Taking Stock

by C J West

  Even if things went well, Sharon would blame him for the damage to her husband’s company, another huge disappointment from her little brother. She wouldn’t offer him another job and he wouldn’t want one. Another thread between them would be severed, leaving their relationship more tenuous than ever, but she’d still take his calls and she’d still read his Christmas cards. Maybe that was enough.

  Brad was destined to be alone.

  He forced himself to focus on the numbers to push away the image of a long solitary life. The empty hole in his chest grew until the numbers stopped and gave him something else to concentrate on. Two hundred fifty-one thousand, not his best, but not a flop either. He needed a gigantic swing in the market. That or he’d have to make big changes, risky changes that wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  No time for that now. Time to cover his tracks.

  After hundreds of repetitions the procedure was second nature. In moments, the program was deleted, the CD was in his bag, and the server desktop looked exactly as it had when he arrived. He slipped down the row of glass-fronted cabinets and eased around the corner to where he could get a view over the cubicles outside. A blast of frigid air sent a chill up his leg, but he didn’t step off the vented tile. Her office was dark. Surprising she’d be gone before midnight with her deadline looming. Maybe she’d given up.

  Emboldened he stepped through the glass doors. A few steps down the hall he slipped the key into the security room door and disappeared inside.

  The console came to life. With a few taps he knew she hadn’t opened a door since four o’clock. She usually went for dinner around six, but there was no entry for her return. There were scarcely any others in that time, no one to let her tailgate through security. Strange. He left the record as it was with her entry into the computer room at 10:04 p.m. and an exit at 11:40 p.m. He switched the video tape with a blank from his bag and left.

  He froze one step into the hall.

  Her light was on. The printer whirred. Footsteps padded on the other side of the cubicles. Brad couldn’t breathe. She knew. She had to. Why else would she wait for him to finish then turn on her light? If she was logged into the same system she could have collected every change he’d just made. No one could help him if she did.

  His eyes turned toward the elevator. His body wanted to run, get in the elevator and never come back, but his shoes remained still, three feet outside the security room door. His eyes darted for escape routes.

  Brad reminded himself of his authority over everyone and everything on this floor. Slowly, tentatively, he headed for his office. His knees refused to bend; his facial muscles hardened in an expression of shock. He rounded the cubicles. There she was taking up pages that spewed from the Laserjet. She had her own printer. She didn’t come here to print. She was here to collect proof, to see for herself who was running the program.

  How could he get enough to satisfy the boss now? How could he do this the next five nights with her watching? Irritating that many customers would send a shock wave through client services. The rumblings would head directly to her. She’d echo their outrage for all to hear, her voice booming to Marty, the auditors, the feds. Brad was caught between the uncompromising thief and the brilliant rookie. One of them would be his undoing.

  Erica sensed his fear immediately. “Working pretty late for someone who’s taken two-thirds of my team,” she snipped.

  Brad slowed as he reached her, but didn’t stop. “You’re not the only one who works hard around here.”

  “Apparently not.”

  He walked past, his eyes straight ahead, his face neutral, his walk slow. He could feel her watching, but didn’t look back. He waited thirty minutes in a chair by the door, listening to every movement in the hall. The evidence in his bag was irrefutable. He didn’t dare return the CD to its hiding place. He couldn’t give her another chance to get her hands on it. It was time to go.

  Back at his apartment he pulled the leather bag from his closet. Two changes of clothes, the mini cassettes, his passport and enough cash to get him anywhere in the world, all ready in an instant. He added the video tape and the CD and called a cab. He’d feel safer at the airport. He’d wait there for the next plane to France no matter how long it took.

  The cab picked him up on Devonshire and zipped off through empty streets. The Corvette would sit idle until the landlord worked through the eviction process. Could they sell his abandoned belongings to pay the rent? He couldn’t give them away. Sharon would scoff at his things and he could think of no one else to give them to. He’d miss the Corvette and he couldn’t risk buying another. He’d find another fast car to fall in love with.

  The cab swerved to a stop in the tunnel. A black SUV blocked the road ahead. Brad hadn’t seen it until the cabbie slammed on his brakes. The men were out in an instant and running toward them. They surrounded the cab. The fat muzzle of a handgun tapped the driver’s window. The driver could have thrown the cab into reverse, but he was too frightened to resist. He raised his hands and remained completely still. The back passenger’s door flung open. One of the men grabbed Brad’s bag and motioned him out. Brad didn’t move. This wasn’t a robbery. They were here for him.

  The cabbie lowered the front window and the man outside talked deep and easy. No mistake in what he wanted or the consequences of disobedience. He asked for a driver’s license and the cabbie complied with a trembling hand.

  “Our friend will ride with us.”

  The man pointed his gun at the radio. “Don’t even think about calling this in. Everything will be fine. Our friend’s just a little confused about where he’s supposed to be right now.”

  Brad wasn’t going to make it to the airport.

  No one had stopped behind them. Not a soul on the road to help. With men on both sides of the cab he wouldn’t make thirty yards on foot.

  The man up front was still talking to the driver.

