Bleeding Edge

by Thomas Pynchon

  “It’s this company I’ve been shooting a documentary about? I keep running into…” One of those funny looks Maxine by now knows better than to ignore.

  “Attitude.”

  “Access issues. Too much I’m not being told.”

  “And are we talking recent here, or will this mean going back into history, unreadable legacy software, statutes about to run?”

  “Nah, this is one of the dotcoms that didn’t go under last year in the tech crash. No old software,” half a decibel too quiet, “and maybe no statute of limitations either.”

  Uh-oh. “’Cause see, if all you want’s an asset search, you don’t need a forensic person really, just go on the Internet, LexisNexis, HotBot, AltaVista, if you can keep a trade secret, don’t rule out the Yellow Pages—”

  “What I’m really looking for,” solemn more than impatient, “probably won’t be anyplace any search engine can get to.”

  “Because… what you’re looking for…”

  “Just normal company records—daybooks, ledgers, logs, tax sheets. But try to have a look, and that’s when it gets weird, everything stashed away far far beyond the reach of LexisNexis.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Deep Web? No way for surface crawlers to get there, not to mention the encryption and the strange redirects—”

  Oh. “Maybe you need more of an IT type to look at this? ’cause I’m not really—”

  “Already have one on the case. Eric Outfield, Stuyvesant genius, certified badass, popped at a tender age for computer tampering, trust him totally.”

  “Who are these people, then?”

  “A computer-security firm downtown called hashslingrz.”

  “Heard of them around, yes doing quite well indeed, p/e ratio approaching the science-fictional, hiring all over the place.”

  “Which is the angle I want to take. Survive and prosper. Upbeat, right?”

  “But… wait… a movie about hashslingrz? Footage of what, nerds staring at screens?”

  “Original script had a lot of car chases, explosions, but somehow the budget… I have this tiny advance the company’s kicking in, plus I’m allowed total access, or so I thought till yesterday, which is when I figured I’d better see you.”

  “Something in the accounting.”

  “Just like to know who I’m working for. I haven’t sold my soul yet—well, maybe a couple bars of rhythm and blues here and there, but I figured I’d better have Eric do some looking around. You know anything about their CEO, Gabriel Ice?”

  “Dimly.” Cover stories in the trades. One of the boy billionaires who walked away in one piece when the dotcom fever broke. She can recall photos, off-white Armani suit, tailor-made beaver fedora, not actually bestowing papal blessings right and left but prepared to should the need arise… permission note from his parents instead of a pocket square. “I read as far as I could, I’m not, like, gripped. He makes Bill Gates look charismatic.”

  “That’s only his party mask. He has deep resources.”

  “You’re suggesting what, mob, covert ops?”

  “According to Eric, a purpose on earth written in code none of us can read. Except maybe for 666, which tends to recur. Reminds me, you still have that concealed-carry permit?”

  “Licensed to pack, ready to roll, uh-huh… why?”

  A little evasive, “These people are not… what you usually find in the tech world.”

  “Like…”

  “Nowhere near geeky enough, for one thing.”

  “That’s… it? Reg, in my vast experience, embezzlers don’t need shooting at very often. Some public humiliation usually does the trick.”

  “Yeah,” almost apologetic, “but suppose this isn’t embezzlement. Or not only. Suppose there’s something else.”

  “Deep. Sinister. And they’re all in on it together.”

  “Too paranoid for you?”

  “Not me, paranoia’s the garlic in life’s kitchen, right, you can never have too much.”

  “So then there shouldn’t be any problem…”

  “I hate when people say that. But sure, I’ll have a look and let you know.”

  “Ah-right! Makes a man feel like Erin Brockovich!”

  “Hm. Well, we do come to an awkward question. I guess you aren’t here to hire me or anything, right? Not that I mind working on spec, it’s just that there are ethical angles here, such as ambulance chasing?”

  “Don’t you people have an oath? Like if you see fraud in progress—?”

  “That was Fraudbusters, they had to cancel it, gave people too many ideas. Rachel Weisz wasn’t bad, though.”

  “Just sayin that ’cause you’re lookalikes.” Smiling, hands and thumbs up as if framing a shot.

