“Right,” said the guys, and took off.
I hadn’t been to a lot of staff meetings, as I’ve not really been employed very much, and even then, under skulduggery, but I felt it was unusual the way the meeting just sort of limply dissolved. The moment everyone walked out the door, they were all zombies with blank faces. Their energy just ran out the moment they left the room.
Welcome to corporate America, I suppose.
I followed the gang out, but my phone was ringing and so I made my way back to my desk. Receptionist, recept thyself! I lifted the phone from its cradle and said, “This is Cahaba Apps. How may I direct your call?”
Which I felt was pretty good—I had the voice down. I was channeling primo secretary—Joan Holloway / Della Street goodness. Of course, it was all an act, and a pretty badly conceived one, because no one had shown me how to use this phone system yet, and so directing their call would probably involve a lot of cursing.
“This is Ignacio Granger.”
This name, which was peculiar, sounded oddly familiar to me, but I couldn’t immediately place it.
“Hello, Ignacio Granger,” I said. “How may I help you today?”
And no sooner had I finished saying his name aloud than it hit me. I knew this guy—he was a writer for Stage Select, a gaming blog. Sort of the poor man’s Destructoid. I remembered him because he had actually written about me when I got shot by a cosplayer at a gaming convention. It was a good piece, although no primary sourcing. He hadn’t interviewed me, but just repackaged the story from the Phoenix Sun article.
“Wait,” I said. “I know you.”
“Lots of people do,” he said, unimpressed.
“What can I do for you, good sir?”
“I’m calling for a couple of different reasons.”
“And I can help you with all of them,” I said. Man, being a secretary was awesome.
“First,” said Ignacio, “what’s your name?”
Well, shit.
“I’m Cynthia Shaffer,” I said, looking at the nameplate on my desk. I didn’t want to say Dahlia Moss because this guy might—it was unlikely, I grant—just might remember me. That article he had written described me as a “geek detective” and I didn’t want to do anything to imperil my industrial spy gig. “I’m just a perfectly ordinary receptionist.”
“Well, we’ll get along splendidly, then,” said Ignacio. “I’m a perfectly ordinary journalist.”
There was something about this line that seemed smarmy and ingratiating and also a little ominous. I thought I’d take him down a notch.
“Yes,” I said. “I saw that listicle of yours where you ranked all the Sonic the Hedgehog games. Groundbreaking work.”
It was perhaps not the most receptionist-y thing I could have said. Della Street would have held her tongue. But this did not seem to bother Ignacio Granger.
“Hey, that Sonic thing got a lot of hits,” he said. “You can’t knock hits.”
“That’s what Matt Drudge tells himself every morning. Now, what do you want?”
Nope, still not being very reception-y. Then, remembering once more that my job was to be pleasant, I said:
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m double-checking the time for my tour of the place,” said Ignacio.
“Oh,” I said. I had not been here very long, but it instantly seemed to me that Cahaba Apps, with its abandonment-themed decor and sleep-deprived hysterics was not a great place to allow a journalist to wander through. Still, not my call to make. “Let me see if I can put you through to Vanetta.”
And I looked at the phone system, which while not overly complicated, was at least opaque. There was a button that someone had written “Vanetta” on, and if I pressed that I’d probably have her line. But should I press Transfer first? Or maybe Hold first and then Transfer? Or did this even matter? It struck me that I should have Charice call here so I could practice transferring her around.
“I’d love a quote from you too. You’re at the nexus op, after all,” said Ignacio, whom I suddenly suspected was trying to charm me. Why would he be trying to charm me?
“No quotes,” I said, because I might not have been a great receptionist, but I was no fool. But then, because I was a detective, I asked: “Why would you want a quote from me?”
“About the DE scandal. You’ve seen the post, right?”
“I cannot comment on that at this time,” I said. Transfer first, then Vanetta.
“Sounds like you’ve seen it,” said Ignacio. “Listen, the word on the street is that things are falling apart over there.”
“I’m transferring you now,” I said. And I did just that, or, possibly, I sent him off to oblivion. Either way, problem solved.
I didn’t have much time to wonder about Ignacio’s fate, although I couldn’t imagine it was going to go well for him, wherever he got transferred to. Given a few more moments, I might have wondered about what, exactly, he was after. Because this was Video Game Journalism, which resembles actual journalism in the way a cat resembles a zebra. He wasn’t going to do an exposé on Cahaba Apps, because people in Video Games Journalism don’t do exposés. On anything.
They do glowing reviews and listicles.
So what was that about?
This was an entirely reasonable question, but I did not have time to pursue it, because I was accosted by Lawrence Ussary, Man Who Did Not Give a Fuck. I wish I could say that I deduced his identity by some sort of impressive and astute observation, but he was wearing yet another Burberry suit and looked like some sort of runway model Burberry might use. It seemed plausible that he might have been playing football earlier, perhaps in the 1920s, perhaps for Harvard.
He was winning, I guess I’m saying.
“Cynthia, do you have my suit?”