  “We’ll be monitoring your frequency. Call this in and we’ll visit your nice little house on Agawam Road. It won’t be tomorrow or next week, but we’ll come. You have kids?”

  The driver swore he wouldn’t call the cops. No one would know Brad was gone until his body turned up on a garbage barge.

  “Out Foster!” the man at the back door yelled.

  The gun came out of his jacket or his pants. The barrel pressed into his ribs forcing him toward the back of the SUV. Brad climbed in and they sped off. They burst out of the tunnel and weaved through narrow streets. Soon Brad was lost. Both men were eerily calm. They’d kidnapped him in the ideal spot between his apartment and the airport as routinely as he ordered coffee. Amazing since he’d only decided to run forty minutes ago.

  “Scared the shit out of you, didn’t she?”

  They couldn’t mean Erica. How could they know?

  “Don’t worry. She doesn’t know what she saw.”

  The car headed downtown.

  “Don’t believe us? Listen, what do you think we do all day?”

  Brad hadn’t known these guys existed. The guy in back looked like someone he’d passed on the street a thousand times. Maybe he was.

  “We listen to you and Fletcher and a few others. We skip the boring stuff, but we hear pretty much everything you say.”

  If they were telling the truth, getting around them was going to be tough, but they couldn’t know everything. He spent his days in dozens of different places. They couldn’t bug them all.

  “You’re not going to bully me. I’m not going to jail for you.”

  “That’s right. You’re not going to jail. You’re going to do what you’re told and we’ll all come out of this rich.”

  “I’m done. I’m out. I can’t go back.”

  The driver spoke for the first time. “Don’t be stupid. You say that to the boss and we’ll be dumping your carcass in an alley in Chelsea.”

  “It’s over.”

  “It’s not over. Everything’s fine. She’s a zombie. If she makes it through next week, she’ll go home
and sleep for four days.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Brad, listen, the last time you had sex was six weeks ago. She had long straight hair and red lingerie. She was incredible, but you got her so drunk I bet she had the nastiest hangover of her life. No wonder she never called back. Now, the blonde in the pink Red Sox hat last Saturday, wow! She was hot. A little young for you maybe. She had her eye on some guy across the bar. Too bad, I was looking forward to seeing her naked.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “We know even more about Fletcher. She’s nothing to worry about.”

  They pulled to a stop on Devonshire. All three men got out.

  Brad took back his bag feeling lucky they hadn’t looked inside.

  A fist to the kidney from nowhere dropped him to his knees. Before he knew what happened they hauled him up and had both hands clasped behind his back. The guy behind him hadn’t looked that big, but Brad couldn’t break his grip. The other guy punched away at his ribs, punishing him in a place that would never show.

  “That’s for making us chase you. That’s about enough of that bullshit. Do your job and stop whining.”

  They left him flat on the curb, tires squealing away. He dragged himself upstairs and started hunting for microphones and miniature cameras.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Erica slipped into class fifteen minutes early and took the best seat in the room. Up in back against the wall she plugged her laptop into the only power outlet within reach of the student desks. Paying her own way instilled a drive to get her money’s worth that was uncommon in her fellow students. She devoured newfound knowledge like a starving animal, but this last course she’d taken solely for credit. She needed three to complete her master’s degree and didn’t have the time or energy to put into something new. Erica programmed .Net twelve hours a day, six days a week. The professor couldn’t teach her anything she didn’t already know.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d abandoned the team to come here. Not that their work would come to a halt when she left. It was more a statement of solidarity, eeking out every last minute before go-live on Monday. Everyone was putting their life aside for the next four days and she’d come simply to show her face and placate Dr. Eisenstein. Two hours of email and bug list review weren’t a total loss, but working through class couldn’t assuage her guilt.

  The stirring in the aisles didn’t distract Erica from her laptop as students dotted the middle rows of the classroom. She expected more competition for the back, but for the uninitiated .Net could be difficult. The muddy explanations from the windbag up front made mastering the language an even greater feat. Eisenstein and his comrades were the only link these kids had to the technology. Without him, they’d be sunk. Even so, he had to threaten deductions for poor attendance to fill the seats.

  “Hey, I thought you dropped out.”

  Erica turned toward a blue tie adorned with white marble columns and fountains. Jim slipped into the seat beside hers and gave a broad smile. She’d come to this class three times and all three times he’d sat next to her. Jim didn’t look any older than the kids in T-shirts and torn jeans, but he was comfortable in his dark suit. There were half a dozen professionals in class, some lucky enough to have a company sharing the cost.

  “This stuff comes easier to some of us,” she said. “Maybe you should sit closer so you don’t miss anything.”

  “I like the view back here.”

  Why did she attract unattached guys everywhere she went? She wasn’t advertising. Two women sat together on the opposite side of the room. Their tight jeans and clingy tops showed more than Erica revealed at the beach, hence every seat around them was occupied. Even in the baggy pantsuits she wore for work, guys like Jim sidled up to her whenever she stayed in one place too long. She guessed that’s just what guys did.

