on his desk, his glasses gradually slipping to the end of his nose, showing no reaction.

  “You fuck with my shit again and I’ll break your head!” Tim shouted at the conclusion of his monologue, the first sentence I understood. He breathed loudly through his nose for several seconds, waiting. Andy, eyes on the machine, chewed his lips, apparently in deep thought. Finally, Andy reached into the jumble of boards, pulled off a cable from a raised ridge of copper wires, removed a circuit board smaller than his hand, moved it to the top one (later I was told that was the motherboard) and plugged it into the right corner. He yanked another cable from below and connected it to the tiny circuit. “Piggyback,” he said. “That clears the serial for a modem.”

  “We’re doing an internal modem!” Tim screamed. And I mean screamed, so desperately that I reacted involuntarily, saying, “Whoa. Take it easy.”

  They ignored me. Andy shook his head. “Modem’s frying the board.”

  “’Cause the chips are shit!” Tim screamed again. His face was splotchy with red dots of rage. “Fucking Japanese shit!”

  “Shit is what we’ve got. So start eating it.” Andy looked up at him for the first time. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Piggyback,” he said softly.

  Tim pulled his shirt down over his belly. Until then, I thought he was unaware of the exposure. He dropped to his wide knees to stare at the new arrangement. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and squinted. Groaning, a hand on the floor to power himself, he got to his feet. He looked at Andy. “I ain’t doing fuck-all until you tell the softies.” He walked out without waiting for an answer.

  I laughed nervously, unsettled by Tim. Andy still didn’t seem bothered; he was focused on the prototype. “The softies?” I asked.

  “Programmers. Operating software. He’s right. They might throw a shit fit and cry behind my back to Stick. If he takes their side …” Andy fell into his chair. The sudden drop propelled a white curl of stuffing into the air. Andy caught it, quick to protect the exposed boards.

  “It’s wasted effort?” I tried to finish his sentence.

  “Worse,” Andy said, carefully disposing the tiny feather into a plastic trash container that was filled to the brim by Coke cans. “It’s wasted time. We’re late. We’re designing, debugging and programming all at once. Doesn’t make sense. Gotta do it in stages.” He opened his hands to encompass the boards. “And it’s too big. You need a truck to carry this thing.” He laughed. Naturally, and with good humor, he laughed at the prototype.

  “You handle stress well.”

  “Thanks. But maybe I’m just cracking up. Anyway, this was Gene’s office. Pretty fancy for a VP, huh?”

  “Are you a VP?”

  “No. It’s a bullshit title,” he said with contempt. He seemed immediately embarrassed and added apologetically, “Meant something to Gene, I guess.”

  “More money?”

  Andy looked down modestly. “Not necessarily.”

  “You make more than Gene did,” I said, not a question.

  “I don’t know what Gene made,” Andy said. He covered his mouth with his left hand and looked at me as if checking whether I believed him. I didn’t. His mannerisms and answers had been straightforward until this conversation about salary.

  “Did Gene have to stay in this office?”

  “No. He liked it here. So do I.” He relaxed again, the hand uncovering his mouth, smiling easily. “Seems incredible to you? We’re nerds, Doctor. As kids, we were unpopular. As teenagers, we were hated. But here—this is home. We’re safe here.” Andy leaned forward, peering into his tower of circuits and wires. His glasses began another slide. “That’s why Gene didn’t move to the Glass Tower.”

  “Would Tim scream at Gene like that?”

  Andy peeked over his glasses at me. “You trying to make me feel bad?”

  “I’m trying to understand why losing all this would make him want to stop living.”

  Andy cocked his head, eyes straying to the fluorescent panel thoughtfully. “I never saw Gene lose his temper. He killed his wife, didn’t he? I mean he finally lost his temper—big-time. And then he killed himself. Right?”

  “Did Tim scream at Gene like that?” I asked again. Andy ignored my question for the second time, leaning back in his chair. His glasses remained stuck on the end of his nose. “Did you scream at him?” I asked.

  Andy laughed, again easily, enjoying the thoughts my question provoked. He swiveled in his chair, head thrown back, chuckling. When his amusement died out, he adjusted his glasses and then commented, “If someone fucked up, Gene came in and fixed it. He covered everybody’s ass. And he listened.” Andy straightened, sobering up. “He listened to everybody. He listened too much. He wasted time, he gave everybody too much slack. Part of the reason Tim screams at me is because Gene didn’t make the command chain clear. I’ve only been boss for six weeks. Some people haven’t accepted it.” He nodded at me earnestly. “They will.”

  “I’m supposed to report to Stick what I find out from talking to you.”

  Andy nodded as if that were a banal fact. “Me too.”

