Scavenger Hunt

by Dani Lamia

  12

  I can’t resist stopping into the Compleat Strategist on my way back to the subway.

  It is the middle of the day, so the store is empty. I look over the new releases at the front, then make a circle of the shop, lingering on the bookcase of war games, the fussy hex-based tank cavalry games where you are invited to win World War I for the Germans, World War II for the Soviets, or the Civil War for the Confederacy.

  I do like the new trend in card-based games, where you draw cards and deploy them in order to gain influence in sectors across a massive world. There are versions of this kind of game set during the Cold War, providential American elections, Vietnam, even the War on Terror. The trick to these games is being able to absorb pain. Every decision you make will cause you harm, but you have to know how to make the least bad decision, how to take blows only when you are ready for them, how to manage your pain in a way that doesn’t cripple your broader strategy. They are good metaphors for business itself. There is variance in the deal of the cards, but there is something very satisfying in playing a poor hand well.

  On my way out, the woman at the register catches my eye, nodding to me. “Sorry to hear about your old man,” she says, not getting up off her stool. “Read about it in the Post.”

  “Thank you. Yes, it has been devastating.”

  “Sea Farmers, Sea Farmers: Pirate Cove, and Sea Farmers: The Kraken are still huge sellers for us. Not to mention all the other games you guys make. The diehards like that new one, where you play as ghosts trying to get out of hell? With the psychic jewels and how you can possess people? The combat wheel on that one is really innovative.”

  “You mean Soul Break,” I say. “Yes, board games are my favorite division. Though we do so much else now. Augmented reality, even.”

  She nods at this as if she knows what I am talking about. I exit the store and head off to the train.

  Back at Nylo, I peek into Dad’s office. Everyone is gone, including Angelo Marino. All the evidence of our morning spent dealing with the will has vanished.

  I go back down to my own office. I can barely open the door, the room is crammed so completely with flowers and gift baskets and stuffed animals. The head of Twitter’s New York office has sent me a giant lasagna from Pio’s, which is still warm in its aluminum casserole, along with a single black balloon. It is morbid as hell, but the lasagna actually looks pretty good.

  “Would you mind getting rid of all this stuff?” I tell Peter, who runs in to greet me as soon as I set down my things. He knows better than to give me a hug, but he can’t hide the sympathy in his eyes, which I of course ignore. “Or could you at least spread it around to everyone else on the executive team? Actually, I want to keep the lasagna, and also all the cookies. But yeah, put these flowers on people’s desks. And you can just go ahead and burn all of these stuffed animals. Thank you notes all around, obviously.”

  “Already done,” he says.

  I carry the casserole into my bedroom and take off the plastic lid. The lasagna is still piping hot. It must have just been delivered. It’s a ton of food, but I don’t feel like sharing. I don’t want to eat with everyone else around me not knowing what to say, sharing stories of how great my dad was, telling me how I will definitely be able to fill his shoes.

  I get myself a Corona from the refrigerator and I pry open a garlic and onion bagel and toast it in my little kitchen, melting some butter on top.

  I am lifting a forkful of steaming pork ragu layered in spinach, ricotta, and truffles to my mouth when my game phone buzzes. I look down and see that Gabriella has solved the clue and activated the box. Her name fills in the second slot above a silver medal. She had to walk across the bridge and all the way into Midtown in this heat. Of course, out of all of us, she would also be the one most willing to hitchhike and also the one most likely to be picked up by a passing stranger.

  Surely the rest of them will be able to figure out this clue, or maybe Alistair has already died in a motorcycle accident? Maybe Bernard can’t get clearance to land his helicopter anywhere near 34th Street?

  I have a big Playqueen meeting at 3 p.m. and it’s only 1, which gives me some time to kill. I don’t like the fact that there is so much surrounding this game that I don’t know. I search my private emails for “Pescare and Associates.” I can’t remember when I last gave Pez a call and put him to work on something. Was it to find out if Dane Wizard was abusing my sister? Or when I had him look up Bernard’s new church and make sure it wasn’t some kind of cult?

  Pez’s phone number is listed in his email signature beneath a quote attributed to Columbo: “I don’t think the world is full of criminals and full of murderers, because it isn’t. It’s full of nice people just like you. And if it wasn’t for my job I wouldn’t be getting to meet you like this. And I’ll tell you something else. Even with some of the murderers that I meet, I even like them too. Sometimes like them and even respect them. Not for what they did, certainly not for that. But for that part of them which is intelligent or funny or just nice. Because there’s niceness in everyone. A little bit anyhow.”

  I shut the door to my office and ring up Pez.

  “Pescare and Associates, please hold,” says the man who answers.

  “Wait—it’s me! I know you don’t have a receptionist. Don’t—”

  Too late. My call goes to music. But after only an instant, Pez comes back on the line.

  “Caitlyn, is that you?”

  “You put people on hold now?”

  “It makes it seem like my time is important and I’m completely swamped with clients. Actually, I’m doing the crossword, and I was just about to take a nap. I’m sorry about your father, by the way. I sent you some candied pecans.”

  “The New York head of Twitter sent me a lasagna from Pio’s. It’s incredible. Come over and help me eat it. I have work for you.”