  “Why, Reg.”

  This was a point you always got to with Reg. First time they met was on a cruise, if you think of “cruise” in maybe more of a specialized way. In the wake of her separation, back in what still isn’t quite The Day, from her then husband, Horst Loeffler, after too many hours indoors with the blinds drawn listening on endless repeat to Stevie Nicks singing “Landslide” on a compilation tape she ignored the rest of, drinking horrible Crown Royal Shirley Temples and chasing them with more grenadine directly from the bottle and going through a bushel per day of Kleenex, Maxine finally allowed her friend Heidi to convince her that a Caribbean cruise would somehow upgrade her mental prognosis. One day she went sniffling down the hall from her office and into the In ’n’ Out Travel Agency, where she found undusted surfaces, beat-up furniture, a disheveled model of an ocean liner that shared a number of design elements with RMS Titanic.

  “You’re in luck. We’ve just had a…” Long pause, no eye contact.

  “Cancellation,” suggested Maxine.

  “You could say.” The price was irresistible. To anyone in their right mind, too much so.

  Her parents were more than happy to look after the boys. Maxine, still runny-nosed, found herself in a taxi with Heidi, who’d come along to see her off, headed for a terminal in Newark or possibly Elizabeth, which seemed to handle mostly freighters, in fact Maxine’s “cruise” ship turned out to be the Hungarian tramp container vessel M/V Aristide Olt, sailing under a Marshallese flag of convenience. It wasn’t till her first night out at sea that she learned she’d actually been booked into “AMBOPEDIA Frolix ’98,” a yearly gathering of the American Borderline Personality Disorder Association. Great fun, who would have dreamt of canceling? Unless… aahhh! She gazed back at Heidi on the pier, possibly having some schadenfreude, diminishing into the industrial shoreline, which by now was too far away to swim to.

  At the first seating for dinner that evening, she found a crowd in the mood to party, gathered beneath a banner reading WELCOME BORDERLINES! The captain appeared nervous and kept finding excuses to spend time under the tablecloth of his table. About every minute and a half, a deejay cued up the semiofficial AMBOPEDIA anthem, Madonna’s “Borderline” (1984), with everybody joining in on the part that goes “O-verthe bor-derlinnne!!!” with a peculiar emphasis on the final n sound. Some sort of tradition, Maxine imagined.

  Later in the evening, she noticed a calmly drifting presence, eyeball stuck to a viewfinder, taping lensworthy targets of opportunity with a Sony VX2000, moving from guest to guest, allowing them to talk or not talk, whatever, and this turned out to be Reg Despard.

  Thinking it might be a way out of this possibly horrible mistake she’d made, she tried to follow him on his pathway among the merrymakers. “Hey,” after a while, “a stalker, I’m finally in the big time.”

  “Didn’t mean to—”

  “No, actually you could help me distract them a little, not feel so self-conscious.”

  “Wouldn’t want to compromise your cred, I’m weeks overdue at the colorist, this whole puttogether here ran me under a hundred bucks at Filene’s Basement—”

  “Don’t think that’s what they’ll be checkin out.”

  Well. When was the last time anybody sugges
ted even this obliquely that she qualified as… maybe not arm candy, but arm popcorn maybe? Should she be offended? How little?

  Tracking from one group of attendees to another, locating presently a normal-enough-looking citizen with an interest in migratory-bird hunting and conservation stamps, known to collectors as duck stamps, and his perhaps-less-involved wife, Gladys—

  “… and my dream is to become the Bill Gross of duck stamps.” Not only federal duck stamps, mind you, but every state issue as well—having wandered with the years into the seductive wetlands of philatelic zealotry, this by-now-shameless completist must have them all, hunters’ and collectors’ versions, artist-signed, remarques, varieties, freaks and errors, governors’ editions… “New Mexico! New Mexico issued duck stamps only from 1991 through 1994, ending with the crown jewel of all duck stamps, Robert Steiner’s supernaturally beautiful Green-Winged Teals in flight, of which I happen to own a plate block…”

  “Which someday,” Gladys announces chirpily, “I am going to take out of its archival plastic, compromise the gum on the back with my slobbering tongue, and use to send in the gas bill.”