  “I’m not going to,” I said. “You said something important, at least, important to a nutty shrink like me. It explains Gene’s grief at being fired. That’s what I came for. I’m not going to share it with Copley. And I’m certainly not going to tell him you’re in trouble—”

  Andy shifted his weight forward abruptly. The spring squealed faintly and his chair thudded to an upright position. “I’m not in trouble—”

  “—But I have a piece of advice for you,” I cut him off. “I know you think you’re shrewder than Gene, and maybe you think you’re stronger too. I made a mistake with
Gene, I see that now. I assumed he would be rewarded for years of service. I assumed a talented man would always be valuable to a company. You see, my uncle was a businessman and he remained loyal to the people who did good work, well past their prime. My uncle wasn’t a sentimental man. That wasn’t why he was loyal. He knew that loyalty inspires the younger ones to work hard. Stick doesn’t believe that.”

  “Nobody believes that anymore. This is the nineties. Haven’t you heard of downsizing?” Andy stood up. “Listen, I’m not in trouble.” He pointed to the smashed machine. “This may look like a mess to you, but it’s normal—”

  Again, I interrupted. “I didn’t mean with the machine. I know nothing about it. I mean you can’t handle these men and you’re scared. You’re still a kid. You miss Gene. He controlled their egos so you could be the star. Now you’re having to do both jobs at once and you’re floundering.”

  Andy stared at me through his spotted glasses, eyes half-closed. Their Asian slant lent the look a cold withdrawn aspect. In fact, he was furious. “I can build this machine alone,” he said in a whisper. He wasn’t attempting to conceal the remark. He was so clenched with anger he couldn’t give it volume. “I don’t need them.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “You told me so yourself. They’re your family. They make you feel safe. You need them as badly as they need you.”

  Andy was still. He watched me watch him for a while. A man with a high squeaky voice entered behind me, talking without introduction, something about access time to the hard drive.

  Andy greeted him with a shout, “Not now!”

  “We can’t piggyback—”

  “Tell Tim to go home and stop causing trouble,” Andy said. “Get out and close the door.”

  “Fuck you,” said the voice, but the door shut in a moment. Andy continued to stare at me through the glistening spots on his glasses. Finally, he turned, moving to the black terminal by the window. He flipped a button and it whirred, the monitor flashing awake. Rather than pull his chair over, he squatted on his haunches and typed at Black Dragon’s keyboard. “Come here.”

  I moved beside him. A heading across Dragon’s screen said, COPLEY’S OUT BOX. Below was a list of dates and subjects. A bar of white color skipped down them, stopping at, “RE: Kenny Termination.” The screen blipped. The text of a memo from Copley to Minotaur’s comptroller appeared: “Since Gene Kenny is no longer an employee, the no-interest loan on his residence can be called as of July 1st, provided he is notified at least four weeks in advance. Do it today and confirm to my box.” The date of Stick’s memo was May 10th, two days before Gene’s suicide.

  “Do you know what that means?” Andy asked, twisting to look at me. “I sure do. Was the letter sent?”

  Andy typed more, got a menu heading, COPLEY’S IN BOX. He highlighted a return memo. The comptroller reported that a letter had been mailed to Gene’s home address (although he hadn’t lived there for a year) return receipt requested. It was signed by Cathy on May 11th, the day before she died.

  Andy pressed a pair of buttons. The memo disappeared and the screen turned blue. He typed a command—ERASE: Dragonslayer search—and hit the Enter key. The screen responded: Search erased, Dragonslayer. He leaned forward and turned off the terminal. “The machines Gene built made Stick the owner of this company. When Copley started here, he was just a drone like us.” Andy sprung up from his squat. “Stick’ll give you money if you hold a gun to his head, but he won’t share his power. Never his power. I’m not a fool. I know who I’m dealing with. Gene didn’t.”

  “How were you able to show me those memos?”

  Andy smiled. He pushed his glasses up, although they were already in place. “I gotta get to work.”

  “Could Gene invade the system like that?”

  Andy shook his head no. “I told you, I’m not a fool. Unless the Prince of Darkness rips the Dragon network out, I’m in this company to stay.”

  “The Prince of Darkness,” I repeated, amused.

  “That’s what we call him.” Andy returned to his chair and focused on his troublesome prototype. “That’s what everybody calls him. Except for Gene. He told me that making up nicknames for authority figures just shows you’re really scared.” Andy glanced at me, smiling. “He get that insight from you?”

  “Probably.”

  Andy put his nose right up to a circuit board, peering through his dirty glasses at a jumble of cables. “Now why aren’t you happy, my little hard drive?” he asked in a Transylvanian accent. He continued to play Dracula, while he added to me, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Neruda. I’d appreciate it if you went out the way we came in. What the Prince of Darkness doesn’t know can’t hurt us.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Final Analysis

  WHEN I APPEARED IN THE MAIN LOBBY, WITH AN AIR OF INNOCENCE, I didn’t have to ask to phone Laura. The receptionist greeted me as I approached. “Dr. Neruda? Mr. Copley is looking for you. Here,” she handed me a phone, “I’ll get his assistant.”