  “Right now?”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “I’m on my way,” he says.

  Vic “Pez” Pescare is a weird little man, but he has always been extremely effective at finding things out for both me and my father. We’ve been retaining him for years, ever since we got into a corporate espionage war with the game company Rascal Tinies back in the nineties. They made handheld electronic games for preteens. They were mainly lame sports games where pixels very slowly moved around on puke-colored screens to mimic baseball, tennis, hockey, and so on. You can tell a game is bad when it is impossible to be good at it. If everybody has the same experience playing a game, it is likely that the game is shit.

  I get another plate from the kitchen and make space on my desk.

  Pez arrives in fifteen minutes. He is slightly winded as he sits down at my desk and I pour him a tall glass of water from the pitcher next to a leather-bound photo array of Olivia and Jane.

  “It’s so humid,” he says, taking the glass gratefully. “The air is like a single fibrous mass, like a jungle canopy. I am chewing the air. But then also I have these allergies. Hold on—” He sneezes. “You see?”

  He takes a long sip of water.

  “Your father was a great man,” he says finally. “I was at the funeral. You gave a very good speech. What a tragedy. I loved him like a brother.”

  Pez is about five feet tall, and he is thick all over, but there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He moves like a knuckleball, dipping and dodging, always looking at everything askance. His eyes are shiny and always a little wet and he often has a sensual leer on his face that people mistake for lust, though he’s actually quite reserved, almost priest-like. He is about fifty years old, but he has a full head of black hair and no wedding ring. I have never asked him very much about his personal life.

  His slightly dopy demeanor isn’t any kind of act, but he makes you reevaluate your definition of what a smart person is like. I always get the impression that his ability to read people and
to find things out about them is a result of having a perfectly clean conscience. It is a rare conversation in which he doesn’t declare his absolute love for the human race in a way that seems out of step with the time and place, possibly out of step with every time and place.

  “Pez, something very strange is going on and I need your help,” I say. “I’ll just get right to the point. It is Dad’s last will and testament that all of his children play a game against each other for his fortune. We are in the middle of it right now.”

  “Strange, but oddly symmetrical and appropriate,” says Pez. “Tell me more. I am awestruck by the beauty of the future of the Nylo Corporation being decided by Prescott Nylo’s very last game.”

  “Yes, well, I find it slightly less appropriate,” I say. I heap an oozing square of lasagna on the plate in front of him and scoop myself a second serving. I give him half of the buttered, toasted bagel and take a long swig of my beer. While we eat, I tell him everything I know. He takes it all in, listening with a smile on his face, pausing every now and then to let me know exactly how good the lasagna is.

  When I am finished, he frowns for the first time and leans back in his seat.

  “Aren’t you cheating by calling me in here to help you?”

  “There’s nothing in the rule book that says I can’t bring in outside help,” I say. “And anyway, I don’t need any help with the clues. I want to know about the game itself. I want to know who the Game Master is, where these phones come from, what the deal is with these stupid T-shirts. I want to know how much Angelo Marino knows. I want to know how involved Alistair was in the creation of this augmented reality system.”

  “You want an edge,” he says, rubbing his knees.

  “Name your price, obviously,” I say. He frowns, looking down at his hands, sort of disappointed.

  “I have some questions,” says Pez after a long time, his face resuming its sad smile. I can see he doesn’t want to talk costs and expenses. I pick up a basket full of lavender macarons and bite into one. It’s heaven. Whatever. I am going to run like ten miles tonight. It’s fine. I’m grieving.

  “First of all,” he says. “How long did you say it has been since Henley was in town?”

  I think about it.

  “Years. Two years.”

  “That’s what I thought,” says Pez. “I have known your family for a long time and I don’t think I have ever seen all of you in the same room together. I am just a little bit amazed that your father managed to die with all of his children in town.”

  “Isn’t this the time of year when old people die off? Isn’t heat the great culling for people with heart conditions and undiagnosed clots and all that?”

  “Old people die all year round,” says Pez. “What did you say was the reason why Henley came back? He wants a job from you? Something to do with being in trouble in China?”

  “Yeah, he didn’t give any specifics,” I say.

  “I will find out the specifics,” he says sadly.

  “What are you saying? Are you saying that Henley had something to do with our father’s death?”

  “I am just asking questions,” says Pez. “Now, you also said that Alistair was the one responsible for developing the technology that makes the game work?”

  “Yeah, although so far I’m fairly underwhelmed,” I say. “Maybe there’s more to it than I’m seeing.”

  “Does this give him an unfair advantage with respect to this game?”

  “Maybe, but there’s not much we can do about it. I’m sure Bernard will find a way to cheat to even things out. And Gabriella has one of those faces you just want to help, like a little lost teacup pig.”

  “And here you are, talking to me.”

  “We all have our angles,” I say. “And liabilities. I do intend to win, however.”

  Pez stands up.

  “What a thing to do when you should be mourning your father,” he says. “I’ll get back to you if I find anything out. No promises, though. Your father was very good at keeping secrets.”

  I press some macarons on him for the road. He is just about to leave when Peter runs into the room, his face white and his eyes wide.