  “Not valid for postage, honeybunch.”

  “You staring at my ring?” A woman in a beige eighties power suit entering the shot.

  “Attractive piece. Something… familiar…”

  “I don’t know if you’re a Dynasty person, but that time Krystle had to pawn her ring? this is a cubic zirconia knockoff, $560, retail of course, Irwin always pays retail, being the 301 point 83 in the relationship, I’m just the supportive partner. He drags me to these things every year, and I end up pigging my way into a mid-two-figures dress size ’cause there’s never anybody to talk to.”

  “Don’t listen to her, she’s the one who has all two hundred–whatever episodes on Betamax. Focused? you have no idea—sometime in the mid-eighties, she actually changed her name to Krystle. A less understanding husband might call this unnatural.”

  Reg and Maxine find their way eventually to the onboard casino, where people in ill-fitting tuxedos and gowns are playing roulette and baccarat, chain-smoking, leering back and forth, and grimly waving fistfuls of make-believe money. “Jujubes,” they’re informed, “Generic Undiagnosed James Bond Syndrome, whole different support group. Hasn’t made it into the DSM yet, but they’re lobbying, maybe the fifth edition… always welcome here at convention time mostly for the stability, see what I’m saying.” Actually, Maxine didn’t, but bought a “five-dollar” chip and walked away from the table with enough, had it been real money, for a short trip to Saks if and when she was lucky enough to get back off of this.

  At some point a face rosy with drink, fatefully belonging to one Joel Wiener, appears in the viewfinder. “Yeah, I get it, you recognize me from the news coverage, and now I’m just camera fodder, right? even though I was acquitted, in fact for the third time, on charges of that nature.” Proceeding to unstopper a lengthy epic of injustice, somehow related to Manhattan real estate, that Maxine has trouble following in all of its nuances. Maybe she should have, it could’ve saved her some trouble down the line.

  Borderlines by the boatload. Eventually Maxine and Reg find a quiet few minutes out on deck watching the Caribbean glide by. Cargo containers tower everywhere, stacked up four or five high. Like being in certain parts of Queens. Not yet mentally all the way on board this cruise, she finds herself wondering how many of the containers are dummies and what the chances might be for some seagoing inventory fraud in progress here.

  She notices Reg hasn’t made any attempt to get her on videotape. “I didn’t have you figured for a borper. Thought you might be staff, like a social director or something.” Surprised that it’s been, oh, maybe an hour or more since she last thought about the Horst situation, Maxine understands that if she gets so much as a toenail’s worth into that subject, Reg’s camera will come on again.

  The long-standing practice at these AMBOPEDIA get-togethers is to visit literal geographical borderlines, a different one every year. Shopping tours at Mexican maquiladora outlets. Gambling-addiction indulgence at the casinos of Stateline, California. Pennsylvania Dutch pig-outs along the Mason-Dixon Line. This year the destination borderline is between Haiti and the Dominican Republic, uneasy with melancholy karma dating back to the days of the Perejil Massacre, little of which has found its way into the brochure. As the Aristide Olt sails into picturesque Manzanillo Bay, things rapidly grow unfocused. No sooner has the ship tied up to the pier at Pepillo Salcedo than passengers preoccupied with large fish are excitedly chartering boats to go out after tarpon. Others, like Joel Wiener, whom real estate has driven from curiosity into obsession, are soon cruising local agencies and being dragged into the fantasies of those from whose motives greed, not to mention fuck-the-yanqui, must not be ruled out.

  Folks ashore talk a combination of Kreyòl and Cibaeño. At the end of the pier, souvenir stands have quickly materialized, snack vendors selling yaniqueques and chimichurros, practitioners of voodoo and Santería with spells for sale, purveyors of mamajuana, a Dominican specialty which comes in gigantic glass jars in each of which what looks like a piece of a tree has been marinating in red wine and rum. For a cross-borderline cherry on the sundae, there’s also been an authentic Haitian voodoo love spell laid on each jar of Dominican mamajuana. “Now you’re talking!” cries Reg. He and Maxine join a small group who have begun drinking the stuff and passing jars around, presently finding themselves a few miles out of town at El Sueño Tropical, a half-built and for the moment abandoned luxury hotel, screaming through the corridors, swinging across the courtyard on jungle vines, which have found a purchase overhead, chasing lizards and flamingos not to mention one another, and misbehaving on the moldering king-size beds.