  “Hello, Doctor,” Laura said cheerfully, as if we were old friends.

  “Call me Rafe,” I said. “I’m a shrink. We’re not real doctors.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, you shouldn’t give up your title so easily. Let me get him.”

  “Dr. Neruda?” Stick came on instantly. “Did you bring your tennis racquet to New York?”

  He had a knack for being surprising. “My tennis racquet?” I repeated dully.

  “Edgar mentioned you’re a player. I have a doubles game tonight. Our fourth has dropped out, our backup is out of town, and I hate playing Canadian.”

  Without thinking, I answered truthfully. “I haven’t played in years.”

  “Oh.” Copley’s disappointment, even disapproval, went unconcealed. “Forget it.”

  I recovered. “But I doubt I’ve forgotten how to win. I sure knew how to beat Edgar’s ass.” Saying that so embarrassed me, I turned my back to the receptionist, hoping she wouldn’t hear.

  Copley was quiet for a moment. “That’s what he said,” he commented in a low voice. “You know, we don’t throw our racquets or anything, but we take tennis pretty seriously. How rusty are you?”

  “If I hit for a half hour before we start, I’ll be fine. Do they have a pro there? He can warm me up.”

  Copley jumped on this notion, proposing a variation. He said the game was at the Wall Street Racquet Club (he claimed that my being in Manhattan was why he thought of me) and he would get there at six, an hour before the doubles, to hit with me. He could use the practice, he said, not bothering to make that fib convincing. I was being checked out. And not as a permanent tennis partner, I assumed.

  Should he send a car for me? he asked. I declined. Did I have my racquet? I decided against telling him I no longer owned a tennis racquet. I said I hadn’t brought it and would rent one from the courts. Oh no, he said, he’d arrange to have my model there. What did I normally play with? I couldn’t believe I was being caught in such a silly lie. I retreated into the dignity of poverty, assuming a hurt tone. I said firmly, “I can’t allow you to buy me a racquet. I’ll rent one at the courts.”

  He wasn’t done with that issue, however. At the very least, he wanted Laura to call the courts to make sure they had my model for rent. (Probably if they didn’t, he would then have bought it.) At last, I found a way out. “You know, I’d rather play with a strange racquet. I’ve noticed it improves my concentration. I get so interested in observing how the new racquet plays that I focus better.”

  “Huh,” he said, impressed. “That’s a great marketing idea for tennis. Buy a new racquet every week and win.”

  “That’s me. Always trying to get the economy going.”

  He said, “Anyway, Laura tells me it’ll have to be a Wilson. That’s all they have to rent.” There hadn’t been a break in our conversation. The magic phone was at work again.

  “A Wilson will be fine,” I said.

  Our date was set. In the excitement of its arrangement, Copley
forgot to ask, or seemed to, about my talk with Andy.

  There are places in New York where limousines congregate, their long and squat dark shapes almost blending with the city’s black gutters. They line up outside expensive restaurants from TriBeCa to Elaine’s, park at the right Broadway show on the right night, queue beside the Garden during the playoffs, are almost always present at Lincoln Center, and also, I discovered that evening, at the Wall Street Racquet Club. There were half a dozen docked by the sleek East River, in the shadows of the giant glowing green bubbles that cover Piers 13 and 14. The bubbles aren’t Martian spaceships, but protection for synthetic clay tennis courts, rented at hourly rates that, with twice-a-week use in a year, could cost you enough to build your own. The lockers are made of wood, the showers are multi-headed, there are redwood-lined saunas, the help is soft-spoken, and the customers complain the facilities are second-rate.

  I arrived early to inspect the choice of rental racquets so my ignorance wouldn’t be revealed to Copley. When I played tennis regularly most people owned wood racquets. The few who used metal were seeing doctors for tennis elbow. I knew there wouldn’t be any wood racquets, but I was surprised there were no metal ones either. The technology had moved on to composite plastic and graphite models. They are dramatically lighter than the old woodies: it’s like picking up a tin frying pan instead of an iron skillet. I rejected the grotesque oversized head and wide-body types. They seemed like jokes to me, so large I couldn’t imagine how a player would know if he was hitting near the sweet spot. A pro gossiping with two clerks heard me make that comment. He said that with the oversize heads I didn’t have to worry about finding the sweet spot. The new racquets were so forgiving, even a ball struck near the edge of the frame has power. “Of course if you hit it in the sweet spot,” he added, not joking, “the ball will go long.”

  “You mean, it rewards mediocrity,” I said.

  The two clerks laughed and then covered their mouths as if I had broken a taboo.