  “There’s been an accident,” he blurts. “Olivia’s been hurt. Coming home from school. Ben’s with her now.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say, taking my phone out. I have a bunch of missed messages. I frantically scroll down to find the earliest one. MOM, ARE YOU THERE???? it says, from Jane.

  “She’s alive,” says Peter. “She ran into a car door while riding her bike home from school. It flipped her over the handlebars and she landed on her shoulder.”

  “And?”

  “She’s not dead or in a coma or anything. But they’re all at the hospital still waiting for results about her arm.”

  I am already up and headed for the door.

  “I’ll push the Playqueen meeting back to tomorrow,” Peter says as I reach the door.

  “Yes, do that,” I call back as I walk out.

  Behind me, I almost don’t hear Pez mutter thoughtfully, “Another tragedy. So sudden. So unexpected.”

  13

  By the time I get to the hospital, Olivia has already been seen by the doctor and she and Jane and their father are sitting around waiting to sign the discharge papers. None of them seem particularly freaked out, but my heart is jackhammering and I’m sweating like a bottle of champagne on a hot summer day.

  “Oh, my baby,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  Olivia’s forehead is all scratched up and she has a bandage over the bridge of her nose. Her arm is in a sling but not in a cast. She has cuts across her collarbone and big scrapes on both her palms that are covered in iodine.

  “She’s going to be fine,” says Ben, coldly. “She wasn’t wearing her helmet and she wasn’t looking where she was going and she was going too fast, but she didn’t break anything, thank god. It’s just a sprain.”

  Olivia smiles at me painfully.

  “Are they giving you the good drugs? Dilaudid? Oxy?”

  “Tylenol,” says Ben.

  “I’m not even going to miss any school,” complains Olivia.

  “Nope,” says Ben. “Though you won’t be riding your bike again for a while.”

  “When does summer vacation start, anyway?” I ask Ben, perplexed.

  “Not until the end of June,” he says.

  “Jeez,” I say. “When I was a kid, we got out in May. So, is somebody going to tell me what happened?”

  “It wasn’t actually my fault,” says Olivia.

  “Oh yeah?” I say, sensing an opportunity to get on her good side and to sow division against Ben by being the cooler one here. This seems like a moment of trauma. A moment that will be remembered forever.

  “Yeah, I was, like… obeying the law. It’s true I wasn’t wearing a helmet, but did you know that people who wear helmets actually get hit more often? They don’t have good balance and they can’t see as well. Also, drivers are way more likely to be careful around people not wearing helmets. They seem more human. If they can see your face, they, like… they don’t want to hurt you and they will swerve around you.”

  “You have to wear your helmet,” says Ben. “If I catch you riding your bike without your helmet again, I’m taking your bike away.”

  He looks at me meaningfully. United front.

  “Totally,” I say weakly. “But okay, what actually happened?”

  “I was on one of those side streets that run perpendicular to the Eastern Parkway,” she says. “I don’t even remember which one. Anyway, it’s the same route I always take coming home from school. Nothing has ever happened there before. Mom, it is, like, a really quiet street.”

  “That is exactly what makes it dangerous,” says Ben.

  “Okay, but like, it was so weird,” says Olivia. “Honestly, I
wasn’t even going that fast! I was in the middle of the street, in the bike lane, when this person, like, opens their door just a crack, looks over their shoulder, and then opens the door all the way. I braked, right, and that’s when I flew over my bars. I caught myself, but then the person shut their door and drove away. Like, why were they even opening their door if they weren’t getting out? And I was hurt and stuff! But that wasn’t even the weirdest part.”

  “What was the weirdest part?” I ask.

  “The weirdest part is that they were wearing a mask, like a full-on Halloween mask. So I’m saying that I think they did it on purpose.”

  “That is just so hard to believe,” says Ben.

  But as soon as she says “mask,” I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. What the hell is going on?

  “Was it a Guy Fawkes mask?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” says Olivia. “What’s that?”

  “You know, like Anonymous, from the internet.”

  I pull up a picture on my phone and show it to her. Ben cranes his head to look as well. I hate it when he gets close to me. I can smell his aftershave and his post-teaching sweat smell, which reminds me of sex. I hate him for it. I hate how much I like it.

  “No, it wasn’t a mask like that,” says Olivia. I’m surprised at how relieved I am, even though what she is telling me is still objectively horrible. “It was hairier and with teeth, like a werewolf. It scared me, which was good, otherwise I might have run right into the door!”

  “Maybe you interrupted a robbery in progress,” says Jane. “Maybe he was the getaway driver and you spooked him, and so he drove off, leaving his partners behind.”

  “You’re right,” says Olivia, getting excited. “I’m probably a hero. But, like, you’re being sexist to assume it was a man.”

  The doctor, who turns out to just be some tired girl in her twenties, shows up then with a stack of papers to be signed.

  “Which one of you is the parent?” she asks. I snatch the papers out of her hands and search my purse for a pen. Ben doesn’t say anything. I sign and then we all make our way out of the emergency room. The contrast between the chilliness of the ER air conditioning and the hot day outside makes me shiver a little, but it feels good.