It wasn’t clear to me if Lawrence Ussary, Man Who Did Not Give a Fuck, was joking. As in, “Ha, ha, I see that you aren’t Cynthia, but there you are sitting in front of her nameplate, and thus I will assail Humor!” Or was this “The nameplate says Cynthia so I’m going with that.” But as he did not exactly stop at my desk so much as merely slow down, I tended toward the latter.
I did not have a lot of time for extended impressions of Lawrence Ussary, but suffice to say that he looked like he had been getting plenty of sleep.
“Yes, Mr. Ussary—I took the liberty of hanging it in your office.”
“Thanks, Cynth, you’re a doll,” said Lawrence Ussary, and then he was gone.
I have not been called a doll very frequently in my life, in part because I’m really more of an Action Figure, and in part because this is not the 1940s. I felt as though I should have been properly offended, but it was such an odd exchange that I was more confused than anything.
Quintrell King showed up at my desk.
“Who was on the phone?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, you transferred the line, and a moment later, Vanetta threw her phone on the floor and kicked it,” said Quintrell. “And I feel like that can’t be a good sign.”
“Lawrence Ussary called me a doll,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“He spoke to you? Wow.”
“And he called me Cynthia,” I said.
“He usually calls me Jason,” said Quintrell.
“What does he do around here?” I asked.
“I wonder that myself. I know he put up most of the money that got this place started. He and Vanetta went to college together. She was the brains, he was the money.”
“So Vanetta programs?”
“She programs, yeah,” said Quintrell, “but honestly, she’s not that great. Don’t tell her I said that. Mostly she designs. The Rails series were all her ideas. She’s really good at game theory. If you ever catch her with any sleep ask her about her dinner with David Sirlin—the game designer. She’ll get really excited, but also weirdly furious. It’s very exciting to watch.”
“And what do you do?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “Gary and I mostly program,” he said. “Although these days that means trying to repair the damage that’s been done.”
“And Archie does art?”
“And music, and some promotional bits, but right now mostly music.”
“And that’s the staff?” I asked.
“That’s the local people,” said Quintrell. “There used to be more of us. And, of course, there are people who work for DE out of other offices. They gave us an organizational flowchart when DE bought us, and it’s honestly the most complicated thing I have ever seen in my life. And I can do the New York Times crossword puzzle on Fridays.”
From Quintrell’s bragging intonation, I suspected this meant something—do the puzzles get harder as the week goes along?—but I did not get to follow up on the point because Vanetta slammed open the door to her office and yelled, “Cynthia, my phone isn’t working!”
“That’s because she kicked it,” whispered Quintrell.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My natural answer would be to say “Don’t kick phones,” but what did I know? Maybe there was a malignant spirit on the other end of the line, like in a horror movie, and Vanetta Jones had dispelled the evil and saved us all. It was at least hypothetically possible.
But even in the universe where Vanetta was the vanquisher of phone-based evil, it wasn’t like I was going to go in there and somehow reassemble her phone. There were other people for that.
I settled on: “Would you like for me to make a call for someone to come out and service it?”
Which felt like it was pitched nicely down the middle.
Vanetta did not respond, however, because Lawrence Ussary walked by and said: “Cynthia. Jason.” And walked into Vanetta’s office and closed the door.
There was a silence, in which Quintrell once again looked nervous and impressed. A lot of things seemed to provoke this reaction in him.
“I know you probably aren’t aware of this,” said Quintrell. “But Lawrence going in there is weird. It’s like the south pole and the north pole just going off together.”
“They’re both cold,” I said.
“Yes, but together they will destroy the earth,” said Quintrell.
“He called you Jason again,” I observed.
“Yeah,” said Quintrell. “I really hate that he does that. Jason used to work here.”
“Do you look like him?”
“He was three hundred and fifty pounds, so I hope not,” said Quintrell. “No offense, Jason.”
“Gotcha.”
“Also, Jason was white. Still is, I’d assume.”
“I guess Lawrence isn’t really a details guy.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Quintrell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Quintrell, after determining that I was not going to give him any intel on the mysterious phone caller—loose lips sink ships—returned to his desk.
No one was supervising me, and before I embarked on the dark art of industrial espionage, I decided I should orient myself with the basics of the job and figure out how the phone worked. This mostly involved pressing random buttons. When that front was settled, I turned to focus on gathering intel. Apparently everyone else shared Quintrell’s reaction, because the entire office had averted their gaze from the door. Which was fantastic, actually, because it provided an excellent opportunity to snoop. I walked over to the door, crouched so I was out of sight, and listened. It can’t always be secret cameras and keyloggers. Sometimes the old-fashioned, low-tech ways are best.
Lawrence and Vanetta weren’t yelling at each other. Quite to the contrary, there was a familiarity between them—like old friends talking.
“Vanetta,” said Lawrence, sounding even smarmier than his suit. “You’re looking good. Not rested, but good. The lack of sleep suits you. It’s like college.”
“It’s nothing like college,” said Vanetta.
“I don’t know,” said Lawrence. “Working around the clock, you sleeping with strange guys on sofas, deadlines looming. You have to admit that it rings a bell.”