  Love, exciting and new, as they used to sing on The Love Boat, Heidi was right on the money, this was Just the Ticket all right, though later Maxine would not be so sure of the details.

  Picking up memory’s remote now, she hits PAUSE, then STOP, then POWER OFF, smiling without visible effort. “Peculiar cruise, Reg.”

  “You ever hear from any of those folks again?”

  “An e-mail now and then, and every holiday season of course AMBOPEDIA’s after me for a donation.” She peers at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Reg, did we ever, um…”

  “I don’t think so, I was mostly with that Leptandra from Indianapolis, and you kept disappearing with the real-estate obsessive.”

  “Joel Wiener,” Maxine’s eyeballs, in semi-horrified embarrassment, scanning the ceiling.

  “I wasn’t gonna bring that up, sorry.”

  “You heard about them pulling my license. That was indirectly Joel. Who, without meaning to, did me such a mitzvah. Like when I was a CFE I was cute, but a defrocked CFE? I’m irresistible. To a certain type. You can imagine what comes in the door, nothing personal.”

  The big selling point about a Certified Fraud Examiner gone rogue, she guessed, is a halo of faded morality, a reliable readiness to step outside the law and share the trade secrets of auditors and tax men. Having run into cultists who’d been expelled from their cults, Maxine was afraid for a while it would be that kind of social badlands. But word had gotten around, and soon Tail ’Em and Nail ’Em had more business than ever, more than she could handle. New clients were not of course always as reputable as they’d been in her licensed days. Darkside wannabes oozing out of the damn wallpaper, among them Joel Wiener, for whom she found herself cutting what turned out to be way too much slack.

  Regrettably, Joel had somehow forgotten to include in his long recitals of real-estate injustice certain crucial details, such as his habit of committing serial co-op board membership, the beefs resulting over sums entrusted to him, typically, as co-op treasurer, plus the civil RICO indictment in Brooklyn, the wife with a real-estate agenda of her own, “It goes on. Not easy to explain,” wiggling all her fingers above her head, “Antennas. I felt comfortable enough about Joel to share a few tricks of the trade. For me, no wo
rse than an IRS guy moonlighting as a tax preparer.”

  But running her gravely afoul of the ACFE Code of Conduct, which Maxine in fact had been skating up to and all along the posted edges of for years. This time the ice, without creak or visible darkening, had given beneath her. Enough of the review committee saw conflict of interest, not only once but a pattern, where for Maxine it was, still is for that matter, a no-brainer of a choice between friendship and super-picky guideline adherence.

  “Friendship?” Reg is puzzled. “You didn’t even like him.”

  “A technical term.”

  The stationery the decertification letter came on was pretty fancy, worth more than the message, which was basically fuck you, plus canceling all her privileges at The Eighth Circle, an exclusive CFEs’ club over on Park, with a reminder to return her member’s card and settle her bar tab, which showed a balance. There did seem to be a P.S. at the bottom, however, about filing an appeal. They included forms. This was interesting. This would not go into Accounts Shreddable, not just yet. Alarmingly, what Maxine noticed for the first time was the Association seal, which showed a torch burning violently in front of and slightly above an opened book. What’s this? any minute the pages of this book, maybe allegorically The Law, are about to be set on fire by this burning torch, possibly the Light of Truth? Is somebody trying to say something, the Law in flames here, the terrible inflexible price of Truth… That’s it! Secret anarchist code messages!

  “Interesting thought, Maxine,” Reg trying to talk her down. “So you filed the appeal?”

  Actually, no—as days passed, there were always reasons not to, she couldn’t afford the legal fees, the appeals process could all be just for show, and the fact remained that colleagues she respected had thrown her out on her ear, and did she really want back into that kind of vindictive surroundings. Sort of thing.

  “A little oversensitive, these guys,” seems to Reg.

  “Can’t blame them. They want us to be the one incorruptible still point in the whole jittery mess, the atomic clock everybody trusts.”

  “You said ‘us.’”