  A wispy haired man shuffled across the front of the class to the lectern. From there he focused a pair of beady eyes up through the ranks of seats, prompting a flurry of books opening. Conversations ceased. He noted who came and who didn’t. He was one of the few inane professors who graded homework. Eisenstein touted his final project as the pinnacle of their educational experience. Students would develop a web-based system and the projects would be graded ruthlessly, but he guaranteed that any student who received an ‘A’ on the final project would get an ‘A’ for the course. This one criterion kept the students nervous and attentive except for Erica. Her final project had been done for weeks, much of it modeled on her current client services project. She’d present a series of active pages that utilized sixteen SQL tables, a dozen forms, and provide the stringent security appropriate for a money management firm. This all but freed her from Dr. Eisenstein. Why she had come tonight, she wasn’t sure.

  The clack of the door latch drew every eye in the room to a young woman sheepishly slipping in toward the back. Her eyes found Erica then she made her way along the back row and parked behind her.

  Erica whispered a hello to Kate and went back to days of unread email.

  Eisenstein droned about the rampant abuses of proper style in the homework. He overemphasized the need for form and documentation to the point of absurdity. If he’d worked two days in industry he’d know that descriptive object and subroutine names and an observance of good structure made most code readable to a professional. The documentation he prattled on about was only necessary for peculiarities.

  The room fell strangely quiet. Erica looked up from her laptop. Eisenstein stared directly at her from the front row. The entire class craned backward for a look.

  “Hello, Miss Fletcher. You come so infrequently I wouldn’t remember you had our previous exchanges not been so colorful. Are you going to surf the Internet for the entire lecture or will you be tuning in occasionally?”

  “I’m an excellent multi-tasker.”

  “We’ve noticed. So would you mind answering a simple question?”

  “Shoot.” She nearly returned to the email she was reading while he asked his question, but thought better of it.

  “It seems you missed our discussion of object inheritance last week. I assume you’ve done the reading. Could you tell me when you might use classes to define custom objects and when it would make sense to use inheritance from those objects.”

  Eisenstein assumed a confident pose waiting for her to fumble and then beg forgiveness. He stood ready to explain what she could not.

  Erica grinned. “Have we covered classes? Is everyone comfortable with what classes are and why they’re used?” Not one of the students nodded.

  “If you were here more often you’d know,” Eisenstein said.

  “I’m quite comfortable with classes and inheritance.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We use classes to define objects that we use over and over. In a production shop, you’ll have pre-defined classes that apply to your specific vertical industry. You won’t define these as a rookie programmer. Someone will hand you a listing that will guide you through what all the objects are.”

  Eisenstein was steamed that she addressed her response to the class rather than to him.

  “I work in financial services, so we have classes that apply to all sorts of financial objects. A mutual fund is a good example. We have an object called fund that carries certain basic information like the inception date, manager’s name, etcetera. We use inheritance to push these common attributes to various types of funds: stock funds, bond funds, index funds, what-have-you. Each different type of fund needs different types of information stored, but they all have the same basic information from the fund class. The benefit of inheritance is this: say we hire a new fund manager and his name is Thurston Montgomery-Wadsworth and our fund manager name is only twenty characters long. Because we used inheritance, we change the fund object and the change propagates down through all the various types of fund objects that derive from fund.

  “That’s how we use inheritance. Is that what you were looking for, Professor?�
�

  Eisenstein didn’t even look in her direction. He wandered behind the podium and said, “So it seems even Miss Fletcher is clear on custom classes and inheritance and that means it’s time to move forward.”

  At least half the class looked at each other hoping someone would speak up, but no one did. Eisenstein didn’t volunteer to elaborate, probably out of fear Erica would correct him from the back of the room. Instead he launched into a discussion about connecting to SQL databases to retrieve information and display it on a web page. Erica went back to work undisturbed for the remainder of the two hour lecture.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sarah sat alone in the conference room on twenty-one, waiting for Stan to meander in and for Herman to come down from twenty-three. Herman invariably arrived twenty minutes late, according to Stan, and they were expected to be ready and waiting. Eleven minutes before two and all seventy-two pages of the blue binder sat in front of Sarah, like a weight dragging her away from the work that held her future. Investigating the letters would bring her and Gregg together. She’d been plotting ways to get his attention though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let it get physical anytime soon. It was more than Gregg. Every one of those letters held a story of something gone wrong at BFS, something she could fix. Since childhood she’d been the family soother, mediator, relationship fixer. This was the work she was born for.

  The binder held little promise of fixing anything.

  The plan described a most excruciatingly detailed work effort that would take the entire year to finish. Following it would earn Herman his bonus, but accomplish little else.

  Stan burst into the room dramatically, “dunt, dunt, dunt-dunt-dunt-dunt.” The tune was unfamiliar.

  These outbursts relegated them to windowless offices on twenty-one, while Herman sat on twenty-three with the execs. What kind of idiot was he? She didn’t want anyone speaking of her and Stan in the same breath. She planned to move up in BFS and that meant breaking away from Stan Nye. The further, the faster, the better.