“Who told you about Archie?” asked Vanetta, sounding tired and resigned.
“It was Archie? I was going to place my bets on Quintrell.”
I noted that Lawrence knew Quintrell’s name when he wasn’t around, which was interesting. His disaffection was an act, at least somewhat.
“Why are you here?” asked Vanetta. “It’s obviously not to help us work.”
“I’ve been working,” said Lawrence. “I’ve been having meetings. I just got back from Los Angeles, and I come bearing news.”
“I don’t want news,” said Vanetta. “I want this game done.”
“I’ve bought us some extra time, actually.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, it comes with a catch. We need to voice and animate all of the peppermints.”
There was a long pause.
“This is a puzzle game. It’s abstract,” said Vanetta. “The candy is meaningless.”
“Then you won’t mind giving them voices.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The main character of the game is a male peppermint. White, please. Give him a good Anglo-Saxon name, like Peppermint Tom. Or Jake. How about Jake?”
“What are you talking about?”
“And Jake has a girlfriend, maybe Sally? Is that too ethnic? She should also be white. But don’t worry, I worked in some racial diversity for you.”
“Stop talking and explain what you’re talking about.”
“There should be a wise old black peppermint,” said Lawrence. “Not like a magical Negro, but, well, you know, a little like a magical Negro. He’s going to help Jake learn how to manage the peppermint planes. And can maybe Sally get kidnapped? Maybe by some angry monster mint, or is that too on the nose? Maybe they could be Hispanic mints. I know how important diversity is to you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about money. DE wants to make a pilot. A little cartoon show. And cereal. They’re also really keen on cereal, but that’s a different discussion. Do you know how much money has been made from Angry Birds merchandise? That’s the space we’re after.”
“This game is seven-eighths done, Lawrence, and there are no talking mints. We can’t redo it now.”
“We’re not redoing it; it’s still your game. It’s just being reskinned a little. Now the mints will talk and have personalities.”
“This is not…” started Vanetta, and I felt I could feel how tired she was just by proxy. “How much extra time would this buy the team?”
“Weeks? Months? It depends what corporate thinks of the direction. Have your new boy Archie put something together—we’re thinking of a kind of fifties retro ‘let’s go out to the movies’ look.”
“I never should have taken your money,” said Vanetta simply.
“Of course you should have,” said Lawrence. “You’re going to be rich, Vanetta. You’re going to have your own stable of Quintrells when this is over.”
“Archies,” said Vanetta.
“Yeah,” said Lawrence, “I don’t know why I keep thinking Quintrell. I guess he suits you.”
“We’re not going to have a magical Negro peppermint.”
“Corporate wants racially diverse peppermints, Vanetta.”
“First of all, that doesn’t mean magical Negro characters, and second of all, they’re peppermints.”
“Peppermints that will have voice actors.”
“No old black peppermint,” said Vanetta.
“You know, I’ve just pitched it wrong. I mean like an elder statesman who just happens to be black. That’s what I mean. They’re asking Morgan Freeman to do it—apparently someone at DE has an in with his people.”
“I—Wait, Morgan Freeman?”
“Who wouldn’t want Morgan Freeman? Get busy living or get busy dying? I love that flick.”
“They’re mints.”
“It’s not like we�
�d have him be in blackface or anything.”
“Jesus Christ, just stop talking.”
“Maybe he could be a green spearmint or something. There are other kinds of mints. Chocolate mint. No, that’s not a good one. Stick with spearmint.”
“I’ve made a deal with the devil.”
“You’re giving me too much credit, V. You always do. I’m just a guy that likes money. And you’re going to make us so much money. A stable filled with Archies. You’ll be like Calista Flockhart.”
“You know, I don’t even want to talk about Archie. It was just a moment of weakness.”
“I don’t mean Calista Flockhart. Caligula. I meant Caligula. And as to your ‘moment of weakness’: Don’t try that with me,” said Lawrence. “I’ve known you too long. You’ve had plenty of moments of weakness. You present yourself as the moral one, but you keep me around because you want the very same things I do.”
“Get out, Lawrence.”
“You want to tell Archie about the new direction, or should I take care of it?”
I didn’t catch the answer to this question because just then a new man showed up who I did not have clothes for. He was tall and thin and had a haircut that hung down long on one side and short on the other. His hair was mostly black except for one long wisp that was, through some bit of cosmetological magic, neon green. In different clothes, he could have been taken for one of those scruffy homeless guys that you’d see on the Loop. He had the thinness of someone who wasn’t a stranger to heroin.
But he was dressed as preppily as anyone here—save for Lawrence, anyway—in navy-blue chinos and a collared gingham shirt with a bow tie.
I didn’t know what to make of him.
“Were you eavesdropping?” he asked.
“Welcome to Cahaba Apps,” I said, stepping away from the door. “Can I help you?”
The wisp of green hair reminded me vaguely of a snake. He was a sad Medusa, this fella. And he was definitely giving me a “turn to stone” glare.
The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss Page 4