The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “It’s no-go,” he said. “He’s not coming out to inspect. He wants me to meet him at 1700 at the Strake Hotel.”

  Paul and I stared at his miniature image on the TV monitor. Then we looked at each other. I wondered if my face was as pinched and drained as his.

  I spoke into the mike: “We’ll drive down to the plant. Can you meet us just outside the gate? Across the road.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Will do. Sorry, Nick.”

  We moved down the road, pulled off into the shoulder opposite the Scilla gate. In a few moments Seymour Dove came out into the main building, walked down the graveled driveway.

  “Sorry, Nick,” he repeated.

  “Not your fault,” I said shortly. “I should have trusted your instinct. It was too easy.”

  "Where are you meeting him ?" Paul asked. “His hotel room ?"’

  “In the lobby,” Dove said. “At 1700. I suppose we’ll go someplace from there. Some safe place. His room, a restaurant, maybe just a ride. In his car. He’s cute.”

  We were all silent. Trying to compute a way.

  “Look,” Seymour Dove said finally, “you told me you brought a body-pack and some other trinkets from New York. Want to wire me and hope for the best?”

  “Negative,” I said. “If he’s this cautious, he’s sure to be carrying or wearing a monitor. If he discovers you’re powered . . . well, just forget it. No, I think all you can do now is meet with him and see how much you can salvage from the scenario.”

  “I’m willing to testify if you want him on extortion or bribery conspiracy.”

  “Forget it,” I told him wearily. “Just your word against his. All it would accomplish would be to start them checking into the ownership of Scilla. That I can do without. How did he sound?” “Roach? Sharp, hard, no hesitation. He’s done this before.” “Shouldn’t wonder.” I sighed. “All right, meet him. Can you come out to the beachhouse later and fill us in?”

  “Sure, Nick. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so after 1700. Unless he chisels a free dinner. I’ll get to you as soon as I leave him.”

  Paul and I returned the TV monitor to the Higgles warehouse. Then we drove back to La Jolla Bay in silence. The beachhouse seemed airless and deserted. The sun was beginning a long, slow slide into the sea. From the porch we could see a few naked swimmers, a picnicking family group, a couple of nude efs suntanning on plastilume sheets. There were no birds.

  I had bought a liter of lovable natural brandy. We were going to drink it to celebrate our triumph. We drank it to numb our defeat. The bottle was almost half-empty when Seymour Dove stalked in. He slammed the door behind him. He went directly to the brandy bottle, poured a glassful, drank it off the way I’d drink a glass of Smack. Then he looked at us.

  “That em,” he said, “is one cold monkey.”

  We said nothing. He took off his jacket, kicked off his sandals, slumped into a plastivas sling.

  “You’ll never guess where he took me,” he said.

  “Wait, wait,” I said hurriedly. “Don’t tell us. Let me compute this. I’ll tell you where you went.”

  Suddenly it was important to me that I got this correct, that I could reason where a man like Art Roach would take a prospective victim to dictate terms. I reviewed everything I knew about Roach. Input, storage, retrieval.

  “I’ll tell you,” I said. “He took you to a steam room or sauna. ”

  “My God,” Dove said. “You’re exactly right. A sauna. How did you know?”

  "I know Roach, ” I said. Feeling better. “ He dotes on saunas and steam rooms. And where can you be certain the man you’re cutting isn’t wired? In a sauna or steam room, of course. Where you’re both bareass naked.”

  “Well,” Dove said, “I’m glad you turned me down on the body-pack. I don’t know what he would have done if he had spotted it while we were undressing. And he was wearing a wrist monitor. I haven’t met many objects who scare me, but that em is one of them. Be careful of him, gentlemen. He bites.”

  “How much did he want?” Paul asked.

  “A modest five percent. I followed your scenario. He did, too—up to a point. I said five percent would kill my profit. He said to add it on the top. But he wanted the five percent up front. I asked what guarantee I had that if I paid the love, I’d get the contract. That’s when he departed from the script. He said the only way I could prove his sincerity—that’s the word he used: ‘sincerity’— was not to pay the love. Then I wouldn’t get the contract, and I’d know positively he hadn’t been scamming me. Beautiful?”

  “He never mentioned Angela Berri?” I asked.

  “Never. Not once. He implied he had complete rule of contract awards. He was the only object I had to deal with. No one else.” “How does he want the payoff?” Paul asked.

  “If I agree to his terms, I go to Washington on October 20 and check into any hotel. I call him at the hotel where he lives—the Winslow on N Street. I act like an old friend unexpectedly in town, looking him up. He’ll give me instructions on delivery then.” “Uh-huh.” Paul nodded. “At a place of his choosing. And you’re to bring the love in cash. Small, untreated bills. Nothing larger than a twenty. In nonconsecutive serial numbers.” “However did you guess?” Dove said.

  We all laughed. I don’t know why, but suddenly we all had the idea we were still alive.

  “Well?” Dove asked. “Should I plan to be in Washington on October 20?”

  "Sure,” I said. “With the love. I’ll be in touch with you or Simon Hawkley before that.”

  We sat a few minutes after he left. I think what most pleased both of us, although we didn’t mention it, was that our basic premise had proved out: Roach was on the suck. And by reasonable inference, so was Angela Berri.

  “Paul,” I said suddenly, “let’s get out of here. Let’s go back. Right now.” “Nick, we’ve got reservations on a morning flight.”

  “So? Change them. Get on the flasher. See if there’s a flight tonight we can make. I’ve got to get moving. Even if it’s only from Point B to Point C.”

  We made it, with minutes to spare. The jet was only one-quarter filled. In fact, there was only one other passenger in the first-class cabin. He had his left leg encased in a heavy cast. It stuck out into the aisle. We stepped over it carefully on the way to our seats.

  “Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “Skiing. I zigged when I should have zagged.”

  We smiled sympathetically.

  After takeoff, we each took our three free drinks: vodka-and-Smacks. They lasted to Phoenix. There we started on what remained of the natural brandy, which we had thoughtfully brought along. We nursed it to Tulsa. Pleading dehydration, we got two more drinks from the stewardess and sipped those to St. Louis.

  Meanwhile, we had been brainstorming the logistics of the payoff: Seymour Dove to Art Roach, Washington, D.C., October 20, 1998. We came up with many ingenious scenarios. A lot of kaka. The only possible solution was to have Seymour Dove swallow an internal mike and transmitter. Or implant a set in a molar or in the rectum or in the external auditory meatus. But if Art Roach wore a wrist monitor, he could detect any of those. Checkmate.

  At St. Louis, our crippled fellow passenger debarked, slowly and painfully, leaning on crutches. We watched him move himself up the aisle*to the open door, assisted by the stewardess.

  “My God,” Paul said, “he must be dragging twenty pounds of plaster in that cast.”

  “Probably plastiment,” I said. “Half the weight, one-third more strength.”

  “Why not an inflatable splint? One-hundredth the weight.”

  “Can’t use an inflatable splint,” I said. “Not on a load-bearing break.”

  We took off from the new St. Louis jetport, heading for GPA-1. The fenced compound. Home. I closed my eyes.

  “You want to sleep?” Paul asked.

  “No. Go up to the galley. See if you can wheedle some more booze.”

  He came back in a moment, giggling.

  “Well?” I
said.

  “Look,” he said.

  I opened my eyes. He had four miniatures of vodka. He handed me two.

  “Stole them,” he said.

  “Good em,” I said. “Fine service.”

  I twisted off the little plastic cap. Drained half in one swallow. Closed my eyes again.

  “Paul,” I said dreamily.

  “What?”

  “Ever see an inflatable splint?”

  “Of course I’ve seen an inflatable splint. Are you drunk?”

  “Just enough. A double sleeve of opaque heavy-gauge plastic. Compressed air forced between the sleeves. After inflation, it’s hard as a rock. Keeps the fracture rigid. Right?”

  “Nick, for God’s sake, what’s all this about inflatable splints?”

  I opened my eyes.

  “Very scientific. Very objective. Given: Two objects. Problem: To share their conversation. Known factor: One object cannot be equipped for sharing. Ergo: Equip the other.”

  “I know, I know,” Paul said. Impatient now. “But how?”

  I told him.

  “Nick.. . .’’he said. Almost choking. “You’re either mad or a genius.”

  “Can’t I be both?” I asked.

  Y-10

  I had decided to grow a beard and mustache. No reason that I could analyze. Just whim. I wanted something vaguely Vandyke, but perhaps a bit more squarish.

  I had showered and was standing naked in front of the nest mirror. I was inspecting five days’ growth of beard, debating whether it was long enough to trim, when my doorbell chimed. I padded out.

  “Yes?”

  “Nick, it’s me. Paul.”

  I let him in, relocked the door. He followed me back to the nest. He sat on the toilet seat lid, watched me fuss at the new growth with a little pair of fingernail scissors.

  “Itch?” he asked.

  “It did the first few days. What’s on your mind?”

  “You don’t really want to know, do you? Not everything!”

  I sighed, put down the scissors, pulled on a robe.

  “All right, let’s have a nightcap. Just one. Then you can tell me.”

  He followed me into the living room, sat on the sofa. On the edge. I knew his moods. He was winding himself up to something. I brought us each a petrorye on Jellicubes, and sat down opposite him.

  “All right, Paul,” I said, “let’s have it.”

  “Your father’s application for permission to manufacture, distribute, and sell the Die-Dee Doll came across my desk today.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to reject it. As being ‘Inimical to the public interest.’ ”

  “Yes. You told me you would.”

  “Nick, I’d like a chance to explain the reasons for rejection to your father.”

  “You know I’ll probably overrule you on the doll?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “But you still want to explain your position to my father?”

  “Yes. It may sound silly to you, but I keep thinking I can get him to withdraw it.”

  “No way,” I said. “He smells love. But you rate a try. Paul, we’ve both been serving hard. Suppose we take a threeday together to Michigan?”

  “Sounds good,” he said. Brightening. “Let’s do it.”

  “Fine. ” I rubbed the new hair on my chin. “Maybe by the time I get back objects will stop asking if I forgot to shave.”

  He tried to smile. That night he looked—somehow sad. He had the look of an em who had come to some momentous decision he meant to carry out, though it would bring him no profit.

  I came close to bringing out the bottle of petrorye and asking him to stay the night. I believed then, and I believe now, that he would have accepted gladly. I also believe that it would not have altered what happened.

  We took the Bullet Train to Detroit, treating ourselves to a compartment. With two bottles of natural wine to lubricate the trip. It was October 8. There was a threat of winter in the air: wind with a bite, smell of snow, a lowering sky. The feel of things coming to an end.

  This time the copter pilot was an em—was my father changing his religion?—but wearing the usual Chinese red zipsuit with the usual logo embroidered across the chest. On the short flight to Grosse Pointe, he told us Father was out of town but was expected back the following day.

  Miss Catherine had prepared a cold supper for us, served by M/s. McPherson in the echoing dining room. Both Paul and I were ravenous, and ate hugely. The meat dish was some kind of processed pork substitute, a cold, lardlike loaf. Side dishes came from a nearby food factory where fruits and vegetables were grown in enormous plastic greenhouses. Humidity, temperature, artificial sunlight, carbon dioxide, soil nutrients, and water were rigidly controlled. The resulting produce was enormous in size but, though unquestionably natural, was something less than tasty. They were “working on the problem.” I suspected it was the soil used: reprocessed and dried sludge from Detroit sewers.

  We dawdled over ersatz coffee and my father’s decanter of natural plum brandy. Our conversation was meandering and rather bawdy. Mainly, it concerned the government’s puzzlement over what to do about an international airline that had recently started “The Sultan’s Flight,” US to Europe. The ticket cost included, according to the advertisement, “a single act of normal coitus” with one of the young hostesses aboard. Consummated in small, curtained cubicles called “Harem Huts.” It all seemed to be legal.

  Finally, before midnight, we straggled upstairs.

  We wasted the following day—a delightful experience. Somehow it made us superior to time, to spend it in such a profligate manner. We wandered about the grounds, had a lazy lunch on the terrace, skipped stones over the water (Paul was quite good), and chased a squirrel through the woods.

  When my father arrived, late in the afternoon, we were waiting for him on the porch. He came bounding up the steps, grabbed me in the usual bear hug, shouted “Nick-ol’-as!” several times, stroked palms with Paul, bundled us into the library, shouted for a tub of Jellicubes, vodk^, Smack. When Mrs. McPherson brought the tray, I noticed my father was using up what remained of my mother’s natural potato vodka. I couldn’t expect him to pour it down the sink. I don’t know why I felt a pang.

  He immediately began a loud and enthusiastic account of what he had been doing: rushing from Connecticut to Indiana to North Carolina, setting up production facilities for the Die-Dee Doll. Paul’s lips compressed, his face congealed, he set his drink slowly and carefully on the floor alongside his chair.

  “Mr. Flair—” he started. Voice cold and steady.

  “—an entirely new concept,” Father burbled on. “A system of snap-together assembly that should—”

  “Mr. Flair,” Paul repeated. Louder now. He stood up.

  “—in terms of—” my father said. And paused. Suddenly. “I’m going to reject your application to produce the Die-Dee Doll,” Paul said. Again loudly. Distinctly. “As a matter of fact, I already have. As being inimical to the public interest.”

  “What?” Chester K. Flair said shakily. “What are you talking about?”

  “Yes, sir. The Die-Dee Doll. I’ve rejected your application to produce.”

  “Jesus Christ,” my father breathed.

  He sat down heavily, took a long pull of his drink, looked at us, back and forth, with hurt, bewildered eyes.

  A marvelous act. Paul would never know. But I saw at once that my father had already considered the possibility of rejection and computed how to handle it.

  “ ‘Inimical to the public interest’?” he said. Incredulously. “How can you say that?”

  Paul repeated, in greater detail, the reasons he had already stated to me. I thought they were valid arguments. Finally—this was a new one—the concept of burial in the ground in a plastic coffin conditioned disobedience to the federal law requiring cremation.

  My father listened closely, and gave every evidence of growing perplexity.

  “Paul,” he s
aid, “it’s just a toy. Nothing more. I’m not out to condition or recondition the kids. I must tell you—and I swear it—I really don’t compute what you mean. How could a toy do what you say it does? Listen, I’ve got the signed statements of some of the best child psychologists in the country. Really big names. They all say the same thing: The Die-Dee Doll will do no harm. In fact, it will do good. Good, Paul. ‘Emotional catharsis.’ ‘Normal adjustments to stopping. ’ ‘Relieves irrational childish fears. ’ I’ve got the papers to prove it, Paul. All right, if you insist on the last part, about the burial, I’ll change it. Instead of a coffin, we’ll supply a little cremation oven. How about that, Paul? The kid can burn up the stopped Die-Dee Doll, oven and all. Will that do it?”

  Paul looked at me with a kind of wonderment, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Flair,” he said. “My rejection stands.”

  He turned, marched from the room, closed the door softly behind him. My father watched him leave, then stared at me.

  “What’s with that little butterfly?” he demanded. “He eats my food, drinks my booze, sleeps in my house—and then he pulls this kaka?”

  “He’s doing what he thinks is right,” I said mildly.

  My father grunted. He mixed us fresh drinks. He took his to a club chair opposite mine, slumped into it, regarded me gravely over his raised plastiglas.

  “You can overrule him, can’t you, Nick?” he asked quietly.

  I nodded.

  “You going to?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Well. . . .’’He sighed. “Do what you think is best. Don’t let our father-son relationship affect your service. Just judge me like any other applicant.”

  “I will,” I said solemnly. He was hilarious.

  “Now let’s talk about other things,” he said. “You been getting those private data bank reports on Angela Berri and Art Roach?'’

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you. They’ve been very helpful.” “Good,” he said. “I had a lot of trouble setting that up. But as long as the reports are getting to you and helping you, that’s all I care about. And the love? Have any trouble with the transfer from the Detroit